Risking the Crown

by Violet Paige

  He slammed into me maybe three or four times, I couldn’t count. We were both so high from each other the peak was only vibrations away. I clung to him, spiraling out of control as he sliced through me.

  “Fuck,” he growled in my ear.

  I looked in his glowing eyes, wishing to hell this was all real, but knowing I was only his Sunday football distraction.

  11

  Wes

  I couldn’t figure her out. But fuck, I’d never tried to figure a woman out before. I was in new territory. Overnight guests never stayed past lunch. It was dinner, the next day.

  Lennon sat on the kitchen stool, twirling Chinese noodles on a pair of chopsticks.

  “So, I have some questions for you, Mr. Quarterback.”

  She was still wearing my jersey and I fucking loved it. Her ass was firm and round. I couldn’t get enough of it. I tried to focus on her words and not all the things I wanted to do to that ass of hers.

  “I’m sure you do.” I popped half an eggroll in my mouth.

  “Longest relationship?” She poured herself a second glass of wine and waited for my answer.

  “Relationship?” I was standing on the other side of the counter, wearing only my jeans. She had convinced me to put my sling back on with another round of ice for my hand.

  “Yeah, as in a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, right. No, can’t say that I’ve had one of those.”

  She sputtered on the wine. “No girlfriend, ever?”

  I shook my head. “No, why?”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little strange? You’re not sixteen. You’re not in college anymore. You’ve never had a girlfriend? Never lived with someone?”

  “Never.”

  “Oh God.” She finished off the wine. “Shit.” She slid off the stool.

  “What? I’m being honest.”

  She spun to face me. “I appreciate that part. But I don’t know what I was thinking. I-I overanalyzed this entire weekend, and now I know I should have done the analyzing and the questioning before I got here, not after, and now I know what an idiot I am for just now asking relationship questions after we’ve slept together five times.”

  “Actually six,” I corrected her. The floor had happened after the end of the last game.

  “Right, six.” She glared at me. “We slept together six times, and I never bothered to ask if you ever had a girlfriend before or knew the meaning of commitment or dating, or monogamy or….”

  “Hold on, hold on.” I walked around from behind the bar. “What’s happening in that pretty head of yours?”

  “God, I’m an idiot.”

  “I don’t think you’re an idiot, Doc. You’re a brilliant, hot-as-fuck surgeon.”

  She pursed her lips, and for a second, I thought she might try to slap me. “Thanks.”

  “Come on, we had fun.”

  “And that’s it?” she taunted. “I go back to work tomorrow. You go to your game tomorrow night?”

  My chest started to pound. I felt an uneasy, sinking pit in my stomach. “Yes.”

  She lowered her eyes. “All right. You told me. The only person I have to be mad at is myself.”

  “What are you mad about?”

  “This,” she screamed. “You and me. What we did. How you made me feel.”

  Her shoulders tensed as I moved within inches of her. “I have never asked a woman to stay with me the next day.” I stared into her stormy blue eyes. “I have never left a woman in my apartment while I went to work. I have never rushed home, praying to God she’d still be there when I got back. I’ve never cared if she came more than once. I’ve never given her my jersey to wear. And I sure as hell have never spent twenty-four hours with her.” I tipped her chin upward. “I’ve never spent a night like I did with you. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

  Lennon’s arms flew around my neck, and she drew me toward her, kissing me softly, but with more passion than she had before. I breathed against her, drowning in her, falling for this woman I barely knew, but somehow knew was mine.

  I pressed my forehead to hers. “I’m not going to lie to you, Doc, I’m a fucking bastard, but please stay. I want you to stay.”

  She nodded. “I don’t want to go.”

  “I have no idea what I’m doing,” I groaned into her ear. The words she said had scared the shit out of me. I didn’t know anything about relationships or commitment. But what I had told her was the damn truth. I wanted her more than I wanted anything, and that meant she had to stay.

  “First thing tomorrow, you’re getting a new doctor.”

  “All right. If you insist.”

  “I do.” Her hands slid over my shoulders.

  “And then there’s no conflict with the hospital?”

  She smiled. “No conflict.”

  “So I can fuck you whenever I want?” I grinned greedily.

  “You promise?” Her hands slid between the waistband on my jeans. I felt her fingers rub against my cock.

  It was the first time I had promised anything to a woman, but this one was easy. “Oh, I promise.”

  12

  Lennon

  I walked into the hospital the next morning feeling like the world could see it stamped on my forehead: Wes Blakefield’s sex slave. But the nurses acted perfectly normal, and no one even looked up when I entered the doctors’ lounge.

  “Good morning, Dr. Ashworth.”

  “Oh hi.” Dr. Evans was pouring a cup of coffee. His timing couldn’t be better. “Dr. Evans, I was wondering if I could discuss a patient with you.”

  “Sure. But I’m headed into a surgery.”

  “Me too,” I added. The older man liked the rest of us to know he was still active on the surgical team.

  “Maybe we could walk together,” he suggested.

  “Of course.” I hurriedly grabbed my coat and stethoscope and followed him out of the lounge.

  “What’s the consultation?” he asked.

