I closed my eyes and draped my arm over my face. After a little while, I heard the cheering noise from the stands. Someone must have scored. As if my thoughts were broadcast, Jake said, “Sounds like someone finally scored.”
I hadn’t even realized Jake was there. And since I wasn’t feeling particularly chatty, I grunted my agreement. Jake understood. He was good that way. I heard him sit down next to the table and we sat in silence for a few moments before he got a text. “Allie wants you to know Robby just scored.”
Again, I grunted, but realized I sounded like an ass, so I added, “It’s about time.”
Jake gave his own murmur of acknowledgement. When Mom finally came in she was in full Mom-the-nurse mode.
“Hey kiddo, what’s your level of pain. Give me a number from one to ten.”
Once a nurse, always a nurse. “It’s pretty numb at the moment, Mom. But on the field it was pretty damn close to ten.”
I could care less if I sounded like a pussy; that shit hurt worse than anything I’d felt to date. Her hand stroked my hair in that motherly way. Dropping my arm from my face, I looked up at her. She must have seen the fear in my eyes, my frustration. Shaking her head, she said with the fierce determination my mother possessed, “You’re not done, Jonathan. Athletes come back from this injury all the time.”
I shook my head, but she continued, “Yes, they do, and you know it. I’ve already spoken with Dr. Johnson; he’s the head orthopedic surgeon on staff. He’s setting up the MRI for you as we speak.”
“Mom, my school has doctors.”
“I’ve already spoken with them, and they are one hundred percent on board with Dr. Johnson doing the surgery, if that’s what’s necessary. Your team of doctors learns from doctors like Dr. Johnson. It’s all been handled, and nobody will feel like their toes have been stepped on, so don’t worry about it. I know how to handle physicians and their egos.” Her voice was full of confidence, so I wasn’t about to argue. My mom could handle anyone and diffuse almost any situation.
“Okay, Mom.”
“The trainer says we can hang in here for a bit while waiting for the info on the MRI. It should be done tonight. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we get you fixed, and the sooner you’re back on both feet … and playing soccer.”
I wasn’t going to hold my breath. I knew I’d be able to play soccer again, but I doubted it would be on the level I was at thirty minutes ago. There were a number of guys just waiting to fill my starting position. Even as I told myself that, I knew I was drowning in self-pity. It was just really fucking hard not to. Lying on a table, knee wrapped in ice, while my team played on without me.
Three weeks later, I found myself all checked in and waiting for my first physical therapy appointment. Inwardly groaning, I tried to drop my ass onto the waiting room chair as gracefully as an over-six-feet-tall guy in a bulky knee brace could do. Pride swept through me when I managed to accomplish just that without breaking into a sweat. I smiled before looking around to see if anyone else witnessed my achievement. Of course nobody was paying attention to me, but victory was still mine. Fighting the urge to high five myself, I scanned the table full of magazines older than my little sister, trying to ascertain which one looked the least man-handled, when my name was called.
Seriously? Of course they waited until I was resting comfortably in the chair before calling me back. They most likely did shit like that on purpose. It was probably policy for them to quietly watch the pathetic athletes who reeked of failure fumble around on their crutches before having them get right back up. I rolled my eyes at my bitterness before I set about trying to accomplish the act of standing as gracefully as I sat. My goal was to make it vertical without resembling a drunken toddler.
Once again upright, I found myself face to face with a plain, middle-aged woman who looked like she’d rather be anywhere but there, as she belatedly offered, “Would you like some help?”
Did she really offer assistance after I finished getting up? That was probably another thing they did on purpose. Unable to hide my scowl, I grumbled, “No, I think I got it.”
She shrugged and walked away, apparently expecting me to follow. When the door she’d been holding open swung into me, almost knocking me on my ass, I cursed loudly. My mother would’ve smacked me upside the back of my head for speaking like that in public, but it was an unavoidable reflex. Cranky-middle-aged lady looked back at me with a questioning look, like she had no idea why. Oh, come the fuck on! She knew that door was going to hit me. Shaking my head, I followed her lead, but closed the gap in hopes of avoiding any other obstacles she might throw in my direction. Literally.
