by Lisa Rayne
Her husky voice drew him out of his distracted testosterone moment. “Yeah, you’ve got this all right, Derrick. You’re coddling him. Maybe you’re a little too sympathetic to handle this case.”
Shave had lived in the Greater Kansas City area for three years now, but still hadn’t gotten use to the way vowels rolled smooth and round off the Midwestern tongue. The lady’s Heartland dialect affected him. The deep alto of her odd vowel sounds skittered across his nerve endings. Despite his foul mood, the effect was the exact opposite of irritating, which irritated him. At this critical juncture in his recuperation, the lady represented a distraction—a distraction he definitely didn’t need.
The pages of his file whispered gently as Vanessa flipped them one by one with the long fingers of a perfectly manicured hand. She looked up from the file. “Mr. Stephens, how many hours a day have you been putting your full weight on the leg?”
He didn’t answer. He looked at Derrick. “What’s the deal? Is she handling my case or are you?”
Her eyes narrowed. He’d apparently insulted her by questioning Derrick instead of answering her question. He suspected if she could throw fireballs with those large, cat-like eyes of hers, he’d be a pile of smoldering ash about now. He didn’t care. His bad mood made him less than solicitous. Facing the end of his professional career tended to do that to a man. He didn’t feel like playing nicey-nice with a new physical therapist who likely had delusions of grandeur, no matter how great her butt looked under spandex. He wasn’t making progress and putting more weight on his leg wasn’t going to change that.
“Do you have a problem answering my question, Mr. Stephens?”
“No, Ms… . ?”
“Thompson.”
“No, Ms. Thompson, I don’t have a problem answering your question. I have a problem with wasting my time. The therapy isn’t working and putting more weight on my leg isn’t going to make any difference.”
“How do you know that if you don’t follow instructions, Mr. Stephens?”
Shave gripped the parallel bar beside him tightly with one hand and turned so he could face her squarely. His annoyance made him move quicker than he should have, and he had to lock his knee when he felt it start to buckle beneath him. It was the same snafu that had occurred earlier, the reason he’d ended up on his backside ten minutes ago.
Vanessa watched his movements closely. She squinted when he corrected himself.
Great. Just what he needed: to lose control and end up on the floor again, and this time, in front of the workout princess.
She put down his file and took a step towards him. “Mr. Stephens how about you show me the walking drills you’ve been working on with Derrick.”
“How about I not.”
To his surprise, her lips curved up. “That wasn’t a request.” She titled her head. “I can rephrase if you need me to.”
His eyebrows rose in challenge.
“Show me the walking exercises you’ve been working on.” Her hands went to her hips again, and she lifted an eyebrow of her own. “Now.”
He stared at her, taking her measure more closely. He’d been right about her height. She was tall for a woman. He stood six-foot-three, and she was at his chin without wearing heels. She stared back at him, holding her position without flinching. He had to work at hiding his amusement. So, Ms. Vanessa Thompson had grit. Fine. He’d do things her way for the moment.
Stepping between the parallel bars, he gripped each side with one hand. The task required him to use the bars only to steady his movement and to place as much weight as possible on his legs. He took two steps. Pain shot up his bad leg and over his kneecap when he put his weight on that side.
Derrick took a step towards him, but Vanessa stopped him. “Keep going, Mr. Stephens.”
Shave ground down on his molars. Her calling him Mr. Stephens ratcheted up his already prickly mood. While she’d probably initially used his surname out of respect, her current tone gave him the impression she found him somehow unworthy of that respect. The thought bothered him more than a little.
Trying to block Vanessa out of his mind, he focused on taking one step after another. He’d gone about ten additional steps when the knee gave out and he went down. He tried to hold on to both bars to prevent hard contact with the floor, but he wasn’t able to break his fall enough to avoid the intense pain that shot up his leg and through his groin.
He groaned and his hand shot to the tendon above his knee. The sharp movement unbalanced him and caused his other hand to slip off the opposite bar. He twisted to prevent himself from face-planting and landed with a thud on his back.
Thrice in one day, sent sprawling on his ass. This time, to make things extra special, he’d done it in front of this Amazon of a woman. He glanced up to see her staring down at him—arms still akimbo, ponytail draped in front of her shoulder, full breasts and curvy hips outlined appealingly in athletic wear. Correction, he’d done it in front of this sexy—albeit overbearing—Amazon of a woman. Humiliating.
He rolled to lever himself up, but the action caused pain to shoot through his kneecap again. He flopped down on the ground and went still.
