Deking at Love (The Playmakers)

Chapter 1

Crutchy McCrutch

The doors whooshed open, revealing a hallway bathed in a harsh fluorescent glare. Sam Durbin, the elevator car’s solo occupant, followed the signs, crutching his way toward his destination in the bowels of the arena.

“For fuck’s sake, could they have put it any farther away from the elevator?” he grumbled to himself.

When he reached the door labeled “Physical Therapy,” he paused and stared at the two words.

A fresh surge of anger welled inside him.

If his eyes had been laser beams, they would have burned through the damn sign and the door it hung on.

The bitter taste of frustration filled his mouth, and he began a familiar, silent argument inside his head.

If I turn around right now, no one will know, and I won’t have to—

The door whipped open, and a pair of startled eyes met his. Recognition dawned, and they crinkled at the corners as a smile lifted his teammate’s face.

“Oh hey, if it isn’t Crutchy McCrutch,” Toby greeted.

“Guess you’re here to start your PT, huh?

” His gaze dipped to Sam’s ankle before raising back up again.

He shook his head. “Damn, that sucks. And only two weeks away from playoffs too.” The words sounded right, but their tone didn’t match.

If Sam had to pin an emotion to them, “glee” would have been his first pick.

“Thanks for rubbing it in. Not sure I would have remembered playoffs are right around the corner without your helpful reminder,” Sam groused.

What Toby hadn’t rubbed in was the fact that this year’s postseason would have been Sam’s first in the NHL.

He shook off the depressing thought that he might miss it entirely.

Worse, he was in the final year of a make-it-or-break-it contract. “What are you doing down here?”

Toby leaned in and lowered his voice. “Officially, to have the elbow looked at.” He bent his arm at the elbow. “Range of motion is right where it needs to be.”

“I didn’t know you were having problems.”

Toby winked. “I’m not, which leads to the unofficial and actual reason.” He threw a quick glance over his shoulder. “There’s this really hot therapist I’m trying to convince to go out with me.”

Sam frowned. “I thought dating someone in the organization was verboten. Were you not there the two hundred times they drilled that rule into our heads?”

“I was there, just like you. But PT isn’t exactly part of the organization. It’s more like a snap-on tool. You know, an extension. They take patients outside of the team, so they’re not exclusive to us.” Toby tapped a finger against his temple. “And it all depends on how you define ‘date.’”

Toby held the door, and Sam lumbered his way through.

Between the set of his shoulders and the spread of the crutches, it was an awkward, tight fit.

Not only had the idiots who’d stuck PT in the basement put it miles from the elevator bank, but they’d also gone with narrow doors.

Never mind that they weren’t an official department within the Blizzard organization’s structure.

Sam hated everything about this place—and this was the first time he’d ever been here.

He crutched in a circle until he faced Toby. “Yeah? And how do you define date?”

His teammate shrugged. “Actual dating is picking her up at her place, dinner, flowers. But if we just sort of accidentally run into each other on purpose and end up back at her place, that’s different.”

“You’re labeling it differently but winding up with the same result,” Sam chuffed.

“Hopefully.” Toby’s eyebrows waggled.

“Not what I meant, asshole.”

Toby ignored him. “Stay away from my girl, Durbin. Oh, and keep clear of the blond one. That chick is mean, and she will hurt you.”

“Who the fuck does that leave?”

“That leaves a couple of dudes, and they’re cool. Get one of them. You’re welcome.”

Did Sam have a pick of therapists? Neither the team doc who’d looked at him last night nor the trainers had clued him in.

A dark-haired woman with a downturned mouth and a severe bun looked up from her paperwork. “Mr. Durbin?” she called from behind a counter in a sterile, cramped lobby. Behind her hung a larger version of the door sign.

“Later, bro. Good luck.” Toby whacked Sam’s stomach, making him flinch.

Not because it hurt, but because he hadn’t anticipated it.

He wanted to return the tap—with the butt end of his crutch—but he still wasn’t used to the stupid sticks, and he didn’t want to end up on his ass.

Worse than humiliating himself, he could do more damage to his fucking ankle.

“Thanks,” Sam tossed to Toby’s back as his teammate trotted toward the elevator.

Sam made his way to the counter and leaned a hand on it, trying not to show how much of his weight was resting on his palm.

The woman, who looked to be about his aunt’s age, was dressed in khakis and a navy polo that seemed to cast shadows into the creases on her face, deepening them.

She regarded him like one might regard a buzzing insect.

“You’re here for a high ankle sprain, is that right?” Her thin lips pursed as though she’d sucked on a lemon.

