Chapter 4
A fter she called me player, and the door slammed shut, I spent a solid five minutes staring at my reflection in the mirror, a million things running through my head at a dead sprint.
I shouldn’t have mentioned her touching me.
She was right to fire back at me about that one. It was inappropriate, to say the least.
But at that moment, I had become irrationally angry. I couldn’t stand that she didn’t recognize me when I hadn’t thought of any other woman for a year and a half.
A year and a half of her .
Of wanting to know who she is. Of wanting to see her again and set the record straight, and hell, apologize for how it all went down.
And. She. Didn’t. Fucking. Recognize. Me.
I stood there, staring at myself, trying to swallow the pill that it was for the best that she didn’t.
That it could be a clean slate. A do-over.
But I couldn’t stop that voice. The one that told me that makes me a liar and a bit of a bastard.
That’s not the sort of guy I am, and now as I walk down the hall toward the trainer’s room, I feel like shit.
Still, what am I supposed to do if she doesn’t remember me?
Be like, “Hey, you remember the night when I was so worked up that my dick wasn’t hard that I forgot to put on a condom, gave you shitty sex, and then prematurely jizzed inside of you?” Yeah, that’ll get her crawling back into my bed in no time.
This woman. Wynter Hathaway. How many nights have I spent wondering about her?
Curious about her name, and where she was from, and what she was up to.
Dreaming of finding her again and what I would do when I did.
It was as if she left her fingerprints on my skin.
The imprint of her is indelible, though my memory didn’t do her nearly the justice she deserves.
Damn, my future wife is fucking hot.
I chuckle to myself at that thought and then breeze into the empty trainer’s room and hop up on the cushioned table they have in here. The facility is empty save for me, Joe, one of the trainers who is somewhere else right now, and Wynter. My new doctor.
Shit. That probably means I can’t touch her, right? Isn’t there a thing against that? I’ll have to ask Callan about it. He’d know.
Looking around the empty room, I hate that I’m having to be here and go through this.
I feel like Coach is making a bigger deal out of this shoulder issue than necessary.
Day one of training camp, and I took a hard hit.
Not the first one, and certainly not the last. It took me a bit to get up, and then it took me a bit to work it out, but I eventually did. Sorta.
My speed is off a little.
I know it is.
The first time I took a hit like that, I was in my senior year of college, and it was my first game as a starter.
They could have broken every bone in my body, and I would have gotten back up and continued to play.
That was finally my shot, and I wouldn’t let them X-ray, let alone MRI anything on me because no way was I taking that chance.
I could still throw. I could still play ball.
As the youngest son of Dominic Reyes, younger brother to Jude Reyes, I couldn’t let the legacy die with me.
I had already dicked around for too long—that’s what my father called it—when I was with Central Square, touring the world and living out rock star glory with my best friends. But now…
I roll my left shoulder, trying to work it out, only… I feel it. The twinge. The creak of something not right inside me. Truth? It scares me. What am I if I’m not Asher Reyes, quarterback for the Boston Rebels? The team I grew up loving with my life’s blood. The team I would do anything for.
Now I have to sit through an exam with the woman I did wrong one drunken night in a bathroom. She is going to touch me. That’s part of her job. And my shirt will have to be off during it. If this were porn, I’d have her blouse off and my mouth on her cunt in a hot second.
Only, it’s not.
I’m stuck in some paradigm where I’m a bit obsessed with the girl things didn’t go well with, and suddenly she’s back in my life, only she doesn’t know who I am.
Do I want her to remember me? Hell if I know.
The door swings open and in walks Wynter—how adorable is that name for my ice queen?—and behind her is Coach and one of the trainers. She’s pissed. Not the least bit happy to be here or checking me out.
And then she leads with…
“How many times have you been hit in that shoulder where you knew it was more than a basic hit?”
I refrain from shifting. She’s so damn cute and studious, and I wonder if she’s aware that I can see the outline of her lace bra—and a peek of her nipples—through her thin white blouse.
“Honestly?”
She rolls her eyes, already done with me. “No, please lie to me. That’s always so helpful.”
“Wyn—” Coach starts, only she holds her hand up behind her, in his face, and… holy shit, the man shuts up. Who is this magical woman? What powers does she wield over this hard-nosed man?
