One More Shot (Hometown Players #1)

by Victoria Denault

  “We were friends in high school,” I mutter. Carl nods and Tori smiles.

  “Mr. Garrison will be here in half an hour or so,” Carl tells us simply. “So be ready.”

  As Tori and I leave his office, it takes everything in me not to run all the way down the hall and out the front door, never to return. I can’t believe this is happening to me. For over six long years I have managed to avoid him, and now, just when I had started to think I was over him, I can’t keep him out of my life.

  “Jordan freaking Garrison!” Tori whispers excitedly as she drops down in her chair, but as she turns to me her excitement seems to falter. “Did you…was he your boyfriend?!”

  “I dated a guy named Chance in high school,” I find myself babbling. “He works for NBC now as a sports reporter. And Jordan dated a girl named Hannah Huet.”

  “Hannah. Right. I remember seeing pictures of him with her when he was a rookie in Quebec,” Tori mutters, and I feel my blood turn cold. Hannah went to Quebec to visit him? Why? Were they…

  “Really?” I question. “Are you sure?”

  She shrugs. “I was a huge fan when he started in the league. I saw this shot of him leaving a nightclub drunk after they finished first in the league and won the President’s Trophy. There was a curly-haired blond chick with him and a few other players. Caption said it was his hometown girlfriend.”

  I feel sick. Tori doesn’t seem to notice as she glances around the office at the all the NHL memorabilia on the walls. I remember the first time I walked in here. I almost died. Every square inch of wall space is covered with Winterhawks posters. Avery Westwood, Igor Asimov, Chris Dixon and there’s even a signed jersey from their goalie, Mike Choochinsky, under glass.

  I stare at it again now and give Tori a quizzical look. “Should we…declutter?”

  Tori laughs. “Nah. I think it’ll put him at ease if he knows I know about hockey and have a vested interest in getting him back on the ice.”

  “Okay, then.” I shrug, sinking into the chair behind my tiny desk. I drop my head onto it as Tori sits behind her desk and starts reading the details of Jordan’s file out loud.

  Tori’s phone buzzes twenty-five minutes later, making me jump. She squeals like a fan girl at a boy band concert, then takes a deep breath to calm herself before she answers. Kelli, our receptionist, tells her what we both already know—Mr. Garrison is here for his appointment.

  Tori says she will be right out and hangs up, and then she does something odd. She pulls her hair out of its ponytail and lets it flow loosely down around her shoulders. She looks good. Probably way better than I do right now.

  “Why don’t you go meet him and I’ll just wait here,” I suggest with a forced smile.

  “Sure.”

  I spend the next five minutes praying the ground will open up and swallow me. But it doesn’t. And then the office door is opening again and the giant lug I have known for over fourteen years walks in. He’s dressed like a bum—a pair of gray workout pants and a red V-neck T-shirt under a black Winterhawks hoodie—but somehow still looks like a Calvin Klein model. He stops and stares at me. I avert my eyes.

  “Mr. Garrison, you know Jessie Caplan, I’m told,” Tori announces sharply, pointing to me. I frown because her tone is cold and distant. The polar opposite of the fan girl who walked out of this room five minutes ago.

  “Jessie.” Jordan smiles and winks at me. Clearly, he thinks this is hilarious.

  I stand up and give him a terse nod as he moves past me, farther into the room. Tori offers him a seat and I move to stand next to her as she sits behind her desk, opening his file again. Jordan readjusts his Winterhawks cap and finally pulls his eyes off me. He notices the room’s décor. He smirks. “This is your office?”

  I shake my head. “It’s Tori’s office. I’m squatting in it during my internship.”

  His sky-blue eyes move up the wall behind Tori’s desk, taking in all the posters. His smirk now has a hue of arrogance, and holy hell, do I ever want to slap it off his face. “I can get you one of mine and sign it if you want.”

  Tori stares at him for a long uncomfortable moment. I try to figure out what she’s thinking. “That’s not necessary, thank you.”

