by Sara Rider
She jumped up and chased after him, grabbing him by the shoulder and directing him around the corner to an empty gate. “What’s wrong,” she repeated, ice in her voice.
He scrunched the magazine in his right hand and scrubbed his jaw with the other. “Jesus, Jaime. Martin Daniels? What the hell kind of joke is this?”
She took a step back, stunned by the ice in his words. “I was thinking this was the opportunity of a lifetime. What does it matter who the heck is on the cover with me?” She kept her voice low, controlled. Even if he was acting like an ass, she didn’t want to draw any more attention to their way. It was bad enough that her teammates had witnessed her chase after him. She didn’t need prying ears catching him berate her for absolutely no valid reason.
He inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry, querida. I just . . .”
“You’re just what? Acting like a jealous jerk-hole?”
“Jesus, no. Look, it’s not about you.” In the distance, the airline attendant announced their flight was starting to board.
She scoffed and crossed her arms tightly, trying to keep her insides from crumbling. Where was this sudden coldness coming from? What happened to the man who had become her rock, her champion? “What are you trying to say? Do Hawaiian beaches trigger some traumatic memory?”
“No, I—”
“Do you have some weird allergy to blond second basemen that makes you go into anaphylactic shock?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
His mouth narrowed into a hard line. The impenetrable mask on his face had returned. “When you’re done looking at all the pretty pictures of yourself, try reading the damn story.” He thrust the magazine at her and walked back to the gate.
She stood in shocked silence for a moment, unsure whether to chase after him again or take his advice and read the article. The final boarding call for her flight chimed over the PA system, taking away each of those choices.
She joined the tail end of the lineup heading down the jet bridge and shuffled through the cramped air cabin to her seat near the back of the small plane. She paused briefly when she passed Alex, hoping for one of the small secret smiles they’d been surreptitiously exchanging over the last few weeks. Some kind of signal that whatever bug had crawled under his skin had finally burrowed its way out.
What she got was nothing.
He stared at the seat in front of him like he was trying telepathically to set it on fire, not even acknowledging her presence.
She gritted her teeth and slumped into 24B, holding the damn magazine so hard, her knuckles had turned white. Anger had always come quicker than sadness. It was an easier emotion to deal with—it propelled you forward, never making you look inward at the rot it left behind.
Jaime fastened her seat belt and flipped past the pages of photographs to the joint interview with her and Martin. She’d been too busy to do a pre-read before publication, but Jillian had cleared the article, even ensuring that she and Martin were credited as the authors. What could be so bad? She scanned the lines of dialogue. Sure, it could be read as a bit flirtatious, but mostly they talked about their love of sports.
Sharp pain stabbed behind her eyes, making her already bruised lids twitch. She rubbed her temples.
“Page seventy-eight,” Lainey whispered grimly from the seat next to her.
Jaime riffled through the pages until she reached the story.
THE DARK SIDE OF PROFESSIONAL SPORTS PHYSIOTHERAPISTS: AN ATHLETE’S BIGGEST ALLY OR WORST ENEMY?
What the heck? The first paragraph referenced Jaime and Martin, noting their shared struggles with mysterious injuries. Then it slammed home the connection Jaime never knew they had: Alex Martinez. The article detailed the strong bond between the two men while at the Oregonian college where Daniels was one of the biggest stars in the NCAA Division 1. As the season went on, the second baseman’s star rose on the field, but off it, he became increasingly reclusive, needing special exemptions due to failing classes and avoiding his teammates. The only person on the staff he interacted with was Alex. Quotes by some of the other players highlighted their respect for him but noted the strangeness of his secretive relationship with Daniels. Then, the day before the college championship game, Daniels announced a career-ending injury.
No one on the team in Northern Oregon had witnessed it happen. Alex was the only one to confirm it. Daniels all but disappeared from baseball after that, until four years later when he walked into the open tryouts and earned himself a spot in the MLB. It was the kind of heroic comeback story that made for blockbuster movies. But the reporter, Rebecca Smith, the same one who was supposed to do the cover feature, speculated there was a dark undercurrent to it all. She was careful not to make overt statements, only damning conjectures. Could Martinez have been plying Daniels with performance-enhancing drugs? The kind that masked the injury until it was too late? Smith peppered the article with facts and statistics about the kinds of drugs that physios and athletic trainers have been known to provide athletes with.
The real kicker was the article’s ending, talking about Jaime. Noting her reputation as a party girl, the article stated that the mysterious ailment keeping the top player out of the game had never been publicly discussed. The only thing the public had to go on was the tense relationship on the sidelines between Jaime and Alex.
Jaime slammed the magazine shut. “Mother-effing—”
Lainey silenced Jaime with a hand over her mouth. “He doesn’t need you to draw any more attention to it.”
“This is bullshit,” she whispered, tugging Lainey’s hand away. “No mention of the fact the Falcons have the lowest injury rate of the ASWL teams? Or all the years he spent with the Surge? The fact that every freaking athlete in the entire world he’s ever worked with loves him?”
