Cross-Checked (Boston Rebels #3)

Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

McCabe

A s I expected, Abby is still fast asleep, but her pacifier is on the floor so I place it back in her crib, hoping that if she wakes up tonight, she’ll use it to self-soothe. Like some sort of a miracle, that worked last night—when I heard her fussing and grabbed the video monitor to take a look, she was chewing on her pacifier and then she popped it in her mouth, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

She’s sleeping through the night about fifty percent of the time now, but I’d love to get to that being the norm every night—I’m a much better dad when I’m not sleep deprived. I hate being away from her when I travel, but at least I get to catch up on sleep when I’m on the road. My teammates all think I’ve turned into an old man since Abby came into my life, but the ones with little kids understand.

It’s only been a minute when I get to my bedroom, and I’m surprised to find AJ standing there in the middle of the room, looking lost.

“I thought I told you to take that dress off.”

She puts one hand on her hip while her injured arm hangs limp at her side. “I’m not going to stand around in nothing but my underwear. Besides, I wasn’t sure how to close your shades.”

“Here.” I step over to the wall of glass doors that lead out to the same balcony that runs across my living room, and pull back the curtains to show her where the remote is mounted on the wall.

“Oh, fancy,” she says as the light-filtering shades descend. “I should get some like this. I don’t love having my curtains closed during the day because then it’s dark, but I also hate the thought of people in other buildings being able to see into my bedroom.”

“Same,” I tell her as the shades hit the lower lip of the sliding glass doors. “Now let’s see those bruises.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” she says as she turns her back to me. “I’m only letting you look because I don’t feel like fighting with you. Take a quick peek, and then I’m going to sleep.”

“It’s nine o’clock.”

“And I’m exhausted. I don’t even remember what time we got back from the hospital last night.”

“Like 2 a.m.,” I say as I hook my thumbs under the neckline of her dress, and watch the shiver run down her spine.

Sliding the shoulders of the dress down each of her arms, I let it stop at her waist. The right side of her back is covered in angry purple bruises. Her entire shoulder blade is a grayish purple color, and it extends over to her spine. There’s a fainter line of bruises, not quite as bad, leading from her shoulder blade down to her waist. I push the dress down, exposing the curve of her ass, and in the relative silence of the room, I don’t miss the way she sucks in a breath as my fingers trace the dark line that runs horizontally from her sacrum over to her right hip, directly below the strand of lace holding her thong in place.

In the pattern of bruises, I can see exactly how she landed—her hip and ass connecting with the back of one row of seats, and her shoulder blade and spine connecting with the next row down. It’s amazing she didn’t break her back, along with her wrist.

My hands rest lightly on each of her hips, but it’s like I’ve been immobilized. I stand there, forcing myself to breathe as I look at her battered body, while every cell inside me is threatening to explode—from both anger and gratitude. I’m angry at the fans who started this fight, yes, but I’m also angry at myself. Maybe I couldn’t have stopped this from happening, but I could have done more to prevent it—I could have just done what she’d asked, and spoken out against fighting happening in the stands.

We’re so lucky that she wasn’t hurt worse, and I’m immensely grateful that she was able to prevent Abby from injury. I can never repay her for the way she kept my daughter safe.

I’m such a jumbled mess of conflicting emotions right now.

“So?” she asks, breaking me out of my trance.

I rest my forehead on the crown of her head, and breathe in the sweet scent of her shampoo. “Fuck, Alessandra.” I breathe out her name reverently. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

My fingertips move to connect over her abdomen so my hands are practically circling her waist. All I can think about is that I want to kill whoever caused her this pain. But then my fingers meet stickiness.

“What’s this?” I ask, pulling my fingers free where they’re lightly stuck to the sticky spots on her skin.

She tilts her head down to look at her stomach, and that’s when her dress falls past her hips and pools at her bare feet. My god, she has a delicious ass—rounded and muscular, sitting atop absolutely ripped thighs. Her body is all hard lines and flat planes...and I’m left wondering how she’s so muscular. It’s like she’s curvy, but it’s all muscle.

There’s not an ounce of softness anywhere on her body, which is kind of perfect because there’s not an ounce of softness in her personality, either. Except when she’s with Abby, and then it’s like seeing a whole different side of her.

“It’s from those sensor things they stuck to me yesterday when they were running some tests,” she says, then looks over her shoulder and catches me staring at her ass.

“Eyes up here, buddy,” she says, her voice sarcastic. She doesn’t sound mad that she caught me checking her out.

“Sorry,” I say as I lift my chin to look her in the eye. “But I mean, you’re standing in front of me in a tiny thong, so you can’t blame a guy for looking.”

“I can, actually,” she says. “You said you wanted to see the bruises, not check me out.”

“Hey.” Reaching out, I cup the side of her face, pulling her toward me in a way that gives her no choice but to turn around. I keep my gaze locked on her face when I say, “I’m sorry.”