  Jordan’s smile disappears instantly. His eyes find mine but I look away. The twinkle that’s been in those clear blue eyes since he walked in disappears.

  “I’ve been looking over your file and the treatment and setbacks you’ve had so far…” Tori slips right into business mode. “We’ll start today by running you through some basic exercises to test the strength and flexibility in the ankle so we know what to focus on going forward. Jessie, will take you down to the training room and get started.”

  Jordan nods wordlessly while I turn and glare at Tori. What does she mean, I should take him down there? By myself? Where the hell is she going to be?

  Tori stands and motions for Jordan to do the same. He walks toward the door and I whisper hotly, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m supposed to let you run solo on one case before your internship ends,” she explains in a low voice. “This is that case.”

  Jordan is standing in the hall now, arms crossed over his wide, muscular chest, his sky blue eyes staring at us impatiently. Tori gives me a little push at the small of my back. “Now go.”

  Now it was going to be just me and him for the next half hour as I lead him through a series of exercises. The training room is big and airy, so I can stand a nice comfortable distance from him as he does the exercises. And there are two other therapists in here with their patients, which makes it feel safer too.

  After a few mobility exercises, during which I realize he’s lost some range of motion, I pull over a chair and tell him to do heel raises on his bad foot, using the chair for balance. He rolls his eyes and in typical Jordan fashion starts to do the lifts without holding onto the chair. He’s showing off.

  I simply watch and take notes, keeping my best unimpressed look on my face. On only the fifth raise, he wobbles and curses under his breath as he grabs the chair. I make a note on his chart and keep my eyes on the paper because I hate watching him struggle. And I hate that I care, but I do. I know being sidelined from hockey is the worst possible thing that could happen to him. It’s not just a career for him, it’s something that gives him self-worth.

  After he’s struggled through a couple more, I toss him an elastic stretch band. He frowns. “You told me to do twenty. I’m only at twelve.”

  “You’re not ready for twenty.”

  “I used to do heel raises holding fifty-pound weights,” he says defensively. “I can do twenty empty-handed.”

  “You can try but it won’t impress me. I’m not one of your puck bunnies. All it will do is put a stress fracture in that barely healed ankle of yours,” I snap back.

  He looks so furious I’m surprised he’s not turning red. As he grabs the stretch band, I try not to smile at my victory. “Sit on the floor, wrap the band around your foot, and pull on the band to provide a little resistance when you point your foot.”

  He nods gruffly and does the exercise. It seems to bother him less than the balancing one. As he’s on his final rep, Tori shows up and glances over my notes. She seems impressed. “Good level of detail,” she praises. “Now what do you suggest we do next?”

  “Massage and some ice and heat therapy.”

  She nods and smiles at me, but she never once acknowledges Jordan, which is not only weird but unprofessional. “Jessie, will you handle that, please, while I go and write up some notes for Mr. Garrison?”

  I nod.

  “Please, Tammy, call me Jordan. Or Jordy,” Jordan offers, and as he glances at me, I shake my head and wince to let him know he just screwed up by calling her Tammy.

  Tori glares at him. “Tori. My name is Tori.”

  “Sorry. I’m not good with names. Sorry, Tori.”

  Tori takes my clipboard to add my notes to hers and heads in one direction while I lead Jordan in the other, d
own a long hallway lined with doors that lead to private treatment rooms.

  I enter one of the rooms and he follows, closing the door behind us. The room feels small and claustrophobic, but I can’t figure out if that’s because of his giant frame taking up so much space or the giant cloud of tension that hangs above us. I pat the treatment table and he obligingly sits on it, throwing his long, muscled bare leg on the table while the uninjured one dangles.

  I pull up my stool and sit by his calf. My breath catches as I flex my fingers and tentatively reach out. This is the first time I have touched Jordan in six years. I’m so angry because I can’t control the sparks I feel as my fingers slide over his skin. He shifts a little bit and I glance up at him, expecting to see a scowl of pain. But I find his blue eyes soft and his full bottom lip jutting out a little like it does when he’s sad or concerned.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask, easing off the pressure I had been using to dig into the flesh and muscle just above his ankle.

