A grunt slipped past his lips when I worked his left knee.
“How did that feel?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Warren,” I said. “This would go a lot smoother if you are honest with me.”
“It’s fine,” he said.
I sighed.
“Lay flat on your back please.”
His complied, his massive frame dominating the table, his feet hanging off the end.
I ran my hands up his left leg, feeling for too-tight spots or loose ligaments. Hooking my fingers behind his knee, I hiked his leg up and up and up, never taking my eyes off his face.
The beast betrayed nothing save for a bit of held breath the closer his knee got to his face.
“How’s that feel?” I asked, holding him in the slightly strained position as I kneaded my fingers around his knee.
“Fine,” he hissed.
I huffed.
The brute wanted to speak through pain, fine.
“I’ve ran your ass into the ice for six months, Kinley,” I said. “You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?”
“I’m fine,” he said, now more like a groan.
“Fine. You’re in charge.” I put my shoulder into the motion, hiking his leg up even more while digging my fingers into the knee I could feel was strained. “Now, how does that feel?” I asked again.
His brow furrowed as he fought to keep his face a mask of calm.
I pushed further, getting my whole body into the pose. I was a paper doll compared to him, but he had to know I didn’t come here to hand out free passes to the ice if there was a chance he’d damage himself and his career.
“Still fine, Kinley?” I asked, pushing further, knowing he was not enjoying it in the slightest.
Come on, man. Break. Talk to me.
“No!”
Finally.
I loosed a breath and eased up on the pressure, walking backward to allow his leg to relax slightly on my shoulder while I continued the exam.
“Your knee is on the verge of a massive strain,” I said, massaging the area around it to soothe the stress I’d put on it.
Warren let out a soft growl, his head back in defeat as he glared at the ceiling.
“I know.”
“You have to tell me these things,” I said. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get hurt. We can work on ways to help you heal and stay on the ice.”
“Sorry,” he grumbled.
“It’s all right. I’m used to it,” I said, sighing. I smiled down at him. “Sorry if I hurt you.”
He shrugged, his heavy leg still on my shoulder. “No worries. Nine is rougher with me,” he said at the same time someone came in the door and asked, “Everything all right in here?”
Bentley’s voice jarred me so much I jolted, Warren’s leg jumping with me in the process.
He hissed, and I quickly, gently slipped out from under his leg, laying it down on the table.
“Bentley!” I squealed like I was seventeen again, chiding him for sneaking up on me at my locker.
Fuck, it was like I’d been caught making out with the player instead of examining him.
Not that I belonged to Bentley.
That’s a lie.
I’ve always belonged to him.
“Whoa,” he said, hands raised. “Heard Kinley yell. Thought you were torturing him. Not . . .” His eyes flashed hot and dark, like the image of me with my hands on Warren was on repeat in his mind.
“She was,” Warren teased, shifting to a sitting position on the table.
“I’ll go,” Bentley said.
“No,” I blurted, before clearing my throat. “It’s your turn.” I spun around, lowering my voice so only Warren could hear me. “Ice it. Every night. And check your email. I’ll send you some stretches I want you to do twice a day.”
He gave me one nod, got dressed, and headed out of the room, sparing us a curious glance before he shut the door.
Before he sealed me in a way too small room with Bentley.
He cocked an eyebrow at me.
“I’m guessing you don’t want me naked,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, and his brows went even higher. “I mean . . .” I shook my head. “Yes, I don’t need you naked. Just down to your briefs, please.”
That sly smirk shaped his lips as he tugged his shirt over his head, stepping closer to me than necessary for the move. “You said need and I said want.”
Heat flushed over every inch of my skin.
An aching pulse throbbed in rhythm with my racing heart.
I’d spent the last seven hours examining and staring at ripped hockey players and never blushed.
Bentley hadn’t even dropped his pants yet and I was practically purring.
Oh, shit, there they went.
The sound of them being tossed over the chair echoed through the room, and I managed to bring my eyes up enough to see him standing before me.
God, he was gorgeous.
As a young boy he’d been muscular, strong—now he marveled the sexiest Hollywood stars I’d ever seen. Though, he was rougher than any actor could ever be. Smooth skin slid over miles of corded muscle, his arms and thighs so much bigger, harder than I remembered. His chest, holy hell, it begged to be touched, bit.
A tiny gasp left my lips when he turned to walk to the table, allowing me a perfect view of the defined ridges in his back, and lower. He had an ass that I wanted to slap.
Oh my god!
I’m a sexual harassment case waiting to happen.
Get a grip!
I cleared my throat, again.
“Stand for a moment, please,” I said before he could sit down.
“You’re the boss,” he said, letting his ripped arms hang loose at his sides. Completely at ease as I circled him, scanning him, trying like hell to keep my eyes on pro-mode and not a lust-starved woman who remembered exactly how good this man felt inside me.
“You can sit,” I finally said when I swore my knees would buckle from looking at him.