As we made our way through the large room full of treatment tables, I took in the basic elements of torture that could, and most likely would, be used against me. Having spent plenty of time in training facilities over the years, I recognized most of the rehab equipment. There were several tables occupied by other patients, some with therapists assisting them. In the corner, there was a mat on the floor where an older man was stretching. Mounted on the wall to the right of the floor mat was a unit covered in elastic bands of all colors and resistance. And in the corner, there was also a stand containing several different sized exercise balls. Yep, they had everything needed to adequately rehab, AKA torture, the injured athlete.
Just thinking about all I would need to do in order to get my knee functioning at one hundred percent again made me appreciate that bottle of anti-inflammatory meds on my nightstand. It would probably be my best friend over the next few weeks. Cranky-middle-aged lady motioned to the table at the far end of the room, and I couldn’t help but think she might have done that on purpose, too. Why would they put the guy with a wrist injury on the table near the door, while they put me, the guy on crutches with the bulky knee brace, on the one farthest away? Clearly, they loved to screw around with people there.
Stopping in front of the table she’d indicated, I elected to remain standing and just leaned against it. No way was I going to entertain the idea of climbing onto that table, only to be asked to stand again for the therapist to examine me. Not happening. Not just a dumb jock with a pretty face here, lady. When she gave me another questioning look, probably wondering why I wasn’t sitting, I just smiled and rested my arms on the top of my crutches. Once again, she shrugged her lack of giving a shit and said, “Lee will be with you in a few minutes.”
“Lee?” I asked, clarifying I’d heard correctly. Just another wonderful thing to look forward to and add to my overwhelming good mood: getting rubbed on by a dude. The day kept getting better and better.
“Yeah, Lee,” she said as she walked away, not even looking back at me.
Shaking my head at the complete lack of bedside manner cranky-middle-aged lady possessed, I mumbled to myself, “Well, I think someone really needs to get laid.”
A second later I heard a laugh as someone said, “Don’t we all?”
“True,” I agreed, before swinging my head toward the unidentified voice. Stunned momentarily speechless, I stared at the sight in front of me. Propped against the wall only five feet away was my ultimate wet dream come to life. Long muscular legs wrapped tightly in black spandex, crossed at the ankle and finished off with a pair of running shoes. A tight, long-sleeve shirt, complete with a high collar, zipped to the top, hiding what I could only assume was a fantastic rack. When my eyes finished their journey upward, I found a set of hypnotic, chocolate brown eyes twinkling back at me. They were full of humor and crinkled a little at the corners when she gave me a lopsided smirk. When her eyebrows went up in question, I realized I was staring. I broke eye contact at the same moment I notice the uncontrollable, totally male, visceral reaction to the sight of her.
Quickly shifting my crutches to a more centralized location in front of my misbehaving body part, I smiled lamely at her in silence. I had no idea if she knew what was going through my head, but the smirk on her face told me she just might. Though the silence was momentarily awkward, I wasn’
t about to run and hide from such a beauty. While making sure the crutches were still shielding my surprise hard-on, I extended my arm and introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Jonathan.”
Smirk still in place, she pushed herself off the wall, moving slowly toward me. When her arms dropped to her sides, I silently acknowledged my correct assumption … it was a great rack. Inwardly, I cursed the fact that crutches would not keep things hidden much longer. I rested further back on the table in hopes that bending at the waist more would help. When she slid her hand against mine, I was surprised at how erotic it felt. Her fingers were long and strong as they wrapped around mine, and my thoughts drifted to what it would feel like having those fingers wrapped around another area of my body. Sonofabitch, it looked like I was the one who needed to get laid around here. How my mind went from a handshake to a handjob so quickly, I would never know.
My thoughts were interrupted when she let go, nodding to my injured knee. “Whatcha in for?” I panicked a little when her eyes traveled in the direction of the not-so-well-covered wood; I shifted a little before clearing my throat.
