Love of the Game

by Lori Wilde

  “I didn’t mean it as flattery,” he said. “I call it like I see it. So tell me the truth, what do you think about my situation?”

  “You really want my honest opinion?”

  “Raw and undoctored.”

  “You don’t need the surgery.”

  “No?” He arched his eyebrows as if he’d expected her to tell him to go ahead with the procedure. “Why’s that?”

  “You’re not the only one who’s been watching,” she said.

  His mouth twitched into a smart, edgy smile. “You’ve been watching me too?”

  She flapped a hand at the elaborate facility they were in. “It’s a big wide open space with lots of mirrors.”

  “Voyeur.”

  The air crackled with sexual electricity. Kasha couldn’t believe that the others could stand so close to them and not flinch from the heat. It was all she could do not to fan herself. She battled against the steamy sensations that Axel’s smile triggered inside her, a fireworks show of sparks and flames.

  He moved then, rotated his injured shoulder, and tried to smooth away the grimace tugging his brows inward with a quick smile. It was unconvincing.

  Pain.

  He was hurting.

  But it was more than mere physical pain. Emotional pain was inset deep, tucked away from the casual observer. His pupils darkened as she stared into him. Sharpening her attraction.

  Kasha’s throat went dry. She should keep her mouth shut. It was the smart thing to do.

  “What did you see when you were watching me?” Axel prodded.

  “They push you too hard.” She waved a hand at the group. “It’s understandable because you’re a moneymaker. But more than that you push you too hard.”

  “Too hard?” he scoffed. “There’s no such thing.”

  “That take-no-prisoners attitude has worked to get where you are,” Kasha said. “But now it’s not working anymore.”

  His nod was almost imperceptible. He knew it intellectually, but his heart resisted. He possessed such singular focus that backing off and slowing down felt like failure.

  “You’re not giving yourself the time and space you need to heal,” she went on. “You’ve got this mistaken belief that if pushing hard is good, pushing harder is better. It’s not. That’s why you’re not improving.”

  “Ms. Carlyle,” Dr. Harrison barked. “You’ve overstepped your boundaries.”

  She knew it, and a sense of dread washed through her. She was a probationary employee. They could fire her without cause.

  And then what would she do about Emma? She was struggling to pay off school loans from getting her doctoral degree in physical therapy; without this job, she wouldn’t be able to afford both her debt and Emma.

  But she kept her voice even, reasonable. “He asked my opinion.”

  “And you should have kept it to yourself,” Dr. Harrison snapped. “Axel, don’t let this woman influence your decision. You are in control of your care.”

  She should let it go, humble herself, try to hang on to the job, but Kasha simply had to say one more thing. If she kept quiet, and Axel went through with the surgery and the results turned out badly, she would never forgive herself for not speaking up.

  “Try my way first,” she said. “Take some time off. Give your arm a rest. Try massage and gentle therapy. Try hatha yoga. You can always have the surgery later—”

  Truman Beck interrupted. “This innovative surgery is so ground-breaking, that if he has it now, there’s a chance he could even be back on the roster by the All-Star break. Granted, we’d move slowly and he wouldn’t see much action until we were certain his arm had fully healed, but it is a reasonable possibility. Data backs it up.

  “And if the surgery fails,” Kasha said, “not only is his career done for, but it could have long-lasting consequences for his overall health.”

  “We could have you scheduled for surgery in two days,” Dr. Harrison said.

  Kasha shifted her gaze to Truman Beck, who was shooting her the evil eye. Axel’s current therapist, Paul Hernandez, didn’t look happy either. The man had his hands on his hips and a dour expression on his face.

  Terrific, she was making enemies left and right.

  “Well, Ms. Carlyle?” Axel cocked his head, but did not drop his gaze.

  Her heart knocked heavily as if she’d been running full-out. She had the oddest urge to drop panting to the floor, sink her face into her hands, try to block the sensations surging through her body.

  She wondered if perhaps she was dreaming this. Axel’s stare, the way he made her feel, the intense, undeniable attraction, the muddle of her mind. She should tell him no. Firmly. Clearly. Save herself.

  Instead, she murmured, “I can’t make any promises except to give you my best.”

  “That’s all I ask. You’ve got the job. How, where, and when do we start?”

  “Axel,” Dr. Harrison said. “Ms. Carlyle is a probationary employee and she is still working on her certification in sports medicine. If you’re not going to go through with the surgery, at least use Paul.”

  Axel growled. “She’s the one who had the stones to speak up against this rush to surgery. She’s the one I want.”

  “This … this …” Dr. Harrison sputtered, “is highly unorthodox.”

  “What’s it going to hurt to give her a chance?” Axel said. “Unless there’s a good reason why not. You did say it was my decision.”

  Truman Beck glared at Kasha as if he blamed her.

  Axel got to his feet, towered over the general manager. “The surgery is no guarantee that will happen. Let’s give Kasha a chance.”

  “Is this what you want?” Beck asked Kasha.

  No. This was not what she wanted.