“Maybe you need to be grateful the reporter didn’t mention that you love him.”
Jaime stared at her friend, mouth hanging wide open with shock.
“There’s nothing subtle about the way you two look at each other when you think no one else is watching.”
She threw her head back against the seat and blew a strand of hair out of her face. “This is bad.” Her heart ached for Alex. His job meant everything to him. Without his obsessive tenacity and intuition, she probably wouldn’t have even played in yesterday’s championship. And if she was being honest, her heart ached for herself, too. This was supposed to be her one chance to break into the mainstream, but everything she’d sacrificed was now tainted by the machinations of a jealous reporter.
“Yep,” Lainey added. The woman never did know how to sugarcoat. “This is definitely bad.”
25
ALEX WALKED INTO CHESTER’S office with more tension than a guitar string coiled in his shoulders. He wasn’t naive enough to think the man hadn’t seen the article. The question was whether Chester believed that the bullshit printed in that magazine outweighed the role he played in getting Jaime Chen back on the field and the Falcons the championship.
Chester gestured to the high-backed leather chair across from his desk, giving nothing away in his expression. Alex told himself the cool reception was nothing to be worried about, seeing as they didn’t have the most cordial relationship to begin with.
“I like to win, Martinez, and you’ve been a big part of why we did. That’s why I’m not accepting your resignation letter.”
He blinked, barely believing what he was hearing. “Thank you. I—”
“It’s why I’m firing you instead.”
“What?” He squeezed his fists so tightly, he could feel the joints crack. “Screw that. I already quit.”
“And I rejected that resignation before the whole truth about your history with Martin Daniels came out.” With aggravating precision, Carson Chester laid out the infamous Bodies of Sport issue and flipped to the damning article.
“It’s one st
ory full of lies,” he said between gritted teeth.
“No, it’s not.” Chester pulled out photocopies of three more news articles and splayed them out on his desk.
Alex cursed under his breath as every last shred of hope expelled from his body like air rushing out of a popped balloon. It’s not like from the moment that article came out he hadn’t been expecting Chester to stab him in the back. He just didn’t anticipate the man would have such a big arsenal to attack him with. Christ, a couple of the articles even had pictures of his face. This wasn’t just the end of his career with the Falcons. This was the end of his career as a sports physiotherapist anywhere.
“I’m doing you a favor by firing you,” Chester said smugly. “You’ll get a one-month severance pay this way as per the contract. No letter of recommendation, of course, but this is more than you’d get by quitting.”
Alex stood up without another word and stormed out of the office. When he was clear of the building and the rage coursing through his body settled enough for his hands to stop shaking, he called his brother. He’d been putting off making a decision about Ricky’s practice for long enough, and now fate had finally made the choice for him.
JAIME GAVE HIM THREE days. One to stew in his misery. One to come to his senses and realize that it was just a stupid article that meant nothing in the grand scheme of life. And one to figure out a damn good way to grovel for her forgiveness. When she didn’t hear from him by day four, there was only one thing left to do.
She walked up to Alex’s front door, pausing to gather a smidgen of extra courage before knocking. One way or another, she needed to know what was going on between them now that the season was over. This was supposed to be the point where they were finally free from the prying eyes and grueling schedules. Free to be together. If that wasn’t what he wanted, she’d rather be told to her face than strung along like a chump.
It was eerily quiet at this hour of the morning in his neighborhood. The songbirds’ trill was the only sound competing with her steely inward breaths. Before her knuckles connected with the heavy wood, the door swung open. Alex skidded to a halt, holding a gargantuan, pale blue teddy bear in his arms.
“Well,” she said after taking a moment to swallow her shock, “I guess we can add this to the list of things we probably need to talk about.”
“Oh, uh, this?” He regarded the stuffed animal like he had no idea how it ended up in his arms. The faintest tinge of red appeared on his cheeks. “It’s a present for my nephew’s first birthday.”
“Well, thank goodness. Here I thought you’d already found a replacement for me.”
He smiled, filling her with a fragment of hope that this conversation might not go as badly as she’d feared. “Nah. Too tall and not nearly loud enough. But maybe I can use it to drive in the carpool lane.”
“Crafty. But we still need to talk,” she added quietly.
“We can talk when I get back.” The tension between them ratcheted back up to a suffocating level. He brushed past her and headed for his truck, tossing the bear into the backseat.
“Or we can talk on the way there.” She followed him to his truck and opened the passenger door.
“What’re you doing?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me the teddy bear called shotgun already.”
“Jaime, the party is in Spokane. It’s a four-hour drive. I’m not coming back until tomorrow.”
She gave him her widest grin. “Great, that’ll give us enough time to talk about everything.”
He sighed as he climbed into the driver’s seat, but he didn’t tell her to get out. She quickly buckled her seat belt while he pulled out of the driveway. “Fine. But we’re not stopping for pee breaks, and we’re not talking about that damn Sports Fitness article.”
