Delay of Game (San Francisco Strikers Book 3)
Page 7
“Are you okay, Sophia?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” she said, refusing to run from the room. From the memories. Fuck. She didn’t want to deal with this. She headed back to the hostess stand and willed the clock to move faster. Only an hour left until she could finish up and head home. It couldn’t come soon enough.
And what was she going to do if Tony walked into the restaurant? She wanted to believe that she’d stand up to him. That one day she’d finally get every secret off her chest. The weight was brutal.
***
“Greg, I’ll see you next week. Work on the new exercises I gave you and try going a little faster on the treadmill if you go to the gym this weekend. You’re making great progress,” Sophia said the next morning as she ushered a former baseball player out of the exam room. He’d reinjured his knee last month, and Dr. Anders had assigned him to Sophia to oversee his treatment.
“Thanks. I’ll try to get to the gym at least once this weekend and bump up the intensity.”
“Not too much,” she said.
“Of course not. Wouldn’t want to make it worse,” he said with a smile before he turned down the hall toward the waiting room.
At least some patients didn’t argue with her.
Dammit.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. He would be here in forty minutes. She couldn’t wait to see if he’d done any more damage to their progress.
“Sophia, how’s it going?” Dr. Anders called out when Sophia walked past her office.
Sophia ducked in, ignoring her grumbling belly and wishing she had more than just a peanut butter sandwich in the break room. She’d forgotten her leftovers at the restaurant last night when she’d escaped as soon as she could. Claire had already given her grief about the shells left behind.
“Great. Greg should be done with treatment within the month and then it’ll just be maintenance. I have an appointment with Arlene later today.”
“Another hot yoga incident?” Dr. Anders asked, a small grin on her face.
“Sounds like it. She called in a panic this morning so I squeezed her in.”
“And Finn should be in shortly. How’s it going with him?”
“Not too bad. Had to move his appointments around this week and he had a small setback with some overexuberance on the upright bike, but I think we’ll have him ready to try some ice time in the next three weeks.” If he didn’t do something else to set him back, like climb a mountain to test his strength. That had been Monday’s remark when he complained about his injury.
“Perfect, and right on time. I’m very happy with how you are dealing with his stubbornness. And with your progress. Our relationship with the Strikers is very important, so thank you for being upbeat and professional when dealing with his frustration.”
“Of course, Dr. Anders,” she said, trying to push down the guilt of wanting to get into her patient’s pants.
“I’ll let you go so you can grab lunch before he gets here,” Dr. Anders said just as Sophia’s stomach vocalized its agreement. Dr. Anders laughed. “Sometimes we run around all day and forget to eat. Happens all the time.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know if anything comes up at Finn’s appointment,” she said before leaving Dr. Anders’ office.
***
Forty minutes later, she walked into the exam room to a waiting—and moody—Finn. What else was new? At least he wasn’t shifting his weight off of his injured foot. She noticed that he did that when he was in pain or had tweaked it.
“How are you feeling today, Finn?” she asked, pulling up his chart on her tablet and ignoring the way a strand of his longish blond hair fell in his face before he quickly tucked it back behind his ear. Her fingers shouldn’t itch to brush the strand back. To see just how soft it felt slipping through her fingers. She normally wasn’t a fan of long hair, but it worked on him. And then he’d get that impatient, serious look and resemble a Viking she wouldn’t mind giving herself over to.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
And now he was staring at her, his headed tilted. Oh hell, she hadn’t said that out loud, had she?
“You were saying?” She tried to play off her distraction.
His eyebrow quirked. “I didn’t say anything, yet.”
“Sorry. How are you feeling?” she repeated, hoping he wouldn’t question her, as she moved toward his outstretched legs.
“Fine. Irritated. Wishing I was skating again,” he muttered. “Yes. I know, we are working toward that. I’m just going stir crazy.”
She grabbed his ankle, testing his mobility and flexibility. He didn’t wince, but allowed her to manipulate his foot while he talked.
“I know, but you’re doing great. There’s no swelling, so I’m assuming you haven’t been pushing yourself on the bike again.”
“Nope. I’ve stayed at a sedate pace. Maybe on the rolling hills program.”
“You could probably boost the speed up gradually for ten minutes and see how you feel. And you’re walking Bash every day, so that helps with strengthening even if you aren’t sweating and pushing yourself like you would in team workouts. Every bit helps. Just don’t overdo it.”
“I know. And yes, he drags me to the park every day. At least we haven’t tangled up with anyone recently on our walks.”
Her head shot up, meeting his smile, and a part of her fluttered. Goddamn fluttered.
“That’s good to hear. What else are you doing to keep busy? Any hobbies?”
“That’s the problem. Most of my hobbies are physical and outdoors,” he said.
