The Hardest Hit

by Jennifer Fusco

  Trevor had surpassed all that. He’d hate to be the one to make a name for knocking the hell out of an Olympic favorite, but if that’s what it took to launch his professional boxing career into the stratosphere, he wouldn’t hesitate.

  His eyes followed Nash onscreen. His brain recorded every move, every punch. He sat through four rounds, watching Nash not only take abuse, but also deliver one hell of a beating. Then, at the start of the fifth round, the scorecard flashed across the screen.

  Trevor cocked his head to the side. Something didn’t add up. Sure, Nash gave a gold-medal performance, but even under the traditional scoring system, his score shouldn’t have been that high, should it? He didn’t remember Nash throwing so many head shots, the kinds that earned real points on the card. Didn’t he stick his punches close to the body?

  Trevor lifted his hand and rubbed his eyes. He stretched his mind back to round one. Damn. He couldn’t remember who’d won that round. Was it Nash or the guy from . . . Wait. He lifted his eyes to the screen. He didn’t remember what country Nash’s opponent was from, much less the guy’s name.

  Trevor shook his head. Didn’t he just watch this freaking fight? What was going on? He let out a sigh. Spending a whole day at the gym must’ve taken more out of him than he thought. Tiredness clouded his mind. Fogginess engulfed his brain. His lapse in memory was nothing a good eight-hour snooze couldn’t solve. He’d probably overdone it. Started doing too much too fast. That was all.

  No biggie.

  Trevor pointed the remote toward the television and darkened the screen. He’d rewatch the fight in the morning with fresh eyes and a pen and paper. He’d take notes. That’d help him remember things until he felt back to normal.

  His stomach growled. On the ride home from the hospital he remembered there was zero food, not even a frozen pizza, in his kitchen. Now, as he contemplated Chinese takeout or burgers, he searched around his apartment for his keys. He just had them. He’d used the key to let himself in. He looked in the kitchen, under a pile of unopened mail. Then, he strolled back to the bedroom. Wait. Why would he go there? He hadn’t been to his bedroom since he’d gotten home. Pounding throbbed through his skull. Then, as he walked back toward the sofa, he spied his keys on the table by the sofa. He left them in the same spot he always did.

  Trevor gave a shake of his head. Something wasn’t right. At times he felt like he was going crazy. He popped the top on a bottle of pain reliever and downed a few tablets. Some ibuprofen, dinner, and a good night’s sleep, that’s what he needed. The rest would take care of itself.

  Chapter Seven

  Seven long and very drawn-out days and nights ticked by until Trevor could see Dr. Fox again. He wanted to be released from her care. He wanted back in the ring. And, last but not least, he wanted to ask her out on a date. Pronto. He knew he couldn’t crawl back through the ropes and resume his training until she delivered the all-clear. So he sat just outside her office patiently waiting for the nurse to call his name. Nerves jumped in his belly. He was as excited as a kid waiting to sit on Santa’s lap. Only it wasn’t Christmas. And the present he hoped to receive was for Chelsea to accept his dinner invitation, and then maybe they’d see a movie.

  He heard the new Tom Cruise flick was good. The guy even did his own stunts.

  The first thing he planned to do after nailing down the date with Chelsea was drive to Stamina and ask some of the new guys if they wanted to spar. One of them, Domenic Raccio, had showed a lot of promise over the last week. He had raw talent similar to Trevor’s, and was always up to go a few rounds. God, Trevor couldn’t wait. His muscles twitched. He missed the feel of the gloves on his hands and working up a heavy sweat.

  After a torturous five-minute wait, a nurse appeared at the doorway and uttered the words he’d longed for a week to hear. The doctor will see you now.

  Trevor rose from his seat. He straightened his pants at the knees and walked through the threshold and down the hall. He passed one, two, three patient rooms and kept going. Then it all seemed to click. The nurse led him to Dr. Fox’s office. Made sense. He didn’t need another exam only to be told he was good to go.

  The nurse stopped at the doorway and ushered him inside. His shoes pressed down into the thick emerald-green carpet. Once inside, his gaze landed on the sexy doctor’s desk, littered with papers and a PC. The nurse told him to have a seat, but he declined, choosing instead to have a look around and walk off his pent-up energy.

  He’d paced around the office, admiring the pictures and diplomas that hung on the walls. Growing up, he learned to tell a lot about a person by what they chose to show off. Within seconds he determined what Dr. Fox valued. Her family and her career. That was obvious.

  He read her various degrees and certificates over her desk. Harvard Medical School. Of course she’d gone to Harvard. He knew she was a brain. He read one fancy paper after the other. She completed her residency at some prestigious hospital in New York, where she was awarded resident of the year. Beside those frames hung more accolades from Sunrise Medical Center, and photos of her with various family members at dressed-up functions.

  On the opposite wall a family photo was propped on a bookcase. He stood back and studied the image of her father, the surgeon, whom Trevor recognized from television commercials. Fox Eye Center was the biggest name in town for that kind of thing, and he knew the place because his foster mother had gone there to get her cataracts removed.

