Earning It

by Angela Quarles

  I touch Luke’s shoulder, and he unclasps his hands from his knee and straightens out, resting his head on the ground. His face is impassive, but I know he’s in pain. I quickly do an assessment of the area to make sure there’s no break.

  “Luke, can you put weight on it?”

  His teammates help him to stand, and he puts pressure on the leg. His lips tighten into a thin line.

  “Okay, I don’t think it’s broken, but you’re out of the game for now.”

  He curses, and Paolo and Conor get under each arm. “Let’s get off the field, lad.” The few spectators and the other players clap as Luke leaves the field.

  I dash ahead to the tub of ice, grab a plastic bag, and scoop some inside. I breathe into it and suck the air back out, several times, to get it as airtight as possible. I twist it closed and flatten it. By then Luke is on my blanket, and I grab the roll of saran wrap and wrap the ice around the knee to prevent swelling.

  Luke rolls his lips inward. “What do you think?”

  “My guess? ACL, MCL, or a torn meniscus.”

  “Fuuuck.” He tips his head back and looks at the clear blue sky. His helmet is off, his hair is plastered to his head with sweat, his knees are bloody like most of his teammates, but for some reason he’s still sexy as hell.

  “We’ll get an MRI. How soon again until your division playoffs?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Well, if it’s a torn meniscus, you might still be able to play.”

  “But not till then?”

  I shake my head.

  The rest of the team is gathered around but has given me enough room to work, which I appreciate. They look down on Luke as if they’re in mourning. I’m also struck by how different they are about injuries than soccer players and the like. Conor has blood dripping down his neck, staining his new jersey. He received a wicked gash on his forehead and only let me put a Band-Aid on it halfway through the game—he called it a ‘plaster.’

  Mark is leaning on his hurley, his finger taped to its neighbor. There might be blood stains on his hurley. Jesus. The roughness of the game is definitely more similar to hockey or rugby.

  “That’s the game then, with two down,” Conor says, his Irish accent thick with regret.

  A tall, dark-haired woman steps forward. “I can sub.”

  The guys all turn to stare at her, except Luke, who’s still focused on his knee.

  Aiden shakes his head. “The GAA rules don’t allow it—you know that.”

  The New York captain steps forward. I’d been introduced to him earlier to let him know we had a doctor on scene. “It’s fine with our team.” His Irish accent is similar to Conor’s. “It’s not an official game anyway, and I’m after some game time for the second string. We’ve come all this way. Let’s finish this.”

  Conor frowns and steps threateningly toward him. “She could get hurt out there.”

  But the woman mutters under her breath and then says aloud, “I can handle myself. You know that.” With that, she grabs her helmet, flips Conor a bird, and runs out to the field with full confidence the game will continue.

  Conor looks to Aiden. “Can’t you stop her?”

  But Aiden just looks amused. “She’s not my woman.”

  The tops of Conor’s ears turn red. Interesting. “She’s not mine either, ye git.”

  “Lighten up, Conor,” Luke throws over his shoulder. “Claire’s the best defense the women’s team has.”

  There’s a women’s team?

  Aiden nods. “Switch her with Paolo.”

  Conor curses but says, “Do it. Let’s get back on the field then.”

  Luke

  We’re holding our own still against Galway, but I’m on the sideline fuming over my injury. Pepper’s a soothing presence beside me on the blanket, her shoulder pressed against mine, her knees up with her arms clasped around them. Her focus is trained on the players, but there’s a feeling of companionship as we sit here and watch the rest of the game unfold. It’s a nice feeling, sure, but doesn’t completely diffuse my mood. The Florida sun’s making quick work of the ice packs, so we’ve repacked my knee twice already. It’s quite numb at this point.

  Pepper glances my way. “I couldn’t tell out there, but what exactly happened?”

  “Does it matter?” Okay. I’m also a bit surly. I know anything I say will be laced with the anger I’m grappling, so I’d rather keep my trap shut. We need to win this game, and I get a fucking injury? And allow a goal?

