by Penny Reid
I shook my head. “No. It’s not important.”
This statement also made me feel guilty. I was a walking, talking bag of guilt these days. Since kissing Bryan three weeks ago, I’d been avoiding him like the plague and passing him over to Connors for therapy. Miraculously, I didn’t feel guilty about passing him off because refusing to touch him was simple self-preservation.
But getting back to the wet blanket of guilt. There wasn’t much I could do about the guilt, so I embraced it. Guilt was my constant companion, my home girl.
Finally, the phone stopped vibrating and Alice’s questioning frown moved back to me.
“It’s fine.” I waved away her concern. “What is it you needed?”
She made a face, her eyes narrowing. “Your phone has been buzzing on and off for the last half hour, I can hear it from my desk. Are you sure you don’t need to get that?”
“I’m so sorry. Has it been disturbing you? It’s my mother.” And Josey.
Both my mother and Josey had been calling me non-stop, and I’d been sending them to voicemail all day. I’d had to cancel coffee with Josey last week, and she hadn’t been happy about it.
“Oh.” Alice stepped further into the office I was using. “Is your mother okay?”
“She’s fine. She just wants me to attend a party and I already told her I couldn’t. She’s been calling me non-stop to insist I reconsider.” I gathered the charts I’d scattered on the desk. “Is it the office? Do I need to leave? Do you need the space?”
“Oh, no.” She claimed the other desk chair and gave me a bright smile. “I just wanted to check in on you, see how you’re settling in.”
“Thank you.” My smile grew and gratefulness blossomed in my chest. “That is so kind of you. Thank you. I feel like things are going well.”
Her eyes flickered over the charts on the desk. “My, my. Do you color-code everything?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m addicted to organization.” This was an understatement. These days, the fastest way to get me hot was to take me to The Container Store and hand me a gift card. I loved storage, organization, highlighters, and colored folders.
I. Loved. Them. I always had. Even more so now.
“That’s grand. I know a lot of the boys have been complimentary, happy to have you on board. And Coach Brian says you’re a breath of fresh air, how organized you are.”
“That’s great to hear.” A surge of happiness warmed my heart. I hadn’t realized how much the praise meant to me until she’d said it. “I’ve been researching alternative therapy approaches for several of the players, Daly in particular.” I turned and grabbed his color-coded chart. “He presents with non-specific pain in the longissimus thoracis and iliocostalis lumborum regions, and I was thinking that a focus on lumbo-pelvic core stabilization might provide help. A paper was just recently published in The Lancet on the effectiveness of alternating methodologies.”
“Oh. Well, that’s nice. But there’s just one thing,” she said, holding up her index finger, her smile dropping.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I braced, staring at her, the earlier relief—which felt like wind in my sails—now dying a quick and painful death. “Whatever it is, I’m sure I can fix it.” I reached for Alice, grasping her arm, fear crawling up the back of my throat. “I’ll do better. I promise. Whatever—”
“Calm down, dear. I just need you to sign the new employee handbook. You returned all the pages except the signature page.” Alice shook her head quickly, patting my hand.
I released the tension holding me hostage and huffed a light laugh. “Oh. Okay, yes. I can do that. Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. I’m sorry if I worried you. I’ve been out of sorts today, someone stole my lunch.”
“Oh no!” I gave her a sympathetic frown. “They took it from your desk?”
“No. From the staff fridge on this level.” Alice scowled. It was an impressive scowl. She almost looked menacing. “Once I find out who did it, they’ll be sorry.”
I bit my bottom lip. I had a fairly good hunch that the culprit was Connors. I debated whether or not to tattle on my unfriendly co-worker, but before I could speak, a voice interrupted, “There you are.”
Sean stood in the doorway, dressed in one of his traveling suits; the sight made me grin.
“Here I am,” I responded simply, appreciating the cut of the suit. It was gorgeous.
Always dressed to the nines when he traveled, Sean was the king of metrosexuals and loved to shop more than most women. Plus, his taste was impeccable.