“So I’m told.”

She narrowed her dark eyes. “High ankle sprain. Yes or no, Mr. Durbin?”

He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And you got this from a fall?”

Christ, she made it sound like he’d tripped over a curb or fallen off a step stool.

“I collided with another player in last night’s game, and my skate blade got wedged in the boards.

He landed on top of me and put more stress on the joint.

” Didn’t they already have the trainer’s report that spelled out the incident?

Without another word, she handed him a clipboard with a stack of forms. “Look these over and sign, please. Meanwhile, I’ll let your therapist know you’re here.”

He stared at the woman for a beat, trying to decide whether to ask if his therapist was “the blond one” but thought better of it. No need to put extra fuel on the woman’s hostility fire. When his gaze scoured her chest for a name tag, he was met by a death glare.

Not checking you out, lady.

“Uh, will it be the same therapist through my entire rehab?” he asked, sounding stupid even to his own ears.

The pleats between the woman’s brows deepened. “That’s generally how it works. Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a physical therapist, Mr. Durbin.”

“No, this is my first time.”

“Well, aren’t you the lucky one.”

He let out a mirthless chuckle. “Not really. There’s a chance I won’t be able to play in the postseason.” Though he was going to do his damnedest to get himself back out there. Now if only the team stayed in the hunt …

“We all have our crosses to bear.”

Seriously? After knocking around in the AHL, up and down, back and forth, Sam had finally landed his once-in-a-lifetime chance at the beginning of the season with the big club—the Colorado Blizzard.

This injury setback wasn’t simply a “cross to bear.” It could mean the difference between being a regular NHL player or languishing in the minors for the rest of his career.

Did this lady’s callousness reflect everyone’s attitude here, or did Attila the Bun have a corner on the market?

She lifted her pointy chin at the paperwork. “Any day now. You’ve already put us a few minutes behind.”

Christ, this fun and games just got better and better every fucking minute.

He riffled through the documents without really reading them, found the lines with the X beside them, and scrawled his name the same way he signed autographs—not that he got that much practice at signing fans’ memorabilia.

Not like the A-listers on their team—the guys whose numbers and names were on thousands of fans’ jerseys.

With a sigh, he tossed the pen down and shoved the clipboard at the woman.

“Follow me,” she ordered.

He crutched after her as she rounded the wall behind the counter. It opened onto an expansive space that held a row of tables, a tall rack of colorful therapy balls, and various stations with machines that resembled the ones in the team weight room.

A few of the tables were occupied, and guys dressed like Attila stood beside them, talking to their patients or guiding their limbs through some kind of motion.

The tables all had privacy curtains that were anchored back except one, and as Sam made his way past, he glimpsed a guy on his back, one knee bent, his eyes squeezed shut like he was in pain.

A woman with blue hair was barely visible over the guy’s shoulder. “Come on. You got this,” she encouraged.

Sam vaguely wondered if she was the girl Toby had his eye on right before it sank in that her hair was a vivid blue—like the cobalt color you’d find on a sports car.

Shit. He still had a chance of drawing the short straw labeled “the blond one.”

Oh yay! So much to look forward to.

Attila paused beside one of the beds and motioned for him to sit.

Using his crutches for leverage, he hoisted his ass onto the cool vinyl cushion and tried not to huff.

He should have been in better shape—hell, he was in fantastic shape—but hefting his weight on crutches across the physical therapy room had left him mildly winded, and for whatever reason, he didn’t want to give Attila the satisfaction of seeing him short of breath.

“Your therapist will be with you shortly.” She turned on her heel and sped across the room.

“Hey,” he called. “Does this person have a name?”

“All will be revealed shortly,” she threw over her shoulder. He could have sworn he detected amusement in her tone.

Perched on the mattress, he looked around the space.

Not big, but everything seemed clean and orderly.

Industrial carpet in shades of blue and tan covered the floor, and the walls were painted a light beige color.

They absorbed some of the white-blue harshness from the overhead lights.

He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his right leg.

Tried to rotate his ankle and nearly spewed out a curse.

“Not a good idea,” a female voice said.

Yeah, no shit, danced on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back when his gaze landed on the source.

A woman with blond hair pulled tight into a ponytail had just entered from a side door and angled straight for him. She stuttered to a stop. His heart did the same thing. Her mouth formed a perfect circle, and her bright blue eyes mimicked its shape.

He’d pulled the short straw and “the blond one” along with it … but this was so much worse than he could have imagined.

I. Am. So. Fucked.