  “Oh no, it’s not a consult.” I slowed to match his pace. He had a bit of a limp in his walk. “I was wondering if you would take over a case for me. I completed the surgery last week, so it’s only a couple of follow ups.”

  “And why do you need me? My schedule is really full. I doubt I have an opening.”

  This was the part I had tried to figure out. What was I going to tell any doctor I asked to take Wes as a patient? Please take him, the sex is too amazing for me to keep him on my patient list. Please take him, I’d rather him rip my clothes off than be a respected surgeon. Or maybe I should say please take him, he’s the best fucking rock star in bed and if you don’t take him, I’ll quit my job to be at his beck and call. I closed my eyes, realizing I’d lost all self-restraint and respect. I was basically a quarterback’s whore.

  “Well, to be honest, sir, I heard you were a big Wranglers fan and I thought you might want to work with Wes Blakefield.”

  The older surgeon stopped in the hallway. “Are you serious?”

  I nodded. “I don’t really know that much about football. and I know you do.” I was losing IQ points by the second.

  “Do you have any idea what his passing record is? Or his quarterback rating?”

  I shook my head. “Not a clue, and that’s why I thought this case might really mean something to you. You could give him the kind of care maybe I can’t.”

  Dr. Evans adjusted his glasses. “I see. I see that you’re putting the patient’s interests ahead of your own. And I think that’s the right decision.” He nodded. “Yes, I’d be happy to add him to my list.”

  I jumped. “Oh great! I can’t wait to tell him.”

  His brow furrowed. “I think I can have my office call and schedule with him.”

  I dropped the smile quickly. “Of course. You’re right. Thank you so much, Dr. Evans. I know he’ll be in good hands with you. And if you have any questions about the surgery, please page me.”

  “Will do. Thank you for thinking of me, Dr. Ashworth.”

  I headed for m
y OR prep room. “No problem.”

  Step one of unchaining myself from my doctor-patient ethics was complete. I reached for the soap and started scrubbing under my nails as I prepared for surgery. This morning, I was reattaching a torn knee ligament.

  I wondered how Wes’s morning was going with the team. He had mumbled something this morning about trying to get plays changed. I still didn’t know what that meant. With only one crash course in football and most of that spent naked on the couch, I wasn’t sure I had retained much of what he had said.

  I began scrubbing my other hand, careful to trace all the creases in my skin.

  I had spent two nights in Wes’s apartment. Of course, that meant I had to get up extra early to make it home and pick up clothes for work, but it was worth it. I was scared to death. Scared to be with him. Scared to not be with him. Scared that it seemed we were somehow igniting something between each other that could blow up in our faces.

  But I couldn’t stop myself.

  “Dr. Ashworth, the patient is prepped.” One of the nurses spoke to me through the speaker system.

  I hit the button with my elbow. “I’m headed in.”

  I pictured Wes one more time, then pulled down the shade, dividing him from the rest of my thoughts. When I was in the OR, I had to be the one in control. Not him. He could have that privilege in bed. Not here. Not at work.

  I tossed my keys on the counter and heated up a bowl of soup for dinner. I should have brought some of the leftover Chinese food from Wes’s, but I was in a hurry this morning to make it to work on time.

  I ate quickly, then walked to the shower, steeping myself in steam and heat. The first surgery hadn’t gone smoothly, and the ligament repair took an hour longer than I thought it would. After that, I had a surgery canceled because a patient refused to come to the hospital, and my third surgery of the day ended up being assisted by the head of my department, so I basically sat back and watched him do everything.

  I was tired and annoyed, but the hot water felt good. I dried off with a towel and ran when I heard my phone buzz.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Doc.”

  I immediately blushed. “Hey.”

  “Are you going to watch the game tonight?” he asked.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Are you telling me I haven’t converted you to a football fan yet?”

  “No, I’m not saying that.” I giggled. He sure had one convincing way to make a woman want to know everything about the sport.

  “Okay, I’ve got to go, but it starts in twenty minutes. I’ll be on the sideline, of course.”

  “You better be.” I knew I sounded stern. “Oh wait, before you go. Good news, Dr. Evans said he’ll take you on. You’re no longer my patient.” I held my breath, waiting for what Wes would say. Did things change today? Did it still matter to him?

  “That’s the best fucking news I’ve heard.”

  “Then, this is still…” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. We hadn’t put a label on it. There wasn’t a definition for what we had started together. It was new.

  “Yes, this is still.” He laughed. “Baby, I’ll call you later. I’ve got to walk out with the team.”

  “Good luck. I hope you guys win.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up and I hugged the phone to my chest. So this must be what cheerleaders in high school felt like when they pulled for their boyfriends on the field. I was always the one at the library, never at the game. But somehow, I had turned into that girl. The one who was going to watch her man at the football game, even if he was on the sideline tonight.

  I poured a glass of wine and turned on the TV. Other than yesterday, this was the first time I was making it a point to watch an AFA game. It was weird. I felt kind of nervous, even though he wasn’t playing. I felt the butterflies lift off when I saw the camera pan to him on the sideline. Damn it. He wasn’t wearing his sling. What the hell? I knew I wasn’t his doctor anymore, but I explicitly explained he had to wear it at all times if he wanted to heal those bones.