  Her mother looked like an older, skeletal version of Chelsea. Blonde and tall, the woman looked moderately happy and a bit too conservative. He knew that by how she was dressed. As stiff and starched as her shirt was, the woman probably hadn’t had a good time since the night Chelsea was conceived.

  Chelsea’s brother and sister looked normal, a little nerdy. But really, what family of doctors wouldn’t look a bit geeky, spending all that time with their noses stuck in books? Her brother was soft around the middle, and he’d clearly never seen the inside of a gym, and the sister, though not as beautiful as Chelsea, was a bit too plain for his taste.

  His gaze, however, landed on Chelsea. God, she was beautiful. Her hair fell over her shoulders in long blond spirals, and he imagined how soft her curls might feel brushing against his cheek. She wore a simple gray sweater, which hid her killer body, but the color captured her dark blue eyes. Her eyes mesmerized him. Besides her nice curvy breasts, her toned ass, and her sweet smile, her eyes were one of her best features.

  Staring at the photo he focused on her lips, remembering their quick kiss at the hospital. That was a stupid move. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, but if someone would’ve seen them she could’ve gotten in serious trouble. He let his wants get the best of him. There was something about her he couldn’t resist.

  The sound of someone clearing her throat drifted over his shoulder. Craning his neck he caught a glimpse of Chelsea standing in the doorway. He turned around. The memory of their short kiss resurfaced and his mouth salivated.

  She entered the room, and he froze.

  “Have a seat. It’s good to see you.” Chelsea gestured to one of the chairs across from her desk.

  He didn’t move at first. Instead he allowed his eyes to follow her deeper into the room and admire the graceful way she walked. As if she walked on air. Her tailored pants covered those killer legs he knew she had, and she’d left one of the buttons near her breasts undone. Damn. There were things he could do to that body. Dirty, dirty things. And a girl like her, all buttoned-up and professional, he’d bet that secretly she liked it dirty.

  Her voice broke into his fantasy. “How have you been feeling?”

  He wet his lips while she sat down at her desk. “Good,” he replied, and then out of courtesy, he took a seat in front of her. “Things are good. The headaches come and go, but all in all I’m ready to get back in the ring.”

  She nodded. Any minute now she was going to give him the
all-clear. He felt it.

  “And, the lapses in your memory, are those coming back?”

  He lifted a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “No, but I figure those memories aren’t worth having anyway, you know? I mean, I remember the important stuff, like kissing you at the hospital. I’m sorry about that, but I don’t regret it.”

  A pink hue flushed her cheeks. “Sometimes gratitude causes bursts of excitement. No harm done.”

  “I’d never cause you any harm. Besides, that was the best kiss I’ve had in a long time, and I think we could be really good together.” Okay, he probably should’ve waited until after she released him to start flirting, but something happened inside him whenever he was around her. He just couldn’t help himself.

  “Well, if there wasn’t that pesky rule against fraternizing with patients, I guess we could find out, but alas, I’m still your doctor.” She flashed a professional smile.

  “Not after today, you’re not,” he said flatly.

  “Oh?” Her face pulled down.

  “I mean, you’re releasing me today. We’re done. I’m ready to get back in the ring and take you out to dinner, maybe a movie if you want, so what do you say?”

  Her mouth dropped open. He’d shocked her. Wait. She shouldn’t be confused. He never hid his intentions. Or, hang on. She wasn’t playing the entitled card, was she? Could a brainy doctor not be seen with someone like him? Did she think he was just a meathead? All muscle, no smarts?

  He had plenty of education from the school of hard knocks. There wasn’t anything little Miss Harvard couldn’t teach him about life that he didn’t already know. And he knew he could teach her a few things once he got her naked.

  “Does Friday night work for you?” he pressed.

  She squinted. There was something he was missing. After a long pause he said, “What?”

  A burst of air left her lungs. “I reviewed your scans, and we need to discuss what I found.”

  A chuckle left his throat. “You didn’t know my brain was so big, did you? Well, it matches some of my other enhanced parts.”

  That made her smile. But just as he thought he’d cracked her professional veneer, it returned. “How many concussions have you had over the years?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe one my freshman year of high school. I’m not sure if it was a concussion or not. I know I got hit hard on the football field and got my bell rung by some cocky-ass senior.”

  “And after that injury did you have any symptoms like you are experiencing now?” A hint of concern lined Chelsea’s voice.

  He thought back. Hard. Dragging his memory back to the days after the tackle, which kept him sore for more than a week. “I threw up. I remember that. I didn’t go to school for a few days after, and because of that coach didn’t let me play that Friday. That’s all that stands out. Other than that it was a normal hit, guys used to hit like that all the time. They’d try to jack somebody up for fun.”

  Chelsea pursed her lips. He could tell by the look on her face something wasn’t adding up. “What about after high school? Or when you started boxing?”

  He shook his head. “At Stamina, we always wear headgear. That’s a must. But before I was signed there I boxed at a gym where it wasn’t required. Sometimes headgear is seen as being for pussies. Depends on the gym.”

  “Any injuries at the other gyms?”

  He crossed one leg over the other in a T and sat back in the chair. “If there was I didn’t know it.”