“Three times,” I answer honestly. “Once in college. Once the night I won the Super Bowl.” Remember that night, I want to ask but rightfully don’t. “And once three days ago.”
A noise clears the back of her throat. “May I see the MRI?”
Johnny Scott—one of the trainers—runs over to her like a golden retriever, ready with a tablet and the films already pulled up. She stands here for a solid five minutes, staring at the screen while I stare at her.
“Take off your shirt, Mr. Reyes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And fuck. That totally came out sounding all sexy and seductive, and you may own my ass this second, but I plan to dominate yours later . Not good.
She blinks up at me. Raises an unamused eyebrow. And then returns to the screen. Her all-business doctor thing is so hot, my dick is impossibly hard for her. Finally ! If only this were the moment for her to appreciate this level of devotion.
“That’s Doctor, Mr. Reyes. Don’t forget how this works.”
And shwing , I jerk in my shorts. Her confidence is sexy as fuck. I don’t think a woman has ever given me this level of shit before. Well, a woman who wasn’t Suzie, our manager for Central Square, but she was my best friend Zax’s woman, so it was different.
Women never talk back to me. They’re always too eager to please. Too hopeful, like simply being with a football player and a former rock star is all they need in this world, and everything I am on the inside is superfluous.
This woman doesn’t care either way, and it’s unbelievably sexy.
“My apologies, Doctor. I meant no disrespect.” I reach behind and pull my white Boston Rebels Dri-FIT shirt over my head without removing my eyes from her face for more than a millisecond. Look, sweetheart, I dare you. We both know you want to.
She does too. She totally twitched, and her eyes jerked in my direction when I did that.
Plus, her cheeks flush ever so slightly.
It’s so fucking cute. I forgot about the secret innocence she radiates.
Like beneath all this smart, powerful exterior lies a vulnerability that begs not to be jerked around.
Until she says…
“Mr. Reyes, are you aware that you have a severe —and I’m not saying that word lightly—AC joint separation and labrum tear?” Her fingers play with the sizing on the screen, scrolling this way and that, looking over the smallest detail of my MRI.
“I’m not entirely sure—”
Her lips purse and then twist. “This will require extensive surgical intervention. It’s ligament repairs, definitely for both the AC and CC joints at least.” She stops.
Squints. Hisses between her teeth. “Jesus, you’ve ripped apart your shoulder, and some of this is not new. There’s a lot scarring in there.”
My heart starts to pound a merciless rhythm, and my skin grows cold and clammy.
“It doesn’t feel that bad. How can I have that level of damage when it doesn’t feel that bad?” It doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, I know I’ve been hit, and I know I’ve sustained some injuries over the years to that shoulder but…
“The MRI doesn’t lie. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
I drag my hand across my face. “Can it be repaired?” I ask, losing all pretenses and bravado.
It’s not for money, fame, or glory. I have all of those.
I was part of the world’s biggest rock band for four years.
I’ve turned all the odds in my favor and won a Super Bowl.
I have nothing to prove. But that doesn’t mean I want my game to be done.
Not by a long shot.
She shakes her head, her eyes still on the screen. “I… I don’t know.” She glances up at me. “I don’t know,” she repeats. “There is a ton of damage in this shoulder.”
“Wynter, this is exactly why I brought you here.”
She glares vitriol over her shoulder at Coach. “In this room, I am Dr. Hathaway. And though you may have brought me in here specifically to wave my magic wand and fix this, that’s not how the human body works.”
I squint, wondering what exactly her relationship with Coach is. They clearly know each other. But how?
“What’s my recovery time like if you do surgery and it’s successful?” I swallow my fear, wishing I had at least Callan with me so he’d understand this better than I would.
She turns back to me. “Typically, a full recovery takes a minimum of four to six months. If the surgery is successful and you do well with physical therapy. You’re at least out for this entire season.
I can’t guarantee you’ll regain full range of motion or strength either.
I also can’t guarantee I can repair everything or fix what’s already scarred over. ”
Fuck. Just… fuck!
“How soon can you operate?”
“Next week,” she answers. “I’ll have my nurse review the OR schedule and let you know for sure.”