The Risk

by Skye Jordan

  “Sounds like you’re crushing on the guy. In case you hadn’t noticed”—she gestured to the room where patients had slowly drifted out—“I have a job. This may not look exciting to you, but it…”

  It what, exactly? It barely paid her bills. It sure didn’t excite her. It didn’t even challenge or engage her.

  “I’m making a difference in these people’s lives,” she said, floundering for something meaningful, but the statement rang so hollow, she felt it echo inside her. She might be making a difference, but no bigger than any physical therapist right out of school. “I don’t need or want the aggravation your kind of clients bring. And I don’t want that lifestyle anymore either. I’m happy here.”

  Drake’s expression screamed bullshit. “You’re happy moving a few limbs around so your patients can get to the toilet in time?”

  “Watch it,” she warned. “We all get old, and that kind of karma is going to come back to bite you in the ass someday.”

  “Come on, Jules, I know you. I know you miss standing on the sidelines at the NBA finals, the Stanley Cup, the Olympics, cheering on your patients, watching them set new world records. You can’t tell me you don’t.”

  “What the hell difference does it make to you?”

  He met her gaze steadily. “I thought we were friends.”

  “So did I.” Then she added what had really been eating her all these months. “You should have had my back.”

  “I tried,” he implored, then visibly regrouped, sliding his gaze toward the window, straightening his posture.

  He’d once told her that the greatest advantage in negotiation was not caring so much he couldn’t walk away at any moment. But it didn’t look like he was living by that rule of thumb now.

  He slid his hands back into his pockets, and curves of tension bracketed his mouth. “I cut him—Phillips.”

  “I heard he dropped you.”

  “That’s what he’d like everyone to believe.” Drake’s gaze turned back to her, serious. “But I gave him a choice—publicly apologize or get off my roster.”

  A sliver of gratitude opened in her chest, but she was reluctant to let him off that easily. “Really.”

  “Really.” He shrugged. “That prick is a sociopath. What happened wasn’t right, and it gives the whole business a bad name, so I went to your boss. If Phillips is a fucktard, your former boss is the king of fucktards. The whole thing was one big goddamned waste of time.”

  She lifted her brows. “You went to my boss?”

  “How did you ever work for him?”

  Maybe there was some of the Drake she’d once believed human inside him after all. She let her stress ebb and her gaze go distant as her mind traveled back over the years. “My job was autonomous. Until Phillips got his ego bruised, I rarely dealt with my boss.”

  “Listen,” he said, voice quiet and sober. “This client only needs six weeks of serious, nonstop rehab to get ready for the Winter X Games in Aspen at the end of February. We’re talking about his entire career here. He needs the very best therapist, someone who knows the most advanced healing and strengthening techniques.” He paused, then added deliberately, “And there’s thirty grand in this for you.”

  Her head jerked toward him again, a scowl snapping her brows together. “What the…?”

  “The sponsor is fronting his rehab. He’s that valuable. And I told them you were that valuable as well.”

  “Why me? There are other therapists…” Her words trailed off as reality trickled in. “Oh, I get it. No one else wants to touch him. Should have known. Who is it?”

  Drake stalled by rubbing a hand over his jaw, then finally said, “Noah Hunt.”

  The name was familiar, but no associations popped to mind. Her synapses buzzed and fizzled then—bam, his identity hit her—the rugged, hot, arrogant, smartass playboy whose talent had rivaled Shaun White’s for years.

  Julia snorted. Actually snorted a very unladylike laugh. “That’s so not funny.”

  Drake’s serious gaze never flickered. “I’m so not kidding.”

  She lifted her arms. “Throwing one womanizer at me who killed my career wasn’t enough? You think I need another?” Her arms fell, her hands slapping her thighs. “What in the hell did I ever do to you to deserve this?”

  “Hunt is not Phillips. That I guarantee.”

  “Phillips might be a piece of shit personally, but professionally, there’s a reason he’s an NFL star—he thinks strategy and management, physiology and nutrition. Hunt… Jesus, it’s hard for me to even imagine Hunt thinks at all—at least not about anything more than getting smashed, grabbing ass, and streaking down the Alps kamikaze-style.”

