Chapter 8
My leg is fucked.
I know this because I’ve been lying on my apartment floor for the past twenty minutes, unable to get up without my thigh cramping so badly I see stars.
I make a small move, but that only intensifies the pain.
“Ouch,” I mutter, rubbing my thigh in long strokes, hoping that it will help it stop cramping.
It doesn’t.
In fact, I'm almost certain it makes it worse.
Coach McKibbon told me to ease up after the overtime drill, but I didn’t listen. Instead, I pushed myself to the max and I’m paying for it now.
“Fuck,” I yell to no one but myself.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid move.
How the hell am I supposed to help the team against Rome U tomorrow if I can’t stop the sharp pain running down my thigh?
The excruciatingly sharp pain.
“Come on, Jay. Quit being a baby and move.” I blow out a few short breaths, psyching myself up. Then, when I try to bend my leg, I’m brought back to reality.
Pain. It’s all I feel.
Pain worse than before.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’ve fucked up. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Can't call Coach, or he'll bench me for the rest of the season. I need someone to help me onto my couch, otherwise I'm sleeping on the floor all night.
Cade. He's the only one I can trust to help me without outing me.
I try his number, but it rings out without an answer.
When I check the location app some of the team have installed, I realize why. He's at fucking Behind Closed Doors—the burlesque bar across town. No wonder he's not answering. He's too busy getting his dick wet.
It’s not like him pulling me onto the couch was going to help anyway. I need actual help. The medical kind. I know who I need to call, doing it might risk my life in other ways.
No. I can't call her. There's no way she'd respond, let alone help. I just need to face facts; I'm on my own.
“Come on, Cross. You can do this.” I take a few more deep breaths and try to stretch again.
Fuck no.
That did not help. In fact, I think I’m now stuck in this position. So I have two choices. I either lie on my back and accept this is my life now, or—I call her. She knows my thigh better than anyone.
I need her.
I want her.
More than anything.
I swear my leg relaxes at the mere thought of Ally touching my muscles, massaging my tight thigh in that perfect way she does until the blood starts flowing again.
Fuck it.
Leaning over, I grab my phone from the floor and scroll to Ally Hart’s contact.
When I click it open, her face fills the screen, her narrow eyes judging me even through pixelated picture form, and for a second, I feel the tiniest bit of guilt. She'll probably think I’m pranking her.
As my thumb hovers over the message button, I start to get second thoughts. Maybe waiting it out will be easier than dealing with her sarcastic barbs.
Ow. Ow. Ow.
Never mind. The pain is too much, and I genuinely can’t get up.
I click her contact, type a message and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Jay: How’s my favorite taper doing?
I start neutral, feeling out whether she’s even awake.
Ally: Who is this?
Even through my pain, I bark out a laugh.
Jay: Wow, glad to see my thighs are as memorable as Dr. King said they were. I believe he labelled them a 'medical miracle.'
Ally: Jay?
That makes me grin. Dr. King hasn't said a thing about my thighs, but I've seen the way Ally looks at them.
Her eyes soften, and the tiniest of smile quirks across her lips.
Then there's the touching over parts where it doesn’t hurt.
I thought it was part of the process at first, but after experiencing Mark's taping, I've realized I was wrong.
Ow. Ow. Ow.
The pain hits again, and I start to wonder if I can DoorDash enough acetaminophen to make the cramping stop.
No. I need Ally's help even if she doesn't want to give it.
Jay: Don’t kill me, Doc, but I screwed up. I think i messed up your replacement's job and now I’m cramping pretty bad.
Typing...
It stops.
Typing...
It stops again. I can practically feel the annoyance radiating through the phone.
Ally: What hurts? I swear if you tell me you can’t get your dick to uncramp, I’m going to kill you.
Jay: No. I promise It’s my thigh.
It's all fun and games with her until another shot of searing pain works its way up my thigh.
Seriously, what the fuck have I done?!
I was feeling better. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to be in the best shape for my game.
I stare at the screen, watching the message deliver. One minute passes. Then two.
Ally: It’s after eleven.
I grin despite the pain piercing through my thigh. She's thinking about it.
Jay: I know but I’m lying on my apartment floor unable to move. I need help.
Jay: Badly.
There's more typing, but then it just stops. She does this dance for a few minutes, right to the point that I’ve given up all hope. But then:
Ally: What kind of cramping? Scale of 1-10.
My dick twitches at her curiosity.