  He shakes his head, then swallows.

  “So your boss isn’t very nice,” he remarks gruffly.

  “She’s usually incredibly nice,” I say simply. “I honestly don’t know what that’s all about. She was excited to work on you before you showed up.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  My fingers slide to his ankle and I roll the joint in my hands. I forgot how big his damn feet are—how damn big he is period. His ankle is double the size of mine. As kids, when it seemed like everyone would grow a couple of inches over summer break, Jordy would grow a foot. At twelve, he was so gangly and awkward—unless he was on skates. On skates he was always graceful and in control. And then when he hit sixteen his body filled out—muscles everywhere. His body became sculpted and he wasn’t awkward on or off the ice. And that night—the night we had sex—I’d realized his body was built for more than just hockey. He was built for sex. He’d known exactly how to touch me, where to hold me and how to move his hips.

  “What?”

  “Excuse me?” I blink, taken aback.

  “You’re smiling. What are you thinking about?”

  I suddenly realize he’s right and stop doing it. I bow my head as I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks.

  “Nothing. Sorry.” I clear my throat and press a little deeper into the flesh around his red, angry scar. “Does that hurt?”

  “Nope,” he says quickly, but when I give him a stare he adds “Not a lot.”

  I stand up, grab a heating pad and turn it on, then wrap it around his lower leg and ankle. Now there’s nothing to do but wait—and stare at each other.

  That dimple in his chin is still there…and still sexy as all hell. I don’t know what’s going on with his hair. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it. Not surfer long like Luc’s, just…overgrown. Right now a big chunk is sticking out sideways near his ear and I want to smooth it down or tuck it under his cap, but obviously I resist. The uncomfortable silence grows until finally he breaks it.

  “You can ask not to work on me,” Jordan says as he stares at his leg.

  “I can’t do that because you requested me and they want to make the Winterhawks happy,” I tell him bluntly, and cross my arms. Frankly, I’m a little pissed that he’s suggesting it. “Why did you do that, Jordan? Why force me to work with you?”

  He finally pulls his eyes up to meet mine. “I wanted to see you, Jessie. I don’t like the way things went in Silver Bay.”

  “Which time? At the funeral or when you tried to two-time me with Hannah when we were kids?”

  He leans forward. “Are you kidding me right now? I never two-timed you!”

  “Then why was she in Quebec with you? Did she just show up there like she did at the draft?” I ask as I fight to keep my voice down. “Am I supposed to believe that again?”

  “She stayed in touch and came to a few games—as a friend—and then started dating one of my teammates,” Jordan snaps. “You know, after you ran away. Remember that, Jessie? The part where you ran away?”

  “So you’re blameless? Really?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying!”

  The timer on my watch beeps before I can answer him. I go and grab an ice pack out of the mini freezer and carry it back to him. I unwrap the heating pad from his leg and carefully replace it with the ice bag. He winces.

  “Sorry,” I say instantly, like I would with any other patient.

  “Don’t worry about it. We all make mistakes, but only one of us is willing to forgive them, I guess,” Jordan whispers so quietly that it takes me a minute to realize what he said.

  I look at him and he glances up from under the brim of his baseball cap. His blue eyes are dark, searching mine for something. Probably for a sign that I get what he’s saying; that I’m not just a hardass bitch who can’t give him credit for trying. I blink, feeling my face soften.

  And then the door opens and Tori marches in. I step back from the table—from Jordan—and fiddle with the timer on my watch. Tori curtly hands him a typed up list of stretches she wants him to do at home.

  “Thanks, Tori,” he says with a smile—the big kind that makes his dimple appear in his cheek—and for a second it looks like she might fall for his charm. Then my watch beeps, and the cold, hard look takes over her face again. I walk over to peel the ice bag off his leg.

  “Okay,” Tori says, and claps her hands dismissively. “We’re done for today.”