  She gives me the side-eye. “Knowing how you sustained the injury could help me rule out diagnoses.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “If you were hit in the knee from the outside, it’s most likely an ACL or MCL.”

  I like that she’s not put off by my mood and gets that it’s not directed at her.

  “Nope. I just twisted. I think it was the same thing that happened earlier.”

  Her head whips around at that. “Earlier? What do you mean earlier?”

  Uh-oh. “End of third quarter when I blocked their attempt at the goal. Something popped, but it didn’t really hurt and wasn’t affecting my ability to play.”

  Now her expression becomes what I can only describe as oh-shit-she’s-going-to-kill-me. “You injured yourself earlier and didn’t tell me?” Her voice is calm and cool, but I’m wary.

  I lean away, resting back on a hand, my shoulder no longer warmed by hers. “It was no big deal. I was able to play.” My own anger burbles with irritation at her. I know my limits. This was my call.

  “No big—” She stops herself, and her lips twist into a funny shape, as if she’s swallowed a bug or is about to spit.

  I lean back more in case it’s the latter.

  She takes a deep breath and blows it out, as if she’s in one of those find-your-inner-peace yoga classes. “Luke. I’m so mad at you right now, I can barely get my words out.” Her voice does sound strained, stretched tight. “You always, always, report an injury.”

  I clench my jaw. “I’m a former SEAL,” I bite out. “Believe me, I know what kind of abuse my body can take. The others?” I shrug. “I agree.” But part of my pissiness is because I had misjudged my limits.

  If at all possible, her voice gets even thinner. “Even you, asshole.”

  I rear back in shock, because it seems like an overreaction. And then I’m finally hit with the clue stick. Her injury back in high school. When she was on the cheerleading squad.

  Shouts erupt from the field, jerking our attention away from each other. Players bunch around our goal, whistles blow, and a New York forward shouts, “We need a medic!”

  Fuck. What now?

  Pepper grabs her bag, but not before she grits out at me, her eyes flashing fire, “When this game is over, we are so having some words.”

  Luke

  I’m sweaty and dirty, and my ass is glued to a teal seat cushion in the waiting room at Sarasota Memorial Hospital’s ER. Eamonn will be fine. He was responsive and able to walk off the field, but Pepper fears a concussion so they’re running a bunch of tests. I’ve got my leg stretched out with a new bag of ice strapped on, and they’re doing an MRI as soon as they can squeeze me in.

  The rest of the team are entertaining the New York players at The Alligator’s Butt. Fuckers.

  The waiting room is eerily quiet for an ER. And too fake-cheery by half. There’s a huge floor-to-ceiling fish tank near the check-in desk, and the teal-colored walls are peppered with round mirrors and paintings of pelicans and sand dunes and shit. Near me, but not near enough to be sure, is a plant on the cusp of can’t-tell-if-it’s-real-or-fake. It’s too perfect and glossy, but maybe they just pay good money to a team of plant tenders.

  Across from me, a girl with bangs and crooked pigtails won’t stop looking at me and blowing bubbles with her gum. Each pop feels like some kind of judgment dropping into the otherwise silent waiting room.

  Yeah, I feel like shit for reasons other than my knee.

  We lost to New York because of the goal
I let through, but I’ve got a war going on in my head. Part of me is shaking a fist and saying Pepper has no right to bust my balls like that, and the other part of me is shaking a fist and saying I should have come clean. It’s a toss-up right now which fist will win. Either way, it’s got me fuming and swirling with regret. So, yeah, that’s why I’m sitting here completely worn out and at a loss for what to do.

  And the zapper on this cockup is that I have to be fit enough to escort Slaine around for the next three days. Bodyguard duty. Shit.

  At the next pop of the girl’s gum bubble, I tell the fuming fist to shove it, because I know that’s just my ego talking. If I’d come clean earlier, several things could have happened instead. With us still having a whole quarter left, we might have decided to not play any further and called it with a tie. Worst case scenario, I might have been able to do some strengthening exercises and still be able to train up till the division playoffs.