  I was startled when I saw a beautiful brunette sidle up to him and shove a microphone in his face. She looked like a super model.

  “I’m talking with Wes Blakefield, Wranglers star quarterback. Wes, we’ve heard some things about your hand. Can you clear up the rumors that you won’t be playing in the play off games?”

  He flashed a gorgeous smile at her and I felt a pit of anger. Was he flirting with the sports reporter?

  “Hey, Becky.”

  She smiled. “What do you want to tell Wranglers fans?”

  “As you can see, no cast, no sling. I’m just taking an extra week for precautionary measures. Wranglers fans don’t need to worry.” He rubbed the side of his sculpted jaw. “Easy sprain to recover from, and I have the best doctor looking after me.”

  I eyed him through my TV screen. Easy sprain my ass—I had kicked butt on his surgery. There was nothing easy about putting someone’s hand back together.

  “What do you think about Cosech starting tonight?” she asked.

  “He’s been working through the drills and running these plays all season. He’s ready. And I’m really happy he gets a Monday night start.”

  I rolled my eyes. I knew none of that was true. Wes was pissed the other guy was on the field instead of him, but at the same time, I was amazed at how convincing he could be. Becky sure seemed to believe him.

  “Thanks for taking a minute for me, Wes.”

  “Anything for you, Becky.” He tapped her on the back before turning toward his team’s bench.

  I knew I was shooting daggers at my television screen, and I didn’t care. Professional flirt didn’t even begin to cover what he was. I settled onto the couch to watch the game. The first quarter was about to start.

  13

  Wes

  That damn Becky Haley had to ask about my hand. I hoped without the sling it would look normal. As if the team had intentionally started Cosech to rest me up for the bigger, more important games coming up after the bye week. At least she didn’t ask for details on the sprain.

  I grabbed a set of headphones and listened in to the plays coming in from the offensive coordinator in the booth at the top of the stadium. I couldn’t see Ross from down here, but I knew he had eagle eyes on the field. He was plotting the Warriors’ defense before they were.

  I heard the play call and groaned. They had to change things to match Cosech’s abilities. He didn’t have the arm I had, but running every damn play wasn’t going to work. I watched as the quarterback handed the ball off to Persons and watched the running back get tackled before he even crossed the line of scrimmage. Fuck.

  There were enough Warriors fans in the stadium to jeer at us. I looked up at the booth, knowing Ross was scrambling for another play. He called in another run, this time to the right.

  Again, the Warriors read the call and Persons barely made it two yards. It was third down and I could feel it. We were going nowhere on this drive. But I kept my mouth shut. Cameras were on me. Fans were watching me. I had to act as if this was all part of our offensive plan to upend the Warriors’ defense. I tried to relax my shoulders and flatten the furrow on my brow, but I was fucking pissed. We blew the last play and had to punt.

  Cosech ran off the field and over to where I was standing.

  “That sucked,” he breathed.

  “Yeah, they read your every play.”

  “What do you think I should do?” he asked.

  The guy was a second year quarterback. No one every expected him to play. He barely got a touch on the ball in practice. This week was his first foray into our routes, our plays, our calls. I felt sorry for the kid.

  “Look,” I slung an arm around his shoulder. “They can read your eyes. You’re not looking downfield like you’re going to pass it. You look right at Persons the whole time.” I sighed. “You’ve got to keep your eyes moving constantly. Keep them guessing. They won’t know if you’re going to throw sh
ort, long, or hand it off.”

  He nodded. “I’ll try it.”

  I knocked him on the back. “Don’t try it. Fucking do it,” I snapped at him.

  I couldn’t believe this. Our entire season I had won games. We had won, and now this moron was on the field. We had to get through tonight and in two weeks, I’d be back.

  I looked at my right hand. It hurt, and I knew it wasn’t anywhere near capable of throwing a pass, let alone picking up a football. I was going to have to have help.

  I sat on the table, waiting for Dr. Jones. I knew that wasn’t his real name. He’d never tell me, or anyone, what it actually was. And I wasn’t going to ask. That was how this worked.

  A nurse came in with a tray of syringes and placed them on a table next to me.

  “The doctor will be in any minute.” She smiled, then left.

  I wasn’t the kind of man to hesitate or second guess my decisions. This had to be done. It was the only way. The point in life was to win. It was to be stronger and better than everyone else.

  My dad beat that philosophy into me. I had every trophy to prove it. Every title. Every recognition, except the Super Bowl.

  I waited for Dr. Jones. The man who entered the room had a pointy nose and gray hair just above his ears.

  “Eric?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.” We all used aliases when it came to this kind of medicine. But we both knew he would recognize me from a hundred feet away. I was the most recognizable quarterback in the country.

  But there would be no paper trail for Wes Blakefield. I’d signed everything as Eric Hawkins. Eric Hawkins was the man getting gel injections to fuse his bones together. Eric Hawkins was getting as many doses of HGH as a man his size could tolerate.

  “This will be simple.” Dr. Jones picked up one of the syringes from the tray. “First, I’ll numb the area with an anesthetic.”