  I’m so relieved it’s over, I almost sigh out loud. I don’t know how I am going to spend this much time so close to him day after day. God help me.

  “Okay, so tonight I need you to do the stretches I have listed there,” Tori explains, pointing to the paper she just handed him. “And Jessie will be at the rink tomorrow morning to watch you skate.”

  “I will?!”

  Tori turns her attention to me. “You’re the lead, remember?”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding professionally.

  Jordan rolls down the leg of his training pants, gets off the table and shakes Tori’s hand, thanking her. Then he turns and extends his hand to me.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say simply as our hands join briefly, but there’s a flutter deep in my belly from the feel of his skin. It’s an old instinct or habit, my body reminding me of how he used to make me feel. I ignore it completely.

  “Sure. At the rink.” Jordan smirks, his blue eyes twinkling. “Just don’t head to the concession stand out of habit.”

  He leaves the room. Tori is staring at me in complete confusion.

  “What was that about a concession stand?” she asks.

  “Why did you dump him on me?” I ignore her question completely. “I thought you wanted to work on him. I thought it was a dream come true.”

  She shrugs and looks away as we head down the hall toward our office. “I confused him with a different player.”

  “You thought he was someone else?”

  “Yeah. I, uh, always confuse Jordan Garrison with Gregory Grant. I like Grant, not Garrison,” she mutters. I try not to judge her, but I would never confuse Jordan with the less skilled, much older, fourth-line forward. “Besides, I really do have to let you lead a case.”

  I just nod because I don’t know what else to do. I think there’s more to why Tori suddenly doesn’t want to work with Jordan, but if there is she doesn’t want to tell me. She changes the subject to our next patient, Mr. Howard, who is recovering from a broken hip, and how grumpy he tends to be.

  As she rants, I let out a small sigh in relief that I survived the first session with Jordan. And then I wonder how I’m going to do this all over again tomorrow.

  Chapter 12

  Jordan

  I feel like shit. And I’m in a foul mood.

  I hate being home when the team is on the road. It’s not something I’ve had to deal with before because I’ve never been injured as seriously as I am now. Until now I’ve only had a pull or a strain and never missed more than a game at a time so I always traveled with the team. Thi
s—being left behind—fills me with a horrible sense of isolation and loneliness. That coupled with the weird emotional tug-of-war between anger and attraction that seeing Jessie causes is making me nuts.

  Last night I sat at home and watched the game by myself. We’d won in OT. It was an exciting game, but that made it even more frustrating to not be a part of it. I did the stretches Tori and Jessie had assigned me, but that just made me think of Jessie. And that just made me more frustrated.

  After four beers and Thai takeout for dinner, I lay awake and went over and over every moment of my time with her that day. Everything had been tense and awkward, not to mention frustrating. I was regretting the whole thing—but then she had to go and touch me.

  She was very professional about it. My head knew that, but my heart…all my heart knew was that Jessie—my Jessie, the girl who had owned me for my entire life—was touching me again.

  So, I’d tossed and turned all night because every time I closed my eyes, I had dreams about her. Or maybe flashbacks was a better way to describe it. When I first dozed off around midnight, I dreamed about the first time I ever saw Jessie.

  My third-grade teacher, Mrs. Howlett, was at the front of the class waiting impatiently for us all to get seated. I pulled off my new winter coat—which was Devin’s old one—and hung it at the back of the class. As I sat in my seat I glanced toward the front of the class again and that’s when I saw her for the first time. Her hair was longer than any girl in class—all the way down her back, right to her bum. It was this color I’d never seen before: brown but with a glow to it. I remember thinking it would be like if you took strands of my brother Cole’s orange hair and mixed it in with strands of my friend Luc’s brown hair. She had a white satin headband in it. Mrs. Howlett clapped once and cleared her throat. “Everyone, we have a new student who just moved here from California. This is Jessica Caplan.”

  Without looking up from the linoleum floor, the little girl from California announced, “I prefer Jessie, please.”