“Most of them? What do you like to do at home?” she asked, trying not to picture him at home, probably without a shirt.
Get a freaking grip. Patient. He’s a patient.
“I like to cook. Try out new recipes.”
“Really?” Not what she’d been expecting him to say.
“Yeah. I can only order takeout so much. They want us to eat clean, and finding takeout places that don’t saturate everything in salt and butter isn’t easy. Of course, I’m sure they pale in comparison to what you can make.”
She snorted.
“What?”
“You assume I can cook because of my family’s restaurant?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Much to my parents’ frustration, I’m a horrible cook. Me and my smoke detector are like this,” she said, crossing her fingers.
“A Lanzi that can’t cook? That’s really a thing?”
That grin. Why did he have to be so damn adorable? And how was she supposed to stop the butterflies in her belly that ramped up whenever he flashed her a smile? Where was the grump she was used to? He was easier to resist.
That was an outright lie.
Her snort was adorable. Hell, she was adorable, and now he could only think of taking her home so he could cook for her.
“Yes, it’s a thing,” she muttered, and something else was there. Disappointment? He wondered what that was about but stopped himself from asking. She was slowly slipping into a different category for him. Something more than just his physical therapist. He looked forward to seeing her three times a week, but he couldn’t get distracted now. He was making progress, and he needed to stay focused on that.
Not on how he couldn’t get the feel of her in his arms out of his head.
He resisted the urge to ask her what time she usually ran in the park. Not that he’d time Bash’s walks around that. Bash had a schedule to maintain.
“You can cook?” she asked, cutting through his thoughts that he shouldn’t have.
“Yeah. Some guys eat the same boring food every day during the season, and I wanted to mix it up, so I taught myself. My mom worked three jobs to help support my hockey dreams, so I cooked dinner every night from the age of twelve.” And why had he told her that?
“Wow. That’s amazing. Three jobs? I’m trying to manage two,” she said, with a sardonic laugh.
“Can’t break away from the family business?”
He barked out a laugh. He saw right through her, and he wanted to ask about her family, but he held back, trying to keep a semblance of distance between them if he could.
“You wouldn’t be laughing if you’d smelled burning broccoli,” she said. She gestured for him to move to the chair so he could continue his exercises.
Her fingers grazed his arm, and he refused to acknowledge the heat spiraling through him.
“I still can’t believe you can’t cook. And that your family hasn’t barred you from the restaurant.”
She scoffed. “I wish.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said, brushing him off. “What’s your best meal?” she asked as she guided him through another round of making circles with his ankle.
“Not sure I could pick a favorite. Last week I made pan roasted chicken with chard, squash, and apple, over spring mix, with a bacon vinaigrette.”
“Wow. You had me at bacon,” she said, her cheeks pink.
“I should make dinner for you sometime.” Where the hell had that come from? So much for distance.
“Uhh. I’m not sure,” she trailed off.
He shook his head before meeting her gaze. The pink had blossomed to red and that shouldn’t excite him. Nor should the desire to see her in his condo, sitting at the kitchen island and watching him cook.
“Right. Right. I bet all of your patients ask you over for dinner.”
“Umm.”
Wow. The hole was just getting bigger. Hell, he’d never classified himself as awkward, but he was currently auditioning for poster child.
“Sorry. I’m just making it worse,” he said, shaking his head. “I wasn’t really asking you out. You know, patient-doctor and all that.”
“Uhh, right.”
For fuck’s sake.
He didn’t miss the slight uptilt at the corner of her mouth. She was amused by his verbal nonsense. The guys would have a field day with his lack of game. Not that he was trying to have any game.
He focused on the task at hand, bending and rotating his foot in every angle she asked, and answering in single syllables so he didn’t emit verbal diarrhea again. She played along and they managed to get through the rest of his appointment. He ignored every bolt that shot through him at her touch, her hands soft but firm as she helped him with his rehab.
He imagined those strong fingers on his shoulders, reducing any tightness to mush, her nails scraping along his back as he pulled her in close. He’d greatly enjoy a repeat of his chest pressed to hers.
Shit. He shook his head again. She stared at him, head cocked to the side. Fuck. Had he said any of that out loud?
“Sorry, you were saying?”
She laughed, and he realized she’d said the exact same thing at the start of their appointment when he’d caught her unfocused. And now he wanted to know what she’d been thinking about.
“Just if you had any questions for me? We’re about done for the day. Also, I think it’s time to try the walking shoe and transition out of that boot,” she said, pointing to his foot.
“Finally,” he said, and he caught her smile. And if he leaned in just a little and tilted his head back, he’d be close enough to taste her lips.
He had to get out of there before he did something to make this appointment more embarrassing than it already had been. He stood up in a rush and lost his footing. She started to grab him, and he ended up pressing her against the exam table, her breath washing against his throat as she gasped.
