Chapter 3
It was absolute heaven. Heaven for a solid hour and a half until I had to leave him.
I keep telling myself that when I can get him into the daycare at the hospital, I’ll see him more during the day.
He’s on the waitlist, but they were hopeful it wouldn’t be too much longer before he got in.
Once that happens, I’ll find us a place to live closer to the hospital, and then things will finally settle down and we’ll get into a more stable groove.
And hopefully, I’ll be done with football and Joe freaking Cardone by then.
Last night, I laid awake for hours trying to work this all out in my head.
At the end of the day, he’s simply a case of biology and nothing more. He doesn’t deserve my reaction or my time. He hasn’t earned anything from me, and by the time I fell asleep, I had convinced myself I would go into today equipped with a solid battle plan of indifference.
But now as I walk into the stadium, giving my name to the security guard positioned by the player’s entrance, my heart in my throat and blood thrashing through my ears, I’m not sure I can do this.
My pace slows and my steps falter as a burst of adrenaline hits my veins, making my muscles antsy for me to flee.
Don’t let him win. You’re not a quitter. You’re a fighter. You’re a winner.
Only my stomach doesn’t agree as it roils and revolts.
Instead of fleeing for the exit, I’m racing into the first bathroom I see, straight for the stall, as eggs fight their way up my esophagus.
I throw up violently, ejecting everything in my stomach, and even after that’s done, I continue with dry heaves until there’s nothing left in me.
With a groan, I flush the toilet and drag myself to the sink, washing my mouth out with cold water and patting my forehead with the excess on my hands before pressing them into the counter.
I haven’t thrown up since before I took the ice at my first world championship.
I haven’t even seen him yet, and it’s like I’m a kid all over again.
The door flings open, and in walks a tall, broad man wearing red track shorts, a white Dri-FIT shirt, and bright blue sneakers. He’s probably one of the players.
“Are you in the wrong room or am I?” He has the grace to ask, even though it’s pretty damn obvious from the urinals on my right that I’m clearly the one in the wrong room.
“Sorry,” I murmur, grabbing some towels from the dispenser to wipe my hands and mouth with. “My mistake.”
“Not a problem.” He takes another step toward me, but I haven’t dared look up at him yet. “Take all the time you need. Are you okay? You look a little… pale.”
I scowl, glancing up at my reflection through my lashes. He’s right. I do look pale.
“Sorry,” he rushes on. “If that was rude or insulting, I didn’t mean—”
“No,” I cut him off quickly. “It’s fine. I am pale. My breakfast didn’t agree with me.”
Just as I go to throw out the paper towels, I peek up at him, but the moment our eyes meet, his grow comically wide, and he sucks in a giant breath. “It’s you,” he says breathily on the exhale.
I scrunch my brow at the way he says that. Before I can respond, he’s taking another step until he’s right before me, large and muscular and filling up my entire field of vision.
He laughs, almost disbelieving, a huge smile erupting across his face, showing off his pearly white teeth and making his gray eyes sparkle silver.
Not just a nice body but a pretty face too , I absently muse, only to mentally smack myself.
Though there is something about him that strikes me as familiar in a way I can’t place.
“I can’t believe I’m running into you like this,” he rushes on. “What are the odds? Are you here for me?” he asks, his voice rising, and I stare up at him, bewildered, unable to make sense of his words or reaction. “You must be, right?”
“That depends if you’re Asher Reyes, since I know you’re not Joe Cardone,” I answer without thinking.
That seems to pull him up short. “Is that a joke?”
“Is what a joke?” I throw back at him, my mind still frazzled and my stomach still lurching. I need to pull myself back together, and this guy isn’t helping. “Listen, I’m sorry I was in the wrong bathroom, but I really should go. I’m expected upstairs and likely already running a little late now.”
“You can’t go.” He grabs my arm as I try to move around him, and I immediately jerk myself free of his grasp.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap.
His hands shoot up in surrender. “Sorry. It’s just…” He cuts himself off there, staring at me, squinting in a way that makes me shift my position, a little uncomfortable with his blatant scrutiny. “You don’t recognize me, do you?” Disappointment leaches from his lips.
I give him a quick once-over, and in doing so, my skin heats and my nipples tighten. An unexpected response, but Christ, this man is big and strong and insanely fucking gorgeous. Silver-gray eyes, dimpled chin, straight nose, full lips, and short, brown hair with hints of copper in it.