  The look on her face told him she wasn’t convinced, but it was true. Kids today were rushed to the doctor because of a hangnail or a bad case of the sniffles. Not him. Trevor had had to fend for himself and saw a doctor only if something was broken or bleeding.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he told Chelsea, leaning forward. “I’ll be fine. Now. About Friday night, do you want me to pick you up here or . . .”

  She lifted a hand stopping him cold. “I’m not releasing you.”

  He sat up in his seat.

  “Your scans showed no signs of improvement, and I’d like to send you for more tests.”

  His shoulders slumped.

  “I know it’s not what you were hoping to hear, but you need to submit to an MRI. We’ll need to schedule that as soon as possible.”

  Heaviness settled inside his chest.

  “What are you looking for?”

  She shook her head. “I’m unsure, but I know I can’t allow you to box until we get to the bottom of what’s going on.”

  His temper spiked. Heat rushed to the surface of his skin. “I can’t box? I have a fight booked. I’m on a card. I have to box.”

  Chelsea sat almost motionless as if she’d anticipated his reaction. Whatever was going on was bad, and somehow she knew he was the kind of guy who knew all about bad things. He’d weathered many storms. Over the years he’d taken more shit than he needed to and somehow he’d always made it to the other side. The corners of her mouth turned down, and the stern look in her navy blue eyes, the ones that captivated his heart, told him he might not be prepared for the blow she was about to land.

  He steeled his nerves and he locked his eyes with hers. “Out with it.”

  Chapter Eight

  Chelsea swallowed hard. She’d given patients bad news before, but this time she wasn’t so sure how to deliver it. She stood up and walked around the corner of her desk. Stopping at the chair beside his, she slid a seat closer to his and sat down.

  She gazed into his dark brown eyes. God, he was sexy. Why did he have to be her patient? Why couldn’t she have left him in Dr. Evans’s hands? Speaking of hands, her eyes angled down to his muscular forearms. Then she allowed her gaze to travel to his thick, masculine hands. She wanted them on her body, all over her. God she imagined the feel of them pressing into her skin.

  That was never going to happen, especially now. Because once she finished explaining his diagnosis, he’d probably want to use those sexy hands and strangle her with them.

  She’d waited too long to speak, and he said, “Well, what is it?”

  “The result of your initial CT scans shows us some damage we didn’t anticipate. You suffered severe blunt-force trauma. The concussion, we expected. To see some of the other damage done to your brain, we didn’t.”

  His gaze hardened. “Other damage?”

  She gave a slow nod. “That’s why I ordered scans before you left the hospital. I needed to see if some of the areas of concern were still apparent a few days following your accident.”

  “And?”

  She wanted to reach out and grasp his hand but she refrained. “They were, which is why I’m asking for an MRI.”

  His brow furrowed. “Well, how long do you think it will be until I can get back in the ring? Look. I’m fine with a few more tests, but Daniella’s got a card put together. I’m all lined up. Sitting around watching other guys train isn’t a fight plan.”

  Air left her lungs. Her gut twisted. There was more. So much more she couldn’t tell him yet about his condition, but somehow he needed to know his time outside the ring may be longer than both of them anticipated.

  “I can’t let you go back into the ring. Not yet,” she said. Apprehension filled her voice.

  “Why not?” His jawline hardened.

  “I’d like to wait and see what the MRI shows us. Maybe in a few weeks . . .”

  He shook his head as if he wanted her to stop talking right there. “No few weeks. Set me up for the test tomorrow and then let me get back into the ring.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Here she knew she had to be careful. Reveal too much and she’d devastate him on the spot. That wasn’t her style. Not when she was still uncertain of the extent of damage.

  She drew in a deep breath and continued. “Let me put it to you this way. Over the years I’ve examined a lot of brain injuri
es. You’re twenty-six years old. Your scans are showing the kind of damage we might find in a professional football player at the end of his career or a retired hockey player, years after they’ve hung up their skates. Your scans revealed extensive damage in the area of the brain responsible for short-term memory. The MRI will tell us how extensive that is, and, if given enough time, it will repair itself if it’s not too late.”

  The muscles in his face tightened and he shook his head. “Look. I appreciate it, Doc, but there isn’t anything my brain can do that my body can’t back up. Boxing is about throwing the right punches at the right time. It’s outperforming your competitor. I know things up here”—he pointed to his head—“might not be optimal, but getting back in the ring and training is going to help me more than anything else.”

  “I disagree.” She pursed her lips.

  “I’m tough. I’ve been tough all my life. I can take it.”

  She cocked her head to the side. Wanting to know more, she shot him a skeptical look.

  He took the bait. “I’m not like you, Doc. I didn’t grow up in a big house with a nice family, surrounded by books and high expectations.”

  “No?” She raised a brow.

  “Hell no.” His lips flattened into a straight line. “I grew up in the system. Foster care. The State of Nevada took me away from my mom when I was eight. She neglected me, used me as a punching bag so I learned to take a hit early on. That’s what makes me such a good boxer now. Over the years I enhanced my defensive skills.”

  “After your removal from your mother’s house did things get better?” God, she hoped life had improved for him.