He took in a deep breath, pushing the scent of soft floral, with a hint of spice, to the back of his brain as he gripped her arms.
“Shit. I’m sorry,” he said, still not releasing her.
“Don’t worry about it.” Her voice was whisper soft, and he ached to lean in, but he dropped his hold and stepped back.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her gaze darting from his face down to his foot.
“Yes, fine. Just stood up too fast,” he said, nonchalantly, hating that he was all over the place with her today. He blamed it on his sister—really, on his father. Hell. He needed to escape this room.
“Okay,” she said, with a slight cough. “You are going to slowly boost your speed, and the incline a few degrees this weekend, right?”
He nodded, afraid to actually speak at this point.
“Great. Just take it slow and easy, and I’ll see you next week. Have a good weekend, Finn,” she said.
He grunted his agreement and left the room at a sedate pace. He refused to let her see how much he wanted to bolt from the building.
When he finally slipped into his car, he slammed his head back against the seat and groaned. What the hell had happened in there? He was all over the place. Had been since his call with his sister last night. And he still didn’t have all the answers. After three—almost four—years of bliss, the man just reemerged. Finn knew why and he was waiting for a call from the man. They’d all been grateful when Jack had bailed the last time.
Well, maybe not his mother. And that was part of the problem. Jack Finnegan played by his own rules. Always had and always would. He was a selfish prick and Finn wished he would disappear—hell, he’d thought he’d taken care of that—but apparently not. Whatever Jack’s reasons were, Finn had decided years ago that he was never giving his father anything else. Been there, done that, didn’t get the postcard.
His father had always been a drunk—and sometimes mean—asshole. Finn had been nine the first time the man bailed on his family. Finn had grown up fast, but even at that age, he knew they were better off without his father. Throughout the years, Jack had returned when he needed something, especially when Finn had signed his first NHL contract. The man was always looking for a handout, not giving two shits about his family that he so easily left behind each time he walked out the door.
Finn hated that he was stuck in California. He wanted to be in Calgary, watching every move his old man made. He could go home, but he didn’t want to interrupt his recovery when he was finally making progress. And Grace had ordered him to stay put.
He felt selfish for listening to her. She’d promised to keep him updated, but he had his doubts. Especially since she’d kept the secret of their father’s return for months.
He itched to get on a plane. Or call his mother and ask why she couldn’t push that man from her life once and for all. How many times did Jack have to disappoint her before she moved on? It’d been fifteen years, and Finn was still waiting.
Chapter 7
“We are going out and you’re going to like it,” Claire said, rifling through Sophia’s closet Friday night.
“But Netflix…” Sophia started.
“If you say Netflix and chill, I love you, but not like that,” Claire said, poking her head out of the closet.
“I was going to say Netflix and yoga pants,” Sophia shot back, flopping down on the bed. “I’m exhausted.”
“No yoga pants tonight. We are going out. When was the last time you had Friday night off from Lanzi’s?”
“I don’t know, but why can’t we just get takeout and sleep?”
“Because we aren’t one hundred. Now get up, take a quick shower, and put this on,” Claire ordered, throwing a dress at Sophia.
“This isn’t mine,” she said, holding up a skintight dress that would make her ass look like it had its own zip code.
“It is. You bought it for that New Year’s party years ago. It’s super sexy. You need super sexy.”
“Tony bought me this dress,” she said, tossing it aside like it would bite her.
“Dammit. It’s cute,” Claire grumbled, grabbing the dress and throwing it into the hall. “Burn it or donate?”
The punch to her stomach had left her reeling. He’d never left a mark in a place where others could see it, and that had been the hardest he’d ever hit her—at that point. She’d doubled over, gasping for breath, and within minutes he was apologizing and tugging her close. She’d woken up the next morning, the bruise blossoming on her stomach, and he’d continued to apologize. She should’ve left at that very moment, refused to start another year with him, but she’d stayed.
“Wait here. I have something perfect for you,” Claire said, walking out of the room, but Sophia barely heard her as memories flooded back.
That should’ve been the last straw, but it wasn’t. That straw had come six months later.
She stared down at the pregnancy test, the word Pregnant stared back at her, and panic welled up in her chest. She couldn’t be. How? No. But she was on the Pill.
She shook her head, sinking to the bathroom floor. She should’ve stopped having sex with Tony months ago. Hell, she should’ve left months—years—ago. But it used to be good. They used to be good. She put her hand on her still flat belly, spotting the fading yellow mark inside her arm. The bruise from where he’d grabbed her the other day, almost gone. It was winter, so he had more options of where to grab or hit her since she could cover up in long sleeves and sweaters.
She stared at the test in her hand. She couldn’t stay. It wasn’t just her anymore.