  Guilt twists through me as the next realization finally pierces my fuddled head.

  Eamonn wouldn’t have been injured.

  I need to apologize—again—to Pepper. She was right.

  But how many times can I be wrong with her before she washes her hands of me? I’m not exactly projecting a solid front to her.

  Pepper

  It’s all I can do to channel my anger into efficiency and productivity as I consult with the doctors in the ER and mitigate any lasting harm for Eamonn. Calm, cool mantle. Calm, cool mantle.

  Finally, he’s in a room for observation, and I pull up a chair. It’s always a bit jarring to see a larger-than-life athlete laid out helpless under a hospital blanket and hooked up to monitors. He eyes me warily, and the instinct that has served me so well in the past with patients wells up inside. In the last round of questions, his answers had raised my suspicions—insomnia, bouts of depression, poor decision-making.

  He’s also the only one whose medical history I still haven’t been able to get—apparently his family doctor in some small village in Cork, Ireland has retired, so there’s been a holdup in tracking his records down.

  I decide to cut straight to it. Catch him by surprise.

  “This isn’t your first concussion, is it?”

  His blue eyes flash with guilt, but he doesn’t say a word.

  Anger spears through me. Concussions aren’t something to mess around about. These guys think they can’t be broken. But they can. “How many does this make?”

  I say it calmly and pull out my notebook where I’ve been keeping notes on the team members, pen poised.

  His lips roll into a thin line, and now that tiny suspicion I had earlier blooms full grown—these guys have been purposely thwarting me. I stand so abruptly, the chair falls back and thunks against the floor. I lift it with shaking hands, because—what’s with all the anger? I need to get out of here and get my head screwed on straight. I mentally reach for the calm mantle, but it’s out of reach. Yes. I need to be alone.

  I push open the door and smack straight into the last person I want to see—Luke.

  He grabs my shoulders and steadies me, his body a solid wall of strength filling my vision, and that just makes me more irritated.

  “How is he?”

  I can’t even form words. The team’s been working against me this whole time, keeping me from doing my job. At the very least, it’s only Eamonn. Already my colleagues are questioning how long this is taking. And while I’d seen the job’s temporary nature as a plus, in case I decided Sarasota wasn’t for me, the other plus was that it could become permanent. And despite what’s going on right now with Luke, I find I do want to stay.

  Everything inside me is seething, because on top of all that? Luke kept an in-game injury from me. I do the only thing I can do at this point. I step back, letting his hands drop from my shoulders, fix him with a glare, and quick march down the hall. Away from him. Away from the words I know will spill from my mouth and can’t be taken back.

  Especially because—all those emotions? They’ll get snagged into the lust I feel for him and the we-might-have-feelings-for-each-other emotions stupidly sprouting inside me. They’ll get tangled up, twisted, and what comes out has the potential to be really, really ugly.

  These emotions need time away from him to sort themselves out. Some might call me a coward, but there’s nothing wrong with a strategic retreat.

  Chapter 14

  Luke

  It’s Monday, and Mr. Langfield has me on the phone. I tilt my head up to the ceiling and blow out a sharp breath. Everyone wants to take a pinch off me lately. Pepper won’t answer my calls or texts, and I haven’t yet decided whether to force the issue by going to her apartment. Which I can’t do for another two days anyway—I still have the Slaine detail for two more nights. I’ve met arrogant VIPs before, and usually I just find it funny. But not last night. I lost my cool with him, and Dennis called earlier to chew me out about my attitude. Whatever.

  I adjust my knee, propped up on the table, and shift the ice pack.

  And now Mr. Langfield is blistering my ear. “I repeat. Either you cooperate with Dr. Rodgers on those PPEs, or we’re pulling our sponsorship. We don’t need the lawsuit if something preventable happens. There are other amateur sports teams we can sponsor. Heck, I could sponsor a Little League team. They’re always needing money.”

  Ouch.

  I put on my politest voice, because there’s no way we’re losing this sponsorship. Yeah, the Slaine gig is supposed to offset some of the financial outlay in case the sponsorship falls through, but I’d rather not have it come to that. “You can rest assured that Dr. Rodgers will have our full cooperation. We truly value your support and are committed to the team and our shared goals.”