He hopped on the table, his eyes flickering to mine as I approached him, so . . . so much more timid than I had been with the others. My fingers trembling like his flesh might burn me when I touched it.
I reached for his shoulder, the contact was searing in a whole different way.
“Ah.” He flinched under my touch, but it wasn’t from pain. “Your hands are like ice.” He laughed, the sound easing the tension in my body.
“Sorry,” I said, quickly rubbing them together before running them over his shoulders again. “Any pain?” I asked.
I’d read his file first of the day, back when I’d contemplated getting him in before everyone else. But when simply reading his history made my heart flutter—knowing how much he accomplished, how he’d gotten the life he’d always dreamed of—I’d put him off until now.
Last.
No one coming to interrupt us.
“No pain,” he said. “Unless you count the shit the guys give me.” He chuckled and the sound again made me miss my old friend so much it hurt. “I honestly am in the best shape of my life.”
“That’s great,” I said, continuing to run my hands over his incredible body.
Torturing myself through the exam.
I had suspected this reaction, but wasn’t sure until now.
A smart woman would recommend him to another PT for future visits, but that would raise questions and I didn’t need anyone looking at me—or my past—closer than necessary.
Didn’t need him catching wind of any sort of flirtation.
He’d sink my contract.
Make sure I never worked in the NHL again.
All because he . . .
“Chloe,” Bentley said my name, grounding me to the present
The very clear present where I’d paused with my hands on the center of his chest.
My heart beats for yours.
The ghost of the past whispered, haunting me.
His palm slid over mine, holdin
g me there when I tried to draw away.
“Better?”
I tilted my head at him, so many words clogging my throat.
“Warmer,” he clarified, and released my hands.
“Oh,” I said, nodding. “Yes, thank you.”
He snorted as I went to check his knees.
“What?” I asked.
“Yes, thank you,” he mimicked me. “So professional. Like we’re strangers.”
I dropped to a crouch to check his ankles, the position only precarious because it was Bentley and not some other player I was checking. I flicked my gaze up to him, the length of the man so, so considerable.
He swallowed hard, his chest muscles flexing just a fraction.
“I don’t know how to behave around you,” I admitted, switching to his other ankle.
He felt amazing, even from a professional standpoint. The man was in top shape, just like he’d said.
“How do you want to behave around me?” he asked, his tone softer than usual.
I sighed, dropping his ankle and before I could even think about it, I’d placed my hands on his thighs to help me rise to a standing position again.
Heat flashed in his eyes—memories of him swallowing my moans as he rocked between my thighs coiled inside me.
Instantly, I darted back a foot.
He smirked, damn him.
He was enjoying this.
And I couldn’t help it, but I liked that smile, that laugh, that easy way he’d always been.
I missed him.
Not just on a physical level, but for the friend I used to have.
The way we’d been able to stay up all night talking about nothing and laughing. The way we could find fun in any situation—even detention for skipping out of class for an early lunch. I hadn’t found another friend like him. No one had ever come close to sinking as deep beneath my skin as he had.
“You can get dressed,” I said, breathless.
He did.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But when he was done, he went for the door without a word.
The ache in my heart, the hollow spot that had been carved out the day he left, screamed and pleaded.
“Can we be friends?” I asked before his hand reached the knob.
“What?” He eyed me over his shoulder.
I shrugged.
I didn’t deserve his friendship.
Not after what I’d done.
But . . . it was for the best. He’d gone on to live his dream.
“I wondered if you might want to try . . . friends,” I said more clearly this time.
“Like the old days?” he asked, smiling.
That grin had always gotten me into so much trouble.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know you probably hate me—”
“Chloe,” he chided, crossing the distance between us. He towered over me, tipping my chin up to meet his eyes. I trembled from his nearness, from the heat rolling off his body. “I could never hate you.”
Lie.
I could see it in the breaks in his eyes—the small cracks where I knew to look for the truth.
He had hated me.
I’d done that.
Forced that.
But now . . . I couldn’t tell what he felt about me now.
“So,” I said, taking a calculated step back. “Friends? I could take you on a . . . non-date? We could catch up.”
His hand hovered in the spot where he’d been touching me before letting it drop. “Sure,” he nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But I get to pick the place.”
“Deal,” I said.
He chuckled, strolling out of my door like going out with me would be nothing special.
And it wouldn’t.
Not with who he was used to now—the past decade filled with super models and bunnies and women much more exciting than me.
Excitement and pure, ice-cold terror whipped through my soul as I stood there, wondering if I’d just made a deal with the devil.
Chapter 5
Bentley
This is so stupid.
My nerves twisted and tangled inside me as I led Chloe into Nine’s.
Just friends.
This is fine.
When she’d offered the olive branch in her office earlier today, I couldn’t say no. Even though I remembered all too well what the pain of her leaving me felt like. Well, technically, I’d left but she hadn’t deemed me worthy enough to follow. Even though I’d thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together.
But I was a kid, dreaming.
