Chapter 5
Priorities
The next evening, Sam’s phone buzzed with a number he didn’t recognize. Maybe it was the doc; maybe it was a trainer. Maybe it was Angie calling from a different number. He muted the TV and picked up.
“Hi, Sam,” came a breathy voice.
Definitely not the doc, the trainer, or Angie. Sam’s circuitry ran through the female voices he knew, but he came up empty.
“It’s Charlotte. Remember me? Emily’s friend?”
“Oh hey.” How had she gotten his personal phone number? He didn’t hand it out to random people—not even the attractive ones who were friends of people he knew.
“I hope you don’t mind my calling. I wrangled your number from Toby because I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
He was going to kill Toby. It didn’t matter that Charlotte and Emily, Toby’s sister, were best friends.
He would have been equally annoyed if Toby had given his number to Emily, and she was practically family.
Even though the connection lent Charlotte a modicum of familiarity, she could still be nuts.
She had piqued his interest when they’d been introduced, though.
Like most of the girls he met, this one was a knockout.
Long dark hair, big brown eyes, and legs for days.
A little overly made-up maybe, but the tiny clothes she’d been wearing had kept his focus away from her face and on her killer bod.
He should have been all over that, but he hadn’t been able to muster the interest. He certainly hadn’t needed the distraction.
Besides, he had already run into way too many women like her in his career, and while he’d taken advantage a time or two, it had also come back to bite him.
At the ripe age of twenty-six, he’d encountered enough Charlottes that they were blurring into the same girl, like chalk paintings dissolving on a sidewalk in a rainstorm.
And there was that whole other “thing.” When Sam had met her at a team dinner after one of their home games, she had struck him as someone who gunned for professional athletes. A skate chaser. She probably bought into an illusion that he had a bottomless bank account.
He made good money and had no complaints about his salary; compared to the average guy, his gross income probably looked impressive.
But that was on paper, before the number got whittled down by his agent, taxes everywhere he played, and the other obligations attached to it—like Dad and Joey.
Plus, he didn’t get paid like the big dogs to begin with, and he was on a two-way contract, which meant the club could send him down to the minors at any time, and his paycheck would shrink to a fraction of what it was—and he’d have to clear waivers.
Even at the NHL level, his net was a quarter of the gaudy number that showed on sites like PuckPedia, and unless he scored the bonus money for a playoff appearance, his finances would continue to keep him up at night.
Playing in the NHL sounded glamorous as hell to someone like Charlotte, but reality looked a little different.
“So,” she trilled, “how are you doing?”
“I’ve been better. Started PT a few days ago. I’m in a boot, but we’re working toward getting me out of that.”
“How often do you go in?”
He swiped an icy bottle of water from the cooler beside his couch. He had all the comforts now … except a working ankle. “Once a day.”
“How long do they think it’ll take before you’re back to where you were?”
“No way to tell yet. The swelling still needs to go down before they can get a better idea.”
Angie’s voice sounded in his head. “Could be as little as four weeks or as long as eight.” He’d wanted to throw that stupid little stress ball at her today when she’d said that.
It was the same crap she’d been saying for the last three days.
He was pretty damn sure she wasn’t giving him the whole story, that she was keeping him in suspense to get him back for past sins.
Trouble was, the trainers parroted whatever Angie put in her reports, so they couldn’t give any better idea on the timeline either.
“Let’s wait and see how it goes,” one of them had said.
He was afloat in a vague limbo.
Charlotte’s voice snapped him back to the present. He had no idea what she’d been saying, but he itched to get off the call. “Hey, look, I appreciate the call, but I gotta go. It’s time for me to switch out my ice pack.”
“I could come over and help you with that,” she purred.
He let out an incredulous laugh.
“I’m serious,” she protested.
“Thanks, but I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.
I’m on meds, I haven’t had a shower in two days, and I’m supposed to rest.” Even though ibuprofen was over-the-counter, it could be classified as a med, right?
As for the shower, that was an out-and-out lie.
He made sure he showered every day before showing up for PT.