  I rub my nose, positive it’s dripping brown.

  After we do the goodbyes, I end the call and fall back against my couch. We’d passed one hurdle since the game—my MRI showed a meniscus tear in what they said was “the red zone,” which despite the name, is the best possible scenario for such an injury. Don’t care why it’s called that, but it means with some PT, I can play in time for the playoffs.

  But without the money Langfield is forking over, we won’t have the proper gear and travel money to get to the division playoffs, and I won’t get paid back for the uniforms and the cost of the trainer. The kink in what I thought was a sure thing? Eamonn still hasn’t been able to get his records sent over from Ireland, and with his concussion, Pepper’s suspicious and has voiced her concerns to Mr. Langfield. If Eamonn’s been delaying on purpose because he’s had multiple concussions in the past, then it could be enough for her to bench him. And then we’ll be short one team member one month before the division playoffs, and having the sponsorship would do us no good.

  Fuck.

  We have no choice, though.

  I pop another Advil and send a text to Eamonn and copy Conor.

  Cooperate with Dr. R about any previous health issues or we lose sponsorship

  Luke

  It’s the Day of Reckoning. Or, technically, the Night of Reckoning. We’re at the practice field Wednesday, and Pepper is all cool efficiency, questioning each of us privately, checking off items on her damn clipboard. I’m up soon, and for some reason, I’m nervous. I’ve been wanting to see her since the game and finally apologize, but not like this.

  Aiden passes me on his way to her, and his dour expression is so out of place, I can’t help but ask, which just earns me the finger.

  That right there? Not normal. He’s usually our fucking cheerleader. He’s one of the most laid-back guys I’ve ever met.

  Mark leans over. “Been that way since Saturday.” His broken finger is in a splint.

  “What happened Saturday? He played well against Galway.”

  “He hooked up with a friend of Claire’s at the after party.”

  “And?” Aiden might be Mr. Amiability, but he’s also Mr. Any Skirt Will Do.

  Mark shrugs. “I know, right? Usually he’s slinging it out from both p
ant legs. But she got to him, man. She got to him.”

  Doubtful. The day he gives up switching bed partners is the day I kiss my old man. But something is up with him.

  “Luke?” Pepper’s voice carries to me in an impersonal, you’re-next tone.

  I approach the field chairs she’s set up to conduct her interviews and sprawl in a chair, like I’m all relaxed and shit.

  “How’s your knee?”

  “It’s fine,” I bite out. But then I recall Mr. Langfield’s phone call, and while it referred specifically to Eamonn, I know I need to cooperate, to keep with the spirit. Plus, I respect the hell out of her. “I’ve been icing and elevating it whenever I can, and when I’m working as a bodyguard or here supporting the team, I have a compression sleeve to keep down the swelling. The pain is minimal. I hope to start swimming tomorrow for exercise to replace CrossFit and do some strength-building exercises.”

  Her eyes narrow. “I’m not your team’s official physician, but I’ll be blunt. In the future, you should not keep injuries from the team.”

  “I—”

  Her eyes flare with heat, but not the good kind of sexual heat. No, this is temper. Which is better, I guess, than the disappointment it replaced.

  I snap my mouth shut.

  The truth is, my head’s messed up right now. Foolishly, I’d started to believe I had a chance with Pepper after all, but her disappointment, the judgment I know is there at my failure, eats at me. Brings up the few times I made mistakes with my old man before I learned to either not make them or get the shit beaten out of me.

  Having grown up dirt poor, he wanted better for me. Hell, we lived in such a shitty trailer park, we envied the one known for lighting its streets up for Christmas. “This is for your own good,” my father recited every time he took a belt to me. “You have no room for messing up.” It wasn’t until my mom died when I was eighteen that I learned I was his biggest mistake. The reason he’d had to marry her. And he’d seen it as the reason he’d never made a better life for himself. His one mistake which cost him dearly.