“Well, number one, it’s a good thing you have leather seats, then. And number two, yes we are.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know, I know, serious as a heart attack. But I also know you would never give anyone performance-enhancing drugs, just like I would never take them.”
Alex stared at the road ahead, stone-faced.
“So what really happened with Martin Daniels?”
He took a sharp left turn, sending Jaime careening in her seat.
“Fine. If you insist on not talking about this, then we can talk about why you’ve been giving me the silent treatment for the last three days.” She fixed her gaze on the white road lines zipping past her window. These last few weeks between them had felt so real, so incredible. She’d exposed parts of herself with him that she’d never shared with anyone before. He made her feel things she didn’t think possible. Deep inside, she couldn’t believe he was throwing it all away.
But she also couldn’t reconcile the truth her gut was screaming at her with his sudden, frosty distance.
“I just needed some time to think,” he said gruffly after a long silence.
“About the article you don’t want to talk about?”
He nodded.
“Then let’s talk about us. Is this it? Are we done?”
Without looking over, he reached for her hand resting on her thigh and squeezed. “I sure as hell hope not, querida.”
Relief flooded through her body, tingling all the way down to her toes. It might not be much, but it was enough to give her hope. She stared at his big, strong hand enveloping hers, examining every line in his knuckles, every tiny scar. Over the last few weeks, he’d become her rock, forcing her to dig deep and find strength when she was at her lowest. Forcing her to be honest with herself. And now she needed to figure out how to do the same for him. Help him deal with whatever it was about Martin and the article that was making him push her away.
She settled into her seat and relaxed over the next few hours as they traveled down I-90, hoping for a flash of genius to pop into her brain and solve all their problems. Luckily for her, Alex didn’t keep his promise to not make pit stops, but the silence between them only grew heavier as each city sign passed by.
A few hours into the trip, her cell buzzed with a voice message. She’d missed a call from her mom in one of the dead zones along the highway. Thin slivers of anxiety snaked through her veins, as they always did whenever she spoke with her parents, but she crossed her fingers that this time would be different. Somehow, in the chaos of the last few days, she had managed to remember to transfer the $800 to her folks for Chelsea’s donation. Maybe her mom had finally called to congratulate her on the Falcons’ win.
She sucked in a breath and played the message.
She should have known better.
Her mom was upset that they failed to reach their $15,000 goal in honor of the fifteen years since Chels died, so they were extending their haphazard deadline to meet the goal. Could she spare any more?
God, she hated that her family couldn’t give a crap about her. And she hated herself even more for automatically trying to mentally calculate how much of her championship bonus she could fork over without starving, just to make them happy.
As if sensing her unease, Alex slipped his hand behind her nape, dissipating some of her tension with strokes of his thumb.
Sadly, his need to keep them from veering into the ditch meant he removed his hand much too soon. Restlessness overtook her. She flipped on the radio and surfed through the stations until she found a station playing the perfect, upbeat sound track for the remainder of their road trip.
After a few songs, Alex leaned over and turned off the radio. “I’m ready to talk about something. Something really important. But I’m not sure how to say it.”
Her heart thrummed with anticipation and nerves. “Just spit it out.”
“You’re an amazing women,” he started to say with a grim expression.
Her throat went dry. Beads of sweat prickled her forehead. “But?”
“But”—a grin tu
gged at his lips—“you are a terrible singer.”
She threw her head back and howled.
“No, seriously, like ear-shatteringly bad. And yet you just keep screeching along to every song at the top of your lungs.”
She reached across the console and smacked him on the shoulder. She had to give him credit for lasting through at least five songs. “Like you could do any better.”
He spared her a quick look, eyebrows raised like he was considering the challenge. After a moment, he shrugged a shoulder and began to sing.
Holy shit.
His voice was deep and smooth and so incredibly sexy, she was instantly wet. The unfamiliar Spanish melody slipped inside her veins and took hold of her pulse, building up a crescendo of need within her.
By the time he pulled into a suburban driveway and killed the ignition, she was practically undulating in her seat. She unfastened her seat belt, grabbed the neck of his T-shirt, and pulled him toward her. Their lips met with a scorching kiss, making it clear that the raw chemistry between them had not suffered in the last few days apart.
She needed more. Needed to feel his hands and body everywhere, and the urge was just as strong in him. He dragged her across the console, fitting her sweet spot against his steel erection like pure magnetism had drawn them together, and caught her moan with his lips. The heat from her core burned into her limbs, propelling her frantic need to touch his chest, his arms, his face, like they could stitch up the chasm between them with their desperate kisses. She ground her hips against him as his lips moved to her neck.
“I missed you, Jaime,” he said between urgent kisses, voice soaked in desperation.
She sucked in a breath, not realizing how much she needed to hear those words until he said them.
“I missed you, too. Don’t push me away again.” Logic and reason abandoned her brain. Her thighs pumped furiously up and down, pulling her closer and closer to the edge, penetrating past the layers of denim between them.
His mouth found the skin at the V-neck of her shirt. “I won’t. But there’s something I need to tell you. I’m—”