“Alice, give us a moment.” He strolled into the office, twitching his chin toward her chair. “I have business to discuss with the lady.”
“Uh, sure.” Alice appeared briefly flustered, then stood from the chair and sidestepped around my giant cousin. She gave me a kind smile as she reached the door. “Don’t forget about the signature page. And, please, let me know if you need anything. Anything at all, okay?”
Renewed gratitude chased away the earlier nerves. “Absolutely. And thank you so much, Alice.”
Her warm eyes held mine for a moment, then drifted to Sean. Alice’s demeanor cooled, and her lips pinched as she lifted a disapproving eyebrow. Then she turned and left.
“Hag,” Sean said, fiddling with his cufflink.
“She is not a hag, Sean. She is lovely and kind.”
He gave me a grumpy frown. “She’s a hag to me. Still hasn’t forgiven me for that nonsense with Fitzpatrick. Holds a grudge like a cat.”
“Cats hold grudges?”
“Yes. So do ravens. I can’t abide either. Dogs are far superior.”
I ignored this statement because I was busy and had less than fifteen minutes to finish up before my next appointment. “What nonsense with Fitzpatrick can’t she forgive you for?”
“When I had it off with his unsavory fiancée.”
“Brona O’Shea? That was years ago.”
“I know. Plus I did him a favor, didn’t I? Now he’s married to the delectable Annie. Ronan should be sending me flowers on their anniversary.”
I ignored this statement as well because I knew Sean would be happy to talk at length about how he’d saved Ronan Fitzpatrick from the evil Brona O’Shea by sleeping with her. Never mind the fact that Sean only did it to make Ronan lose his temper. And never mind the fact that Sean then tried something similar with Ronan’s sister, Lucy. Except it backfired, because he fell in love with Lucy, and was still smitten five years later.
“That Alice is like an elephant with her memory. A dowdy elephant in need of a makeover. Horizontal stripes should be outlawed.”
“I think she looks wonderful. Leave Alice alone,” I grunted, frowning at my cousin’s snobbery. “Now, what did you need?”
His eyes narrowed, bouncing from my face to his cufflinks, then to some imaginary piece of lint on his pants. “So . . .”
“So?”
“Here we are,” he said with a plaintive sigh.
“So, here we are.”
Sean bit the inside of his lip, his eyes probing. “And how are things?”
“Very well, thank you.” I turned my attention back to my notes because I knew where this conversation was heading.
Bryan.
He always wanted to talk about Bryan and how steady he’d become. He’s so stable, so sturdy. He’s such a durable chap, Sean would say, as though Bryan were a table.
I felt my cousin’s eyes on my profile. Not wishing to rehash the same conversation, I kept my gaze studiously forward.
“Eilish.”
“Sean.”
Now he grunted. Then he stood, crossed to the door, and shut it. Sean rounded on me, crossing his arms over his chest.
“It’s been weeks. You’ve been here for weeks.”
“And?”
“And what do you think?”
“I think things are going well.”
“Not about the bloody job. What do you think about Bryan?”
I twisted my l
ips to the side, hoping I was able to mask the sharp pang of some unknown emotion—regret? Sorrow? Embarrassment? Longing? More guilt?
What do I think about Bryan?
I didn’t know what to think about Bryan. Before I’d messed everything up by kissing him, we’d shared a few friendly moments. Over the last few weeks, while avoiding him, I’d watched him interact with his teammates; his care for them was clear and he was well liked, respected. I also felt like I knew him better now—much better— than I had five years ago when we slept together.
Mint tea, spectacles, and housecoats. I smirked at the memory of his grumpiness last month, how adorable he’d been as he complained about his neighbors.
I like him.
Yes. I liked him. And I was beyond besotted with his body.
And that tattoo . . .
Giving myself a quick shake, I reminded myself that I shouldn’t be thinking about Bryan’s sexy tattoo. Ever.