Why the fuck does her going clinical on me turn me on?
Sounds of the tape pulling, her scissors cutting, the little grumble of annoyance when she massages my thigh at just the right spot play through my mind.
That's why. It's because I start to remember it all. Everything that draws me to the formidable Ally Hart. The girl who locked herself away with A swimmer who would never be able to satisfy her.
Fuck.
The pain in my thigh is really dampening the mood.
Jay: Like a 7. Maybe 8. Can’t straighten my leg.
Jay: I wouldn’t text you if it wasn’t serious.
Another pause. Longer this time. I'm two seconds from calling her to beg when she sends through another message.
Ally: Ice it. Then Elevate. I’ll send you some stretches to try.
Jay: Already tried. Nothing’s working. I wouldn't text you if it wasn't serious.
Even as I send the text, I know she's thinking it's a lie. Obviously I would text her. Hell, I've thought about it so many times after my sessions with her, but I wanted to respect her and her decision to hate me, even if I believe it's a complete waste of our time.
Ally: Fine. Meet me at the rink in 10 minutes.
Jay: Ah, I wish I could. Unfortunately, I can’t make it to my kitchen let alone the rink. Can you come here?
The three dots stop. Start. Stop again.
Ally: To your apartment?
Ally: At 11pm?
Ally: You realize how that sounds, right?
I almost laugh, but the cramp chooses that moment to seize again and I bite back a curse.
Jay: I know how it sounds. I also know we have Rome U tomorrow and if I can’t play because I was too stubborn to ask for help, Coach McKibbon will actually kill me.
Jay: Please, Hart. I’m not fucking around. I’ll do whatever you ask. Even if it’s never talking to you again. I just really need your help.
Another long pause. I can picture her pacing, weighing whether this is genuine or just another one of my games.
Finally:
Ally: Send me your address.
Ally: And this better not be a booty call, Cross. I’ll know the second I walk in and make sure you can’t play for Rome U.
Jay: Scout’s honor.
Ally: I doubt you were ever a scout.
Jay: Come over and I'll prove you wrong.
I send her my address and drop the phone on my chest, exhaling hard. She’s coming. She actually cares enough to come.
Now I just have to survive the next twenty minutes without my leg falling off.
The knock on my door comes exactly twenty-three minutes later.
Through some miracle, and a lot of heavy breathing, I’ve managed to pull myself to the couch and prop my leg up on the coffee table with a pillow that’s doing absolutely nothing. Honestly, for all that effort, I feel like I was better off on the wooden floor.
“It’s unlocked,” I call out, because standing up to answer the door like a gentleman still feels impossible.
When my apartment door swings open and Ally Hart walks in, I gulp.
Gone are the Covey U branded polos with leggings. In their place is a low-cut, slightly see-through shirt with silky shorts and flip-flops.
Her hair is in a long, messy braid, stopping right at the crest of her tits, and she has no makeup on.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, taking in the hottest thing I've ever seen.
Is this what Ally Hart looks like going to bed?
She glares at me, taking me in with utter discontent. “Hard pass. I already know what you’re working with.”
Lie. I might have intimate knowledge of her, but she has no idea what I'm working with.
Still, I like her feistiness. More than the pain in my leg will allow me to think about in this moment.
“This better be real, Cross. I got out of bed even though I need to be with a practicum at 5 A.M. tomorrow.”
The tiniest hint of jealousy seeps through my veins. I knew she would have to take on other patients, but I don't know... I thought we had something special.
“I’m wearing a shirt. Isn’t that proof enough?” I shift a little, but that only makes me wince.
“Potentially,” she eases out, narrowing her eyes. After closing the door behind her, she slips out of her flip flops and makes her way to me.
Placing her bag on the coffee table, she kneels beside me, her hand touching my thigh. The second her hands touch my muscles, I swear the screaming pain stops, replaced by other intrusive thoughts.
Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about how good she looks like this. Stop believing that for one second her fingers will go under your shorts and help you in other ways.
She presses down on my thigh, and even when I take in a sharp breath, she acts completely unbothered. Who knows, maybe all her clients think about her like this.
All her clients—fuck. That makes me so mad.
“This place is a mess,” she says flatly, not looking up and sounding utterly bored. “Please don’t tell me this is how you live normally?”
A mess? It’s not that bad. There are only a few shirts lying around.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been pretty busy winning games to vacuum.”
“Why aren’t you living in the dorms? Wouldn't that be less upkeep than a place like this?”