*
Vanessa stood staring down at Shave Stephens. He’d closed his eyes. She could feel the frustration radiating from him and a part of her understood. The other part of her, the part tasked with making sure her team got him back on the gridiron, needed him to stop feeling sorry for himself.
Her year-end evaluation score would determine whether or not she remained on track for advancement within the practice. She wanted to eventually make Department Director. With the current Director up for retirement in two years, competition and lobbying for the position had begun in earnest. Her fiercest competition, and the two top contenders to succeed the Director, were both male. In the twenty-year history of the practice, a women had never held the position. Given the practice’s focus on professional sports, particularly professional football, current company gossips bet a woman never would. She intended to prove them wrong.
If her team failed to get Shave Stephens back in action within the standard timeframe for his documented injury, however, she’d be shredded in her evaluation. That alone would put her out of contention for the promotion. She couldn’t let that happen. “Get up, Mr. Stephens.”
“Stop calling me that,” he snapped.
Her eyes widened at his tone and the tingle his rich, southern accent sent down her spine. “It’s your name.”
“You’ve just watched me fall flat on my ass. I feel our relationship has progressed enough that you can call me Shave.” He opened his eyes. “Or Jonathan, if you prefer.”
His eyes were an intense blue, almost navy. They pierced her. His dislike of her shone clear beneath a slight haze of discomfort. She couldn’t do anything about the dislike. She wasn’t here to be his friend.
The thought came with a bit of regret. She admired Shave Stephens. At least, she had in the past. She’d been a fan since his college days at Texas Fullerton University. He was currently her favorite quarterback in the league. He played with more heart and more determination than any other player in the country. She understood this injury challenged him, but she hadn’t expected him to be one of those self-indulgent, everything-comes-easy-for-me whiney boys. It didn’t mesh with the gutsy, athlete personality she’d followed through the years.
Right now, she needed him to find his determination, and his never-say-die drive, and apply it to his rehabilitation. “Fine. Shave, please get up.”
Derrick stepped around her. “Vanessa, cut the guy some slack. The way that knee buckled, something else is going on.”
Vanessa put her arm straight out, parallel to the floor, across the front of Derrick’s chest to bar his progress. “I agree, but I think he can get up.” She looked back down at Shave. “What’s going to happen if this occurs when you’re at home? You just going to lie on the floor waiting for someone to stop by? The mailman perhaps? A girlfriend? Or are you going to hope you have your cell pho
ne on you so you can call Derrick to come over and pick you up off the carpet?”
Those blue eyes turned Artic. She shored herself up to show no outward sign of the shiver that ran through her at his cold glare.
Shave rolled onto his chest, the movement placing him directly under one of the bars. He did a pushup to raise himself, using only the foot of his good leg for leverage. Then, he balanced himself on one arm and reached for the bar over his head. His arm muscles flexed with the movement. Once he had a strong grip on the bar, he pulled himself up, pushing against the floor with his foot to get more height. It was an exceptional show of upper body strength. He stood, leaning heavily on the bar and keeping all his weight on his good leg.
He pulled a breath in and out. That’s all it took for him to regain even respiration. The effort hadn’t even taxed him.
Her eyes skimmed over the muscles of his arms and chest, readily discernible under his moisture-wicking Under Armour long-sleeve tee. He might have a bum leg, but there was nothing wrong with his core or upper body. Distracted by her appreciation of his build, she took a few too many seconds to acknowledge him.
“Okay, I’m up. What’s next on your torture agenda?”
His sarcastic quip brought her attention to his face. When her eyes met his, he purposefully allowed his gaze to drop and roam over her physique. He didn’t ogle. Simply took in her build as if taking inventory of her assets. She interpreted the action as his way of letting her know he’d caught her checking him out. Her eyes narrowed.
His lips slanted slightly sideways in an understated smirk. She’d take that as a sign he had some of his fight back. Fine by her. This Shave she could handle.
~ End Preview ~
Find out what’s next from
LISA RAYNE
visit
www.lisarayne.com
About The Author
LISA RAYNE is an award-winning author who loves sports, movies, music, and books. An avid reader, the only thing she likes more than curling up with a good book is writing one. She won a Top 10 Finalist berth in the prestigious, global Harlequin® “So You Think You Can Write” Contest with her first manuscript and is a 2016 Emma Award Finalist. As a former practicing attorney, naturally, she loves to write about lawyers, but the athlete in her ensures she also infuses her love of sports into her works.
Lisa earned a bachelor’s degree in Comparative Literature from Princeton and her law degree from Stanford. Her passion for the creative arts led her to practice intellectual property, entertainment, and media law for many years before she decided to start producing her own creative works instead of simply representing others who did.
She currently lives in the Midwest with her two daughters.