She rests her cheek in my hand, and I stand there wondering what it means that she hasn’t pulled away.

“You haven’t showered.” The words are out of my mouth the second they’re in my head. “No wonder you have sticky spots”—I look down at her abdomen, trying to ignore the curve of her breasts, covered by the thin fabric of her bra.—“all over you.”

“How would I shower?” she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I can’t even use one of my hands, and I’m not allowed to take this splint off.”

I try to picture how she’d squeeze the body wash onto a bath sponge, or shampoo or conditioner into her hand. It would be impossible to do that one-handed.

“C’mon,” I say, nodding my chin toward the ensuite bathroom.

Her eyebrows dip. “What?”

“I’ll help you.”

Her laughter is the awkward kind that bubbles up when you don’t want it to. “I’m not showering with you.”

“I’m not offering.” Not because I don’t want that—fuck, my body wants that so badly I’m about fully hard just thinking about it—but because I know she doesn’t want that. “But I’ll draw you a bubble bath, so you can rest your splinted arm on the rim of the tub. And once you’re settled, I’ll come in and wash your hair for you.”

“You...?” She shakes her head, and with her lips parted and her eyebrows still dipped in confusion, she looks like she can’t make sense of anything I’m saying.

“C’mon, Sunshine, think how good it’ll feel to be clean. When’s the last time you took a shower?”

“Yesterday morning.”

I guide her into the bathroom with my hand resting lightly on her lower back, taking care to avoid the bruised side. And as she stands on the tiled floor, she turns so her back is to the huge, framed mirror that runs above the vanity, and looks over her shoulder. “Yep,” she sighs. “It looks about how it feels.”

“I can’t believe you went to work today,” I say, turning on the tap and letting the water run into the tub. When I get it nice and warm, I flip the lever next to the spout to close the drain.

“I never even considered staying home,” she admits quietly, and I get the sense that this is an important realization for her.

“Why not?” I keep my eyes focused on the tub that’s slowly filling with water. I’m avoiding looking at her in that sexy thong and bra, trying to stop wondering why she’s wearing sexy lingerie to work, because I need this fucking hard-on to disappear before she notices it.

“I don’t know. Work is sort of...” There’s a long pause, and I don’t fill the silence. I want to know what she’s thinking, and I sense that she’s working it out in her own mind. Getting to hear her thought process feels kind of like an unexpected gift. “...what I do.”

I pick up the bubble bath sitting on the ledge above the big freestanding tub. “What do you do besides work?” I ask as I squeeze the liquid into the tub.

“Why do you have bubble bath?” she asks with a laugh, like the fact that I said I’d draw her a bubble bath didn’t actually register until she saw me pouring it in.

“Abby loves bubbles. I hope you won’t mind smelling like coconut?”

“Love coconut. I actually have a candle in my living room called Beach Day . It smells like coconut-scented sunscreen, and I burn it all summer long.”

There are so many questions surfacing...things I want to know about her everyday life. But I shouldn’t be trying to figure out what her life is like outside of work, and she was the first to remind me of that by the way she tried to change the conversation when I asked.

“You want to feel the water and make sure it’s the right temperature?”

“Sure,” she says, stepping toward the tub. I stand and move away, otherwise her tits would be right at eye level and there’s no way I should be looking at her like that. But I do glance over as she bends to test the water with her good hand, and that’s a mistake. Because Alessandra Jones bent over in that sexy thong is a sight that has me just about ready to come in my fucking pants like some sort of middle school boy.

“I’m going to give you some privacy so you can get in the tub when there’s as much water as you want,” I say quickly, turning away so that she won’t be able to see the enormous boner I’m sporting if she looks back at me. “Call me once you’re in.”

And then I rush out the door, and when it’s shut, I rest my hands on either side of the frame, taking deep breaths and reminding myself that no matter what I want to happen, she wants to keep things professional.

Trying to convince myself that I’m not just respecting her boundaries here, but that I actually don’t want anything to happen either, doesn’t pan out. You don’t even like her , I remind myself. But is that really true? The years I spent holding that grudge about the trade feel like wasted energy.

The unmistakable sound of sloshing water as her body sinks into the bath has me picturing the scene clearly in my head, which is doing nothing to help the situation in my pants. I try anything that might help...I think about my high school gym teacher who liked to bite his nails and spit them at us if he thought we weren’t doing sit-ups fast enough, I remember the time in elementary school when I didn’t notice the maggots in my box of raisins until I started popping them into my mouth, I think of all the gross shit I’ve seen in locker rooms over the years. And then, with those memories and mental images circulating in my brain, I take a lap around my bedroom, walking back and forth, again and again.

“Alright,” AJ calls from the bathroom. “I’m in.”

God, even the sound of her voice does it for me. How did I go so quickly from hating her for years, right back to this crush I once had?