  Drake rolled back on his heels with a heavy sigh. “Have you ever even met him?”

  “I don’t need to. He’s shown all I need to know on TV.” Julia’s mind pulled up random memories of Hunt from interviews, documentaries, and clips from the Games—his mess of too-long surfer-blonde hair that stuck up every direction when he pulled off his knit cap, his roguish lopsided grin, the sparkling blue eyes rimmed in gold lashes, a flirtatious, playful attitude with the media.

  “I do not need the aggravation of trying to rehab a damn player.” She pushed to her feet. “I need to get back to work.”

  “Really? You’re in a rush to get back to the queen of anal acoustics?”

  “Shut. Up. That’s my patient you’re talking about.” But her protectiveness faded as she admitted to herself that he was right. She wasn’t anxious to get back to any of her patients. Working here just didn’t fit her. Yet she had rent, bills, plans, dreams…

  “What if I could get them to ante up another ten grand?” Drake asked. “I’m stretching it, but I know I can convince them to go with it if you’re onboard. Come on, Jules, what are you gonna do, work here forever? This chance could give you a kick start on a new path. You’ve got an entrepreneur’s spirit. You have the knowledge, skill, and savvy to own a rehab center, not just work for one.”

  The man had tapped directly into her dream, the bastard. A dream that had dimmed more with each day that passed without any new, exciting job listings that suited her.

  Forty grand for six weeks? That was a little over what she’d made at her other job, and over twice what she made now. “Who’s the sponsor?”

  “Epic.”

  “Deep pockets.” Epic Snowboards was second only to Burton in the world of snowboards, and definitely the biggest name brand of all winter sports gear and apparel across the US and Europe. “But I’ve never worked with one of their athletes. Why would they be willing to stretch their budget for me?”

  “You’re not exactly a hard sell. All I had to do was toss out a few names of your previous clients, and they responded.”

  “You can’t give out that kind of information,” she scolded, a streak of unease sliding down her breastbone. “There are confidentiality agreements, HIPAA restrictions—”

  “I didn’t share anything that wasn’t already public information. Come on, what do you say?”

  She let her breath slip from her lungs, relieved. A lawsuit would tip her stress levels into the homicidal range. The idea started to creep past her resistance—and her better judgment. She rested her hip against the back of the sofa, thinking she should stick with her gut feeling on this and tell him no. But that kind of money would give her a huge leap toward buying the equipment she needed to set up her own physical therapy practice. “That’s a lot of money for six weeks. Just how many other therapists has he gone through since his injury?”

  Drake’s shoulders fell an inch. His mouth kicked sideways. “Three,” then quickly added, “but look at Bonner and Magnus and Tobiano—they couldn’t hold on to a therapist either, and you found a way to reach them. You brought them back to the top of their games. Hunt’s no worse.”

  “Not encouraging,” she said. “What else?”

  “It’s a live-in situation. You’d stay in a guesthouse on his property.”

  “And?”
>
  “And…he lives in Lake Tahoe. But,” he added quickly, “Epic understands that they’re compensating you for the risk of leaving your job and relocating for the short time frame.”

  “Uh-huh,” she murmured, watching him closely, letting the silence linger.

  “And…” he started again, giving in to her silent demand for the whole scoop, “he’s a lousy patient. In fact, he’s been rehabbing himself since the other therapists didn’t work out. He doesn’t think he needs help, and I’m not gonna lie, Jules, one of the reasons I need you is because he’s going to need a heavy hand to keep him in line.”

  She’d dealt with her share of difficult patients. In fact, all elite athletes, even the sweetest, most considerate, were difficult in some way. Julia just kept seeing dollar signs in her mind. Dollar signs that opened a light at the end of this dark tunnel she’d fallen into.

  “What’s the injury?” she asked.

  “Fractured talus. Lateral margin.”