  Why had she opened her mouth? What was wrong with her? It was like an unsolvable math problem she’d been given seconds to work out in her head. “I will help Mr. Richmond to the best of my abilities. But we need a quiet place to work. Somewhere out of the city so he won’t be distracted from his recovery.”

  “You could stay at my place,” Rowdy offered. He and Breeanne still had a sprawling second home in the country on the banks of Stardust Lake that they rarely used. “I have a home gym, and Kasha lives right there in town. Easy. Convenient.”

  Everyone looked at Beck for approval.

  The skin on Beck’s jowls wobbled. “A week, Ms. Carlyle. I’ll give you a week. If we don’t see some improvement in Axel’s arm by then you’re out of a job. Understood?”

  Punished. She was being punished for speaking her mind.

  “Well?” Beck snorted.

  Kasha gulped, nodded, and prayed she was right about Axel’s condition and that she could indeed help him. “Yes, sir,” she said, and reached down deep inside for the bravery that had pulled her through a dicey early childhood. “But I have a contingency.”

  “You have a contingency?” Beck’s tone was beef-jerky dry.

  Great. She was going to blow this job before she ever got started. She pressed her feet hard into the floor, anchoring herself, but kept her knees loose. “I do.”

  Respect crossed Beck’s face. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

  “If I can improve his arm in a week, then you take me off probation and make me a regular employee without the three-month waiting period.”

  Simultaneously, Beck flicked both index fingers against his thumbs.

  Kasha held her breath. Had she gone too far?

  “Pretty sure of yourself.” Beck growled. “Making demands.”

  No, she wasn’t sure of herself at all, but she’d stepped up to the plate; she had to follow through or he would think her weak, and so would Axel. “If I’m going to risk my job going out on a limb, then I deserve to be rewarded if I’m proven right.”

  Beck stared at her long and hard and finally laughed. “All right,” he said. “You’ve got a deal.”

  Kasha starched her spine to keep from sagging in relief. Her gamble had paid off. In a week’s time, if she’d made
improvements in Axel’s arm, her insurance benefits would kick in and so would her pay raise and she could move forward with her plan to get custody of Emma.

  Beck swung his gaze to Axel. “And you. If she hasn’t helped your shoulder by this time next week, I’ll expect you to consent to surgery.”

  “If it’s not better, I will.” Axel nodded, but the look he shot Kasha said, Don’t let me down.

  CHAPTER 2

  What the hell had he done?

  When Truman Beck lobbed a pitch for surgery, Axel choppered it straight into the ground. Why? He shook his head, puzzling out his motives. Why had he picked rest over surgery?

  Rest when you die. That was his motto.

  And yet, here he was, going against management, throwing his lot in with a novice physical therapist, agreeing to take it easy.

  After parting remarks, the rest of the team dispersed, leaving him and Sphinx alone. He caught her staring at his bare chest.

  Feeling self-conscious about his tattoo—he didn’t want her asking questions—Axel reached for a T-shirt from the gym bag at his feet, but took his time wrestling into it, careful of his right shoulder, which throbbed painfully whenever he moved quickly.

  Bull by the horns.

  That was the only way to handle the situation. He’d gotten them both into this. Time to huddle and figure out how they could work together to heal his shoulder and get back out on that mound.

  Kasha stood like a serene mountain, calm in the face of a stormy sea, and he was reminded of a stylized print of Mount Fuji dwarfed by a tsunami, which hung in the hallway of his parents’ house. The print, The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Katsushika Houkusai, had the same effect on him as she did—powerful, magnetic, controlled.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid,” he joked, but it came out sounding flat and uninspired.

  She said nothing. Did not smile. Did not frown. Did not move toward him. Did not walk away. Neutral. She was absolutely neutral. Switzerland had nothing on this chick.

  He ran a hand through his hair to tame his nerves, and turned to face her. Why did she make him so nervous? He didn’t do nervous.

  She was tall, only a few inches shorter than his six-foot-two. Her skin was a creamy latte color, rich and toasted. Her thick straight hair—such a dark color of brown that it was almost black—was plaited in a single braid that hung to the middle of her back. High cheekbones, gentle chin, intense chocolate eyes.

  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he fumbled around for the right words. While he’d never been a glib playboy, he’d never had problems talking to women.

  Until now.

  He wished he had time to regroup. Fully think about his decision. He considered telling her he needed a shower before they got into it, but she looked as if she knew a stall tactic when she heard one.

  Her eyes settled on him, at once both infinitely gentle and determinedly tough. The sun came through the window, bathing her in a halo of yellow light.

  Looking at her, he thought about the time he’d been hiking outside Durango with Dylan before he’d gotten sick.

  It was November, after baseball season was over, but before the snows really set in. They had crested the ridge together and saw a startling mix of orange and purple and blue. They were so surprised by the sight they’d stood with their mouths hanging open, their booted feet stopping simultaneously in the crisp frost. In that moment—as in this—the view stirred something in him that he couldn’t fully explain. Stunned by the play of shadow and light, he desperately wanted to take a picture, capture her on his cell phone. Solidify the image so he could review it later and see if he could figure out why she was so extraordinary.