My voice was forced firmness as I said, “Sean, I don’t have time for this. It’s Friday, and I have several more appointments this afternoon. Please let me work.”
“Fine,” he huffed, his hands falling to his thighs with a petulant smack. “I’ll let you work. But you should know that people are starting to notice.”
A jolt of trepidation had me lifting my eyes to my cousin. “What do you mean? Who has noticed what?”
“Bryan, for one. He has noticed that he is the only one you pawn off to Connors.”
“Has he said anything?”
“He doesn’t have to. The other lads have brought it up a few times. Gavin asked me if Bryan had made a pass at you, if that’s why you won’t help him.”
Guilt—always guilt—flared in my throat, making my lungs prickle, and I swallowed against the thick band of remorse.
Bryan hadn’t made a pass at me. I’d made a pass at him.
“Shells,” I sighed, dropping my pen to the desk and holding my forehead in my fingers. “I didn’t mean to exclude him.”
“Then what did you mean by refusing to treat his injuries?” Sean demanded with a flair for the dramatic.
I slid my eyes to my cousin, glowering at him. “That’s not what I’m doing. I’ve never refused him. It’s just . . . really difficult.”
“What’s difficult?” Sean asked gently.
“Honestly? Touching him is difficult. So is talking to him, or being around him, or seeing him.” I re-buried my face in my hands and shook my head.
I hadn’t anticipated how strongly I’d be drawn to him. Clearly, I’d been naïve. I thought I could ignore him, or get used to him at least, but that wasn’t happening. Instead, he’d become an ever-growing source of longing, frustration, and—yes—guilt. Sooner or later I was going to burst with it.
When Sean spoke next, he was very close and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps if you told him the truth, things would be easier for you.”
A wary laugh tumbled from my lips. “I can’t. I can’t tell him.”
Just the thought made me want to buy two one-way tickets back to America.
“Why not? He’s very stable.”
“I’m not worried about his stability, Sean.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
What am I afraid of?
Patrick was my life. Despite how he came to be, his sweet smile, his silly sense of humor, the way he looked at me with adoration and love . . . it’s what I lived for. He was what I lived for. The mere thought of losing that daily dose of amazing terrified me. He’s my world.
“Eilish?”
“I’m afraid he’ll t-t-take Patrick away f-f-from me,” I blurted, my voice cracking on the last word, my damn stutter returning in full force. I told myself to be quiet, but some force compelled me to continue. “I have n-n-nothing, nothing b-b-but this job which means I’m b-b-barely making ends meet. I could never afford a custody b-b-battle. He would win, he would take Patrick and there’s n-n-nothing—”
“Shhh.” Sean gathered me into his arms, pressing my head against his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you.”
I forced myself to take several deep, calming breaths, pushing the crush of anxiety away, back, and down, where my worst fears lived and simmered in the back of my mind.
“Are you going to cry?”
I shook my head tightly. “I n-n-never cry. You know that.”
Sean gave me one final squeeze, then gripped my arms, holding me slightly away so I was forced to meet his gaze.
“You have me,” he said, his eyes as earnest as I’d ever seen them. “And I will always help you. When you tell Bryan, because you must tell him, if he goes off the deep end—which I don’t think he will, but if he does—I will help you. You have to know that.”
I frowned sadly. “I could never ask you to do that.”
“There will be no asking, and I will not take no for an answer.” He gave me a small shake to emphasize his words, his forehead wrinkling with frustration. “But, Eilish, you need to put aside your fears and think of your son. Bryan has changed. He’s not the degenerate carouser he once was. I wouldn’t be bringing this up so much if I thought there was a chance Bryan would try to take Patrick, or if I thought Bryan might relapse and be a bad influence. The man has changed. Truly.”
My face crumpled as I nodded and tucked my chin to my chest. “I believe you.”
“Good.” Sean gathered a large breath, then pulled me back into his embrace, adding, “Because Patrick deserves to know his father, and Bryan deserves to know his son.”