  Julia winced. An ankle break was a snowboarder’s worst nightmare. A possible career ender. Or worse. “Surgery?”

  “Within a week of the injury. They had to wait until the swelling went down.”

  Empathy crept in. That had to have been a long, hard fall from his pedestal. She knew exactly how difficult it was to climb back up after an injury that severe, and the thought made her heart ache a little. “How long ago?”

  “End of September, so almost twelve weeks.”

  “If he’s trying to rehab himself, he’s still in the denial phase—a long way from being where he needs to be for me to work with him. You’re pulling me in awfully late in the game.”

  “He’s had complications.”

  She rolled her eyes just thinking about what an ass this guy had to be to chase off three other therapists. “Of his own making. And without knowing what kind of therapy he’s had so far, without seeing the injury, assessing him…” She blew out a breath, everything in her gut telling her to back away. “I don’t know…”

  Drake slipped his hand into his blazer pocket, retrieving a thumb drive he then offered Julia. “These are all his medical records for the injury, imaging, labs, doctor’s notes. To open the folder with his case file, you have to electronically sign a confidentiality agreement, a HIPAA form, a few other things.”

  The thought of taking that tiny thumb drive laid a huge burden of responsibility on her shoulders—one both exciting and stressful. She pushed Drake’s hand away. “I don’t think—”

  “Just consider it.” He reached out and squeezed her bicep. “It’s a win-win, Jules. Noah gets the help he needs; you get to do the work you love while making some extra cash. You need to get back in the game too. Hit up a few of your old contacts. Reassess your options. We both know that you working here is like putting Donald Trump behind a McDonald’s counter.”

  “Please tell me you use something more creative to pep-talk your clients.”

  “Just say the word, and I’ll let him know you’re coming. If you decide to take the job”—he held up his hand, index finger raised—“go in strong”—he added a second finger—“be prepared for resistance”—he put up a third finger—“and when he makes you crazy, take heart in the fact that you’ll be bettering the quality of a good man’s life, one only you can make.”

  He’d turned her own words back on her. “You ass.”

  Drake slipped Oakley’s over his eyes and flashed that million-dollar grin. “Talk soon.”

  Then he pushed through the front doors into the gray January day.

  A thud pulled Noah Hunt from an uneasy sleep. His eyelids felt heavy, his tongue thick, his body severely fatigued, like he’d punished the powder with streetstyle and big-air runs all day, every day for a week straight.

  He forced his eyes open, his lids scratchy, his vision blurred. Only when he fought to focus did he realize his vision was blocked by long blonde hair lying across his face. Trying to fill tight lungs, Noah drew a deep breath and sucked in the thick, spicy scent of perfume instead of clean air, making him cough. Movement atop him explained the compression across his chest.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his voice barely a rasp.

  He let his body sink back into the softness beneath him, struggling to remember where the hell he was, with whom, and why. The night before crowded his mind in broken, blurry pieces—a boisterous local bar. Hot chicks everywhere. Loud rock music.

  Reaching up, he pushed the woman’s hair from his face, turned his head, and focused on the eight-foot-wide screen in the theater of his home in Lake Tahoe.

  Home.

  Lake Tahoe.

  His mind drew up the memory of a bunch of his buddies warming up after a day riding powder, and…oh yeah—that was where the trouble began. Damn Mercer. He’d traded out Noah’s club soda and lime for a vodka tonic, at which point Noah had given himself permission to relax a little.

  “Bad fucking idea.”

  He pressed his hand to the woman’s shoulder to lift her, nudge her, wake her enough to move. No luck. She was out cold. And his body hurt everywhere. His ankle definitely took the lead, but his head, his arms, his ribs, his ass, his thighs—every damn inch of him ached like a sonofabitch. He worked his way out from under the woman, and his cock rubbed against her soft curves, shooting a familiar need through his groin.

  “Shit.” He forced himself the rest of the way and rolled off the couch, catching himself with one hand against the slate floor. But his arm gave under the pressure, and his shoulder slammed the stone. Noah groaned, rolled to his back to stare at the pine-lined cathedral ceiling, and thanked God for heated floors.