His feet were gross enough when they were clean, and he didn’t want Angie exposed to them when they smelled like unwashed hockey gear—not because he cared what the hell Angie thought, but it was a common courtesy.
He’d have done the same for the trainers … maybe.
But if he caved to Charlotte, he was pretty sure resting would be off the menu, and he was firmly on the RICE program. It was the quickest way he knew to get back to the game. That was all that mattered in his world at the moment.
“You’re not seeing someone, are you? Toby said—”
“Actually, I am.” The lie tripped off his tongue a little too easily. He told himself it wasn’t a lie, though. I see Angie every day … for what feels like the rest of my life. “Toby doesn’t know because I’ve kept it quiet.”
“Oh. Well, let me know if you change your mind. You have my number now.”
He was tempted to ask what she meant about changing his mind. Was she thinking he’d tell her to come on over and help him “change his ice pack” while he was supposedly in a relationship with someone else? He didn’t want to prolong the conversation, though, so he thanked her and hung up.
When he reclined back on the couch, a different face floated through his vision.
A heart-shaped one dusted with faint freckles and fringes of silky blond hair surrounding it.
His chest gave an extra kick, as though it was executing a funny little dance move.
What if Angie had been the one calling him, offering to come over and change out his ice packs? The answer roared to the fore.
Fuck yes!
Damn! Why was that?
“Because she might be a pain in the ass, but she’s your PT, and she knows how to do that shit,” he reasoned aloud.
Except his imagination was traveling back in time to a very hot night and visualizing her doing things besides swapping out ice packs and ankle wraps.
Things they’d done together when neither of them had worn a stitch of clothing, when hot sweaty skin had slid across hot sweaty skin.
His dick got on board with what his imagination was cooking up, tenting his sweats.
Jesuuus! Get it under control. They had weeks, possibly months, of PT to get through together. In tight quarters. Her hands on his skin. The familiar honeysuckle scent of her shampoo overloading his senses every time she tossed her ponytail over her shoulder.
He pictured grabbing that ponytail and pulling her head back, exposing the column of her creamy throat to his mouth. His cock swelled painfully.
Why was his libido kicking up these scenarios?
“Because you two have unfinished business,” the voice inside his head answered unhelpfully.
He didn’t even like this girl. No, that wasn’t true.
He didn’t like the snippy way she treated him, but underneath her crusty layers lived a girl he had liked.
Once upon a time, he had liked her a lot.
He’d been curious about where their attraction might lead back then.
But that was before the NHL came calling.
Before every waking thought during every waking hour became lasered in on the game.
But that’s what it took to make it at this level. His dad had taught him that early on, when he’d been Sam’s coach. His dad had believed in him, had nurtured Sam’s own belief that he could make it someday. But to get there, you had to eat, drink, and breathe hockey. You had to sacrifice.
And he was still hyperfocused. Had to be. And thank fuck for that because it meant working with her wasn’t going to interfere with his first priority. Now if only he could made sure the man in his pants didn’t stand up and cheer whenever she was around, they’d be good.
Yeah, he could do this.
A moment later, an inconvenient truth slapped him across the jaw like the blade of an errant hockey stick.
Shit. He was so screwed.
Angie was staring at her monitor, tapping her pen on the desktop, debating what to write in Sam’s record, when Trevor surprised her from behind.
“You’re working late.”
She whirled so fast she launched the pen onto the floor. “You scared me.”
He stooped, picked up the pen, and handed it to her with a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you like that.”
Angie looked around him. It was well after closing time, but was Celia still at the front desk? “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see if you’d like to grab a drink with me.”
“Oh, I can’t.” She waved at her monitor. “I have a long way to go before I finish up here.”
“Hmm. I didn’t realize they were keeping you that busy.” He leaned forward, startling her. “Whose file are you working on anyway?”
She shot to her feet, blocking his view. Sure, he was one of the trainers, but that didn’t entitle him to review everyone’s records. “Minimum necessary access,” according to HIPAA. Trevor wasn’t on Sam’s case, and this information was private. “Ah, just some different patients they assigned to me.”