It was more than that.
Ten years.
Ten years between that event and now, and I could still feel the shards of glass in my chest. Every woman I’d ever been with since had been compared to Chloe, through no fault of their own. They knew upfront there was no relationship happening, but it didn’t matter—Chloe constantly crept into my head when I found myself sparing an hour or two with someone who just wanted to say they’d slept with a Shark.
“This is beautiful,” Chloe said as the hostess ushered us to our seats—one of the best tables in the place, thanks to a quick call to Warren before arrival.
I hadn’t told him who I was taking to his wife’s restaurant, just that I needed a table asap.
Being friends with the Shark trio had more perks than tips for the ice.
“One of my favorites,” I said, taking the seat across from her. I ordered a whiskey neat, and Chloe did the same. I smiled a bit at that. “Since when did you stop drinking those fruity wine cooler things and start throwing back the good stuff?”
A flash of mischief sparked in her hazel eyes. “I was seventeen when I drank those coolers, Bent. I’m a grown woman now.”
I raised my brows, my tongue darting out to wet my lips.
Hell yes she’d grown up.
She was always beautiful, with a smile that stirred my soul awake, but now?
Now she was a goddess.
A fierce, funny, sharp goddess sent here to torment me with the way she bit her lower lip, crossed one leg over the other, laughed that laugh that used to be my favorite sound in the world—next to her sighing my name, of course.
Oh, who was I kidding?
It was still my favorite sound.
The hostess brought back our drinks and then the waiter hurried over. Informing us that Jeannine would be preparing a three-course special, and asked if Chloe had any food allergies. He rushed off after she told him no, and then she turned a wide-eyed gaze at me.
“This is Jeannine’s place?” she asked. “Jeannine Kinley? Warren’s wife I met at the barbecue?”
I nodded, a bit of smugness slipping into my smile as I leaned back in my chair.
Sure, she’d said this was strictly a non-date friend thing, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t pull every card I possessed to impress her.
Old habits.
“That’s incredible,” she said, scanning the restaurant with a little more awe. “How does she do it? Wife, mother, head chef?”
“No idea,” I said honestly.
I couldn’t imagine juggling much more than I did now, and all I had was hockey. No long-term girls, no extra camps, no charities—unless Paige was hosting a benefit. My game had been my focus—and improving it—since Gage took me under his wing.
“She has two others. And is working on a fourth location across town, too.”
Chloe’s lips parted before she filled it with a sip of whiskey.
The way her tongue darted out to lick the flavor off her lips turned my blood up to hot. Her slick black hair was smooth, framing her face to her chin, the green blouse she wore—Shark green—complimented her eyes, and there was just a friendly amount of cleavage showing.
It was hard to take my eyes off her, not that I wasn’t supposed to be looking at her, but damn. She made it incredibly hard to view her as a friend. I didn’t know if I was capable, even if she had broken my heart all those years ago, I still saw her as one t
hing.
Mine.
“Starter course,” our waiter said, setting two wedge salads in front of us.
“Thank you,” Chloe said before he took off to look after other tables. “This looks like a designer salad,” she whispered as she picked up her knife and fork, like she was afraid Jeannine might overhear her somehow from the kitchen.
“Everything Nine does is designer,” I said. “Well, when it comes to food anyway.”
I’d actually never been inside Warren’s house, but I imagined it was as nice as Gage and Rory’s. Especially if Jeannine had any hand in it.
Chloe popped a small bite into her mouth, a loose sigh leaving her lips as she got a taste of Nine’s food.
I followed suit, mainly crunching on the salad in order to stop hearing her sigh over it. That sound shot me straight back in time—to warm summer nights, the stars clear in the sky, and Chloe underneath me, timid and coy as we discovered each other for the first time.
“It’s literally just lettuce and dressing,” she said, taking another sip of whiskey. “How does she make it so damn good?”
I chuckled, cleaning my plate. “Just wait,” I said. “If you like this you’re going to lose it for the main course.”
“Screw that,” she said. “I’m ready for dessert.”
Another laugh, one that filled my chest with hope and memories and all the things I’d sworn were frozen solid for a decade.
“You always did have a sweet tooth.”
“You’re one to talk,” she said, tinkling the ice in her whiskey glass. “You were the one always tossing rocks at my window at all hours of the night. Sweet talking me into sneaking out to share a cookie by the river.”
I snorted. “I was a hormone driven teenager in love,” I blurted out. “Cookie was code for nookie.”
She rolled her eyes, but didn’t flinch at my use of the L word.
It had been true.
She’d known it, I’d known it.
Felt it.
Even so young.
Nothing had compared to it since. Not that I’d ever opened up my heart again.
How could I? I’d loved her since grade school.
She cleared her throat, a slight flush to her cheeks that I doubted had anything to do with the liquor.
“I’ve missed you,” she said, her tone so soft I could’ve imagined it.
Rookie (Seattle Sharks Book 4) Page 4