  He tried to straighten out the tangle in his head. But his pulse thrummed at the center of his brain, stabbing like an ice pick with each beat.

  “Fail,” he muttered, rubbing stinging eyes. “Serious fucking fail.”

  He didn’t remember flirting with a blonde like the one passed out on his couch. Didn’t remember how they’d gotten here. Hell, he didn’t even remember fucking her. Which was a wicked waste since she was the first woman he’d brought home in months. Figured he’d pick up a blonde. Figured he’d go back to his old dog ways. Figured those ways would hurt like a bitch.

  “Jus’ let me sleep a li’l longer, baby.” This soft slur came from his fling. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  He worked himself up on an elbow and looked at her, but her face was turned away, so he glanced down the length of her body. All the important areas were still covered in a black bra and panties. He glanced down at his own body, his boxer briefs still in place and sporting major morning wood.

  He dropped back to the floor with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and walked his mind back to the clearest moment in the night, then slowly picked forward. Splintered memories gave him enough to piece together the chick on his couch climbing on him like a monkey before passing out long before either of them had found satisfaction. They hadn’t even gotten naked, for God’s sake.

  “Worse than a fail…” He wasn’t sure if the situation was funny or pathetic. He only knew it was over. Thank God.

  A thump sounded distantly from the direction of the kitchen, then silence filled the house again. His mind darted back to the sound that had woken him, and a tingle of discomfort spread along his neck. He pushed up to his elbows again, eyes narrowed at the theater’s closed doors. Soft footsteps touched his ears. The slide of glass on glass whispered, followed by another soft thud.

  Bad morning for one of his buddies to make himself at home. But, hell, what did he know? He could have invited the entire U.S. Snowboarding Team over to his house last night and not remembered.

  He slowly worked himself to a sitting position, searching the murky depths of his brain for the day of the week: Saturday. Then glanced at the cable receiver for the time: 10:47 a.m. Whoever was messing around in his kitchen wasn’t his housekeeper, and Drake would have been yelling for Noah from the foyer.

  Thump, crinkle, was followed by a muttered curse
and comment he couldn’t make out but that sounded like a female voice. He frowned hard, making his forehead hurt, and he rubbed at the discomfort, wondering if he’d fallen even further into a sexual abyss than he’d realized and agreed to some kinky ménage last night.

  Didn’t really matter, considering nothing had happened. It was just all such an epic…fail.

  Noah pulled his good foot beneath him and used the sofa to drag himself to stand, but when he put weight on his bad leg, pain sliced through his ankle, blasted his foot, and speared his calf. Fiery, lung-seizing, stick-gnawing pain.

  “Fuck.” He doubled over and fell back against the arm of the sofa. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

  He gripped his knee with both hands, knowing he didn’t dare touch his lower leg, and rocked back and forth, eyes squeezed tight, teeth clenched. God dammit. That had come out of nowhere, the way it used to right after the accident and surgery.

  “Baby?” The woman lifted her head. “You okay?”

  The spearing pain ebbed into a deep, teeth-grinding throb, and Noah glanced over his shoulder, curious to see if he recognized her. Mascara had smudged into shadows beneath her eyes, and her foundation was mottled, leaving her face pale, her eyes flat. Her enhanced breasts bulged unnaturally beneath the thin lace.

  “I’ll be fine.” He wiggled his toes and massaged his calf. “Catch a shower if you want before you leave.”

  She sat up, swaying a little, and stroked his thigh. “But I thought we could spend the day in bed.”

  Her breasts all but spilled from the translucent bra, and she was stacked. The sight nudged blood into his cock again, but he wasn’t interested in any more than looking. “That’s not going to work for me.”

  He hobbled to the double doors, then followed the hallway of heated slate to the kitchen, where the mystery noises had originated. And, yep, there was definitely another female standing behind the open refrigerator door—the slim, pretty bare feet and fire-engine-red toenails confirmed it.

  But the ménage idea slid further out of the picture when he focused on the trash can sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.