“ACL repair,” I managed to get out.
Squatting in front of me, she began looking over the knee brace more thoroughly. Her new position caused me to look down at her. It also put her head level with my unruly dick, which did nothing to help my current situation. Holy shit, I was in trouble. Breathing through my teeth, I tried thinking of anything that could help reverse things. Standing up, she asked, “And you’re two weeks post op?”
I nodded. “Two weeks.”
“And what kind of timeframe was it between your date of injury and the surgery?” she asked, crossing her arms again, hiding the assets that were contributing to my awkward state. I was a bit confused why she’d be asking for the specifics about my knee, but I answered her. I’d rather talk to her than have physical therapy anyway. Aside from the torture, she was definitely better to look at than some dude named Lee.
“One week. Would’ve been sooner but had to work around the Thanksgiving holiday.”
She gave my words some consideration before saying, “One week is a pretty decent timeframe from injury to surgery. I assume this was sped up for you because you’re an athlete.”
Chuckling, I said, “Maybe so, but I’m sure the real reason was my mom. She’s a force, and she was adamant that Dr. Johnson be my surgeon.”
Reaching over, she pulled my chart from the bin at the end of the table. I was about to ask her what she was doing when realization set in. She worked there.
Not able to recall what she’d said her name was when I introduced myself, I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
Looking up from my chart, which she was openly perusing, she smirked again. “That’s ‘cause I didn’t give it to you.”
“Okay …” Dragging out the word to emphasize my confusion, I waited for her to offer it as she returned her attention to my chart. Seconds later, she set it back in the bin before sitting on a stool and rolling it and herself into the space in front of me. Another few seconds went by before I understood that the sexy, spandex-covered goddess was my therapist. Maybe my day was looking up, I thought as I cocked my head to the side and asked, “Are you Lee?”
She smiled brightly and said, “Since the day I was born.” There was a pause as she considered something, before adding, “Well, that’s not true. I think I started using the nickname around four.”
I couldn’t help but huff a laugh at the face she made. Her expression took her from sexy to adorable in seconds. I had a feeling if I didn’t pay attention every second I was around her, I might miss something. “So what did people call you before age four?”
Crinkling her nose, she looked at me as she stood to retrieve a clipboard hanging on the wall at the head of the bed. Playfully, she asked, “What? Don’t think I look like a Lee?”
“You could say that. I was expecting a dude,” I admitted. My distaste of that thought was evident in my tone.
“So you were expecting, but not hoping, right?” She was being playful again, obviously having picked up on my tone. Luckily, being raised around a crew of smartasses, I could easily detect a fellow smartass.
I also noticed that she seemed to be evading my question. “So, what did people call you before age four?”
“Cute, mischievous, adorable, a total pain in the butt … you name it, I’m sure I was called it.”
Damn, again. Now I was really curious. The fact that she wasn’t telling me made me want to know even more. She was intriguing, and I wanted to know if her name matched her. Lee was a nice name, but I had a feeling her real name was more feminine.
“Do you always avoid answering simple questions?” I asked.
Lee paused and smiled at me before cocking her head to the side. “It appears you’re not easily distracted, Jonathan.”
“Nope. I have younger siblings and an evil mastermind for an aunt. It takes a lot to distract me,” I said with confidence. There was no way I’d be leaving without knowing her name. As I waited, she sat back down on the stool and pulled a pen from the top of her hair and began writing on the clipboard. A second later, her long brown hair, marked with various lighter colors, tumbled down and spread across her shoulders. Her hands came up and rustled it a little to get it out of the twist it was still in from the bun. Staring as she played with her long hair, my dick sprang to life again. Damn!
I found myself once again hiding my embarrassment and wishing crutches where made of something other than aluminum. I was busy trying to be discreet about everything when Lee began asking questions about my knee.
“On a scale of one to ten, one being no pain and ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt, how would you rate your current pain?”