  If only she wasn’t so damn sexy. Even dressed in the unattractive uniform of chinos and polo shirt, she exuded ripe sensuality. Why couldn’t she have been middle-aged and plain? Or better yet, a guy.

  The sun shifted, a cloud moving over, and the moment broke. A ping of loss stabbed him, and for no good reason, he felt as if he’d missed out on something important.

  “Well,” he said and then repeated, “Well,” because he’d forgotten what he’d planned on saying. “Where do we go from here?”

  “You start resting.”

  “Yeah.” He pressed a palm to the back of his neck. “About that—”

  “Backtracking already?” She stepped to the side, as if standing directly in front of him was too intense.

  “I’m not a big fan of taking it easy.” He watched her from the corner of his eye as he picked up his foot and tied his shoelace, pretended he wasn’t watching her.

  “You’re conflicted,” she said. “It’s understandable. And it’s clear you’re very physical.” She raised one eyebrow, shot a glance at his biceps.

  “Straight up.”

  “Humble too.”

  “And lovable.” He grinned. “Don’t forget lovable.”

  Kasha snorted.

  “I’ve amused you?”

  “Greatly. Now back to rest and relaxation.”

  “Good old R&R.” He cocked his head, perplexed by the sensations surging through him—lust for sure—but there was something more. Something rich and mystic he could not remember experiencing before. “What does that look like exactly?”

  “You really don’t know?” she murmured in an I’m-not-believing-this-guy tone.

  “Are we talking about sleep in?” he blabbered to keep from analyzing his feelings.

  “That could be an option if you’re not getting enough sleep. But you don’t want to oversleep. That’s just an excuse to avoid your problems.”

  “Problems? I’ve only got one problem. My screwed-up shoulder.”

  “What about the issues that got you in this shape in the first place?”

  “Issues?” Axel scowled, rotated his arm. “I don’t have any issues besides the shoulder.”

  She smirked. “You wouldn’t be where you are if you weren’t an overachiever tackling the world as a contest to be won.”

  “Is that right?” He leaned in closer.

  “In my observation,” she went on a bit primly, “you’re eager, responsible, goal-oriented, persistent, organized, and enthusiastic.”

  “Not seeing the problem.”

  “You tell yourself that if you don’t push, push, push, you’re a loser. Did your parents have high expectations of you?”

  “Don’t all parents?”

  “You’re an only child?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted.

  “In the gifted and talented program at school?”

  “Yes,” he mumbled. Was he that easy to read?

  “Just because you’re not always on top doesn’t mean you’re a loser.”

  “Um … by definition, yes it does.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “What’s not?” He blinked, having lost the point.

  “That if you’re not always achieving something you’re a loser. It’s not fact. It’s only something you believe. It has no basis in reality.”

  He didn’t know how she knew so much about him. It was scary and unnerving. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing is wrong with that. But every positive trait has a shadow side.”

  “Meaning …”

  “The bright and shiny Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz got so focused on his job of cutting down trees that he rusted up in the rain.”

  “And I’m the Tin Man?”

  “Chop, chop, chop.”

  “Are you saying I don’t have a heart?”

  “I’m saying that too much reliance on any particular trait leads to imbalance. In your pursuit of being the best pitcher ever, your shoulder has rusted up. More wood chopping in the rain will not solve the problem.”

  “What about chopping wood in the sunshine?”

  “The rust has already set in. The only cure is to stop chopping, and oil up.”

  “Hmm,” he said, taking a step toward her. “Oil up. Now that has possibilities.”

  She didn’t mis
s a beat. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, stop it. We’re going to be working together, and I won’t tolerate flirting.”

  “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

  “The mood doesn’t need to be light. We were making a list of your strengths and weaknesses. Let’s stick to that.”

  “What about your strengths and weaknesses.” He took another step forward to see if he could unsettle her.

  She drew in a slow, calm breath, did not back up, did not show any reaction at all. Her dark eyes remained quiet and shuttered. “We’re not talking about me. You’re the patient.”

  “Ah, so you can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

  “You’re flirting with me as a distraction because you don’t want to take a hard look at yourself.”

  Was he?

  He raked a gaze over her body, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. C’mon, any straight single guy in his right mind would want her. “I’m flirting with you because you’re a hot, sexy woman.”

  “Do you feel compelled to flirt with every woman you’re attracted to?”

  “No.” He widened his grin. “But you’re special.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Why? Are you married? You’re not wearing a ring.”

  “I’m not married, but my marital status has nothing to do with it. I’m your therapist.”

  “Technically Paul is my therapist.”

  “Not for the next week.”

  “But after next week can we …”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if next week is successful, I’ll continue to be your therapist.”

  “What about after that?”

  “Mr. Richmond,” she said in a schoolteacher voice. “This is an inappropriate conversation.”

  “I’ve been a bad boy simply because I find you attractive?”

  “I’m not judging you,” she said. “I don’t label your behavior as good or bad. It’s either effective or ineffective. Flirting is ineffective for your treatment, and it makes me uncomfortable. Let’s stick to the topic. Your constant drive to succeed is causing problems, and I suspect not only at work, but in your personal life as well.”