He’s hot.
That’s an obvious one, but I’d rather die than admit that to him.
Yes, there is definitely something familiar about him. Maybe . Probably because he’s a professional athlete and I’ve seen his face somewhere in passing. But still, I come up empty, having no clue who he is.
“No, I don’t.” Then I think better of it because the way he’s acting, it’s almost as if he knows me . “Should I?”
His mouth twists into a hard line, and his hands go to his hips. He blows out a heavy breath, an unhappy one possibly. For a moment, he just continues to stare down at me, working something through, until finally, in a rough tone, he says, “I guess not.”
“Uh. Okay.” This is getting awkward. Really awkward.
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, I’m going to go.
” He shifts in front of me again as I attempt to leave, and my heart rate spikes.
“Move,” I demand, about ready to punch him in the balls if necessary.
I don’t need this right now. My thoughts are swirling with what’s waiting for me, and this guy is the last thing I want to deal with.
He shakes his head at me, irritated almost, but at least now he’s keeping his distance. “You just said you’re here to meet with Asher Reyes?”
I fold my arms and refuse to answer, unsure if I should have said that.
“Well, that’s me, sweetheart.” He thrusts his hand out at me. “Asher Reyes, quarterback for the Boston Rebels. And you are?”
Oh, shit. Reluctantly, I reach out my hand. “Dr. Wynter Hathaway. Your new team and personal orthopedic surgeon.”
He grips my hand, and the moment we make contact, something funny happens. I can’t even describe what it is. It’s subtle, yet it’s not. It’s fire, yet my hands are ice-cold. It raises the hairs on my arm and sends a tingle up my spine. Both the good and the bad kind. Immediately, I release him.
He steps in a bit closer to me, his eyes doing a slow drag along my face feature by feature as if he’s trying to memorize every line and color I’m comprised of. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you, Dr. Hathaway. Coach Cardone mentioned you to me and spoke quite highly of you.”
It takes everything in me not to scoff and roll my eyes. I don’t dare touch that because I won’t have anything kind to say in return.
“I didn’t recognize you as the player I’m here to meet with,” I admit. “Football is my least favorite sport, and I don’t follow it.”
Now I understand why he was upset. He must have known I was coming to meet with him and since I’m in the football stadium, literally on his turf, and no doubt everyone in this town knows who he is, he must be annoyed I didn’t.
He emits an amused chuckle. “Wow. Most people never confess things like that to me.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “You mean most people kiss your ass.”
He smirks, rubbing at his chiseled jawline, which looks sharp enough to cut glass. “Something like that. I’ll admit, I could die a happy man if you were at least the slightest bit impressed by me.”
My fingers clasp in front of me, and I meet his steady gaze head-on, ignoring how my body suddenly grows hot under the intensity of his eyes. “I’m here to help fix whatever orthopedic issue you’re having. That’s it.”
“So that’s a no on you being impressed by me?”
I hold in my smile at his charming, cocky, sure-fire grin. “That’s a no. A solid no at that.”
“Shame. You have no idea how rough on my ego it is that you don’t recognize me, but I suppose it’s no less than what I deserve given the circumstances. Hell, maybe it’s even a bit of a relief.”
“Pardon?”
He waves me off. “Nothing. I’m going to use the bathroom, but I look forward to our meeting. And to you putting your hands on me. Even if I can’t put mine on you.”
My jaw drops. What an egomaniac—the beautiful, talented ones always are—and now that I’ve met him, I can honestly say I like this assignment even less than I did before. If he’s anything like my father—who was also a quarterback—then I want as little to do with him as possible.
“I wouldn’t get too excited about me touching you.
I know all the best ways to make you hurt.
Trust me, you won’t enjoy it.” I hate football.
I hate football players. I hate everything about this goddamn sport.
“Later, player.” I saunter out of the bathroom as if he hadn’t come in and found me post-projectile vomiting.
The door slams behind me, and I blow out a breath as I stumble back into the cool, brightly lit hallways of the player area. I glance left and then right, and when I see that the coast is clear, I press my palm to my racing heart.
The man made my heart race.
Then again, no one’s ever spoken to me that way before. A sly grin curls up my lips. I just threatened the quarterback for the Boston Rebels, who also happens to be my new patient.
And I think he liked it.