But as I walk toward the bathroom, I realize that’s not what this is. This isn’t the pathetic crush of a guy in his early twenties, lusting after the powerful but married woman who he knows he can’t have. That crush was safe—or so I thought, until it ended my career in St. Louis.

But this...the way I can’t stop thinking about her? The way I moved her into my condo with a flimsy excuse the second I saw the opportunity? The way she is with Abby? All of it makes me want more , and that is the part that’s dangerous.

It could ruin her career, make her a laughingstock among her peers, and ensure that she doesn’t win an award she more than deserves.

And for me? She’s already made it clear she’s not trying to keep me in Boston next season. So getting involved with her? Or worse—letting myself fall for her? That would be the most wildly stupid thing I’ve ever done.

But do I let that stop me from walking into that bathroom? Sitting on the edge of the tub and noticing how she’s arranged all the bubbles in the middle to ensure she’s covered under the water? No, I sure don’t.

Do I let it stop me from dipping the bath sponge into the water, then adding some body wash to it? Nope.

And when she leans forward so I can wash her back for her, do I stop myself from slipping my hand along her neck and brushing her hair to one side before I move that bath sponge along her shoulders, careful not to put too much pressure on any of the bruised parts? Not a chance.

Because even though I know she’s right, that nothing should happen between us, I don’t think there’s anything I could do to stop this. There’s no way I’m not taking care of her while she’s hurt. And when she’s recovered...well, we’ll see.

“I think you’re going to need to dunk under the water to get your hair wet enough for me to wash it,” I tell her.

“Alright.” The word is spoken so softly. “Will you just hold my arm up here.” She nods her chin toward the opposite rim of the tub where her splinted arm rests. “I don’t want the splint to get wet.”

“Sure.” I lean over, cupping my hand where her elbow sits against the porcelain tub, and she sinks into the water. Trying to remain a gentleman, I keep my eyes focused on the frosted window that takes up the wall space above the tub.

She resurfaces a moment later, using her good hand to wipe the water from her eyes. When I lather up my hands with shampoo and sink my fingers into her hair, I try to focus on how I’m helping her rather than on how intimate this is. As I massage her scalp, she tilts her head back into my hands, letting out a breathy and contented sigh.

The way she’s both tentative about accepting help, but then laps it up when it’s given...it has me wondering so many things about her previous relationships.

After working the shampoo down to the ends of her hair, I gently tilt her head back so her hair’s in the water and, holding the weight of her head in one hand, I use my other to work the suds out of her hair, before sitting her back up.

“You’re remarkably good at this,” she says, still not looking at me. “Do this often?”

I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before. Never shared this type of intimacy with someone. Shower sex? Sure. But nothing like this.

“Only for Abby,” I tell her. “Though . . . her bathtime is . . .” I clear my throat. “. . . not this.”

Her shoulders shake with a silent laugh, and I reach across the tub to the ledge under the window and add a few pumps of conditioner to my hand.

“Why do you have shampoo and conditioner over here? Besides Abby’s, I mean.” She nods her chin to where the baby shampoo sits next to my bottles.

“Uhh.” Is this a trick question? “For when I take baths?”

“You take baths? And use conditioner?”

“Why do you sound shocked? I’m sure you can imagine how sore and stiff my muscles get after practices and games. Sometimes, a hot soak is as necessary as an ice bath. And yeah, of course I use conditioner.” My hair isn’t long, but it’s long enough that it gets tangled if I don’t condition it.

The “hmmmm” that rattles around in her throat gives me no indication of what she’s thinking, so I work the conditioner through her hair in silence, before tilting her head back again to work the lather out of her hair with the water.

“Do you want me to use the sprayer to get this out of your hair? Or...” I’m about to ask if she’d rather do it herself, when I realize how difficult that would be for her.

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll just sit up with my back to you so my hair’s all the way out of the water?”

“Sounds good.” Why does it sound like I have a frog in my throat?

I busy myself with turning on the water to the handheld sprayer, and making sure it’s a good temperature while she turns to sit facing the window. “I need to pull the plug and let the water drain a bit or we’ll overflow it with this new water.”

“Kay.” The answer is clipped, and she sounds . . . nervous?

I have her tilt her head back and use the sprayer to work any remaining conditioner out of her hair until it’s squeaky clean, and then I hold her hair up and rinse off her upper body. “How do you want to...rinse the rest of yourself off?”

There’s no way I can rinse her off without her standing up and being fully naked in front of me.

She clears her throat, but her voice is still thick when she says, “I think I can do it one-handed. And then get myself dried off.”

“Alright.” I lean down to put the sprayer in front of her where she can grab it with her left hand. “There are towels right on the shelf there.” I point toward the wall above the faucet. “Just call me if you need anything.”

And then I head out, shutting the door behind me, feeling like I’m barely breathing as I remind myself that there’s nothing physical going on here. I’m only helping her because she’s hurt. It’s nothing more than that, and she doesn’t want there to be.