I knew instantly what she’d done. As far as distractions went, it was a good one. But I was a goal-oriented guy and was not about to be deterred. Giving her a smirk of my own, I said, “If I had to pick a number, I would have to go with one somewhere before four.”
I found it hard not to laugh out loud at his comeback. Here, I thought he was just a typical jock—all brawn, no brain. The hair trick usually knocked them on their asses. A diversion tactic I’ve had to perfect since working in an office that had a large flow of college athletes coming through its doors. I knew full well we wouldn’t be progressing with the examination of his knee until I conceded and told him what he wanted to know. Looking up from my notes with a grin, I said, “Leeann. My full first name is Leeann.”
A huge smile of satisfaction spread across his masculine face, and my girly parts sighed. They actually just sighed at the sight of this walking, talking, life-sized Ken doll’s smile. I’d always thought Ken was a hottie, and even though my girlfriends gave me crap over it, I stood my ground. But even they’d have to admit this life-sized version in front of me was crazy sexy. I was expecting Barbie to stroll through the door and wave her corvette keys at him. I ignored the bulge, which he was attempting to hide, partially tenting his soccer shorts, and wrestled my hair back into submission with a hair tie. Time to refocus.
It felt like his eyes were still locked on me, and I fought the urge to fidget on my tiny stool. When I looked back up at him, his smile was firmly in place. Raising my eyebrows in question, I silently asked why he was, in fact, still staring at me. Nothing. He said nothing. Just stood there with a cocky grin, gloating his victory. Typical jock.
“Alrighty then, moving on. Let’s get to work on that knee, shall we?” I said, in hopes of taking control of his exam. It was already bad enough that I somehow ended up with the super-hot, sigh-inducing athlete, but on top of all that, he was a soccer player. And as someone who’d perfected the art of admiring hot athletic guys, I knew for certain that soccer players had the best legs. Sexy muscles and tan lines that should take away from the sexiness, but they didn’t. Not in my book anyway. Soccer players had leg muscles that could make this girl forget every moral her mother taught her. And that was just with their legs. Then I took a m
oment to consider how hot his ass might be. Sigh.
A throat being cleared caught my attention, pulling me from my dazed state. Ignoring the wider grin he now wore, thanks to my obvious hormone spike, I got to work. For thirty minutes, I attempted to keep myself professional as I went through the motions of examining a patient, post-op surgical repair of the ACL. Piece of cake, right? I’ve done these exams numerous times over the past six months. So why was examining this knee so different? Not wanting to answer my own question, I charted my findings and recommended a treatment plan.
“So, I think it would be safe to assume, being the seasoned athlete you are, you know what our goals are here. Yes?” I confirmed with him even though I already knew the answer.
“I know what my goal is, Leeann. It’s my hope that we’re on the same page,” Jonathan said with a smirk. He emphasized my full name and the sound of it washed over me. I wasn’t ignorant to the fact he was doing it on purpose, whether to prove his point, or if he was flirting with me. Recalling the bulge in his shorts he had within moments of seeing me, I could safely guess it was both. Needless to say, I liked the way my name sounded when he said it.
As he reached for his discarded knee brace, I took it from him and went about modifying the settings on it to make sure his range of motion was set to the appropriate degree. Stupidly, I began placing it on his knee—touching more bare skin and firm muscles. It was natural to do this, since I normally did it for all my patients, but none had ever made me feel as self-conscious as I did with him.
Thankfully, I was able to get it on him without any inappropriate fondling of his glorious quadriceps, which, by the way, were taunting me. I nodded in satisfaction at my accomplishment.
“I’m certain we’re on the same page. Make sure you take whatever anti-inflammatories your ortho has prescribed. It’s important to know they aren’t just for pain, but to keep the cycle of inflammation under control. And after what we just did, you’ll be feeling it later,” I said with confidence, knowing the first week of PT could be rough. Fortunately, athletes usually welcomed the discomfort, since they were the most dedicated and driven patients. For them, soreness meant forward movement in their rehab programs.
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