* * *
Step one, find Bryan Leech.
Step two, give Bryan Leech a massage.
Step three, improve Bryan Leech’s range of motion and performance outcomes.
Simple, right?
Then why was I still staring in the mirror, giving myself a pep talk?
“You can do this. It won’t be at all weird, so what if you kissed him and he brushed you off? You can be normal. You’ll just walk over to him and say, ‘Bryan, I understand your knee continues to give you concern. If you’d like me to do so, I’ll be happy to administer a deep-tissue massage and stone therapy.’ And then he’ll say . . . he’ll say . . .”
. . . crackers.
“It doesn’t matter what he says,” I assured myself, lifting my chin. “Don’t be so ridiculous. You’re a professional. Act like it.” Slamming the locker door, I turned on my heel and marched out of the women’s locker room to the stairs. I was flying on a cloud of determination.
I would touch Bryan Leech and remain unaffected. I would help him and I would keep my hormones under control.
I would.
I will.
I hadn’t decided what to do about Patrick yet, but excluding Bryan from treatment was completely out of the question. I was disappointed with myself, with my selfishness. I had a job to do and he didn’t deserve to be punished for my unrequited feelings.
That stopped now.
Jogging down the stairs and out the door leading to the player’s hallway, I rehearsed what I would say.
I would say, Hello, Bryan. I have a bit of time before the end of the day. Perhaps I could take a look at your knee.
Or, I might say, Bryan, let’s have a look at your knee. I hear it’s still giving you trouble.
Or maybe, Bryan, I understand you’re having a bit of trouble with your knee. If you have time before the end of the day—
“Eilish.”
I stopped short, almost colliding with William Moore. Automatically, his beefy hands reached to steady me.
“William. Sorry. Sorry about that.” I backed up a step and out of his grip, counting three other players behind him, and swallowed with some difficulty when I realized Bryan was one of them.
“You okay?” William asked, dipping his chin to catch my eye.
I nodded, looking beyond him, and pointed at Bryan. “You.”
Bryan stiffened, his eyes widening. “Me?”
“Yes. You. Meniscus tear.
Follow me,” I said, turned away from him, and promptly grimaced.
Real smooth, E.
Real professional.
Great job.
That wasn’t weird at all.
9
@ECassChoosesPikachu: On the agenda for tonight: a cold shower.
@SeanCassinova to @ECassChoosesPikachu: You really should get your pipes looked at. I know a sturdy plumber if you’re interested…
*Eilish*
Leading the way to the training room, I didn’t wait to see if he’d followed. I was too busy berating myself for speaking like Tarzan.
So much for rehearsing.
But Bryan did follow. I heard his footsteps echo mine, and it sent a shiver of anticipation racing down my spine, a shiver I promptly repressed.
Yes. I would soon be touching him. But I couldn’t think of Bryan as my Bryan, the object of my nighttime fantasies, the owner of the enchanted penis, and definitely someone I actually liked.
No.
That would never do.
Instead, I had to think of him as Bryan Leech, fullback, thirty, meniscus tear complicated by tendinosis, no scope, neutral gait.
Once inside the training room, I navigated to the space I’d been using for most of my therapy sessions and motioned to the table, taking a deep breath before instructing with forced calm, “Please lie down, face up.”
I sensed Bryan hesitate so I glanced at him, finding him watching me with a peculiar kind of intensity. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“Uh, yes. Sure.” I nodded, then quickly added, “Would you like to tell me about the original injury?”
“No. It’s not that.” Bryan’s gaze narrowed on me. He was frowning, but it was a thoughtful frown rather than an upset frown. “I think we should clear the air. I know you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Oh.” I swallowed with effort, wringing my hands. He’d caught me off guard. I wasn’t prepared to talk about this. “About that—”
“I’d like to apologize for—”
“Like I said,” I waved his apology away, “it wasn’t your fault. I was confused, I was mixed up, tired.”