Chapter 5
“T here’s something about that football player,” I muse to myself for at least the tenth time since I left here yesterday afternoon.
It niggled at me until I finally gave in and looked him up.
I didn’t scroll through the pictures—I didn’t need more visuals of him—but I did read his Wikipedia page as well as a few celebrity tabloids.
He was the backup guitarist for Central Square, and while I never listened much to their music—other than what was played on the radio—I think that must be where I recognize him from.
His face was plastered across posters and magazines and was everywhere it could be when he was with the band. I remember that.
I remember thinking those guys were hot because they were.
Or maybe it’s the fact that he affects me, and that has his voice, his face, and his words slicing through my brain.
I haven’t had sex since that night in the club, and before that, I wasn’t exactly rolling in men.
So suffice it to say, I haven’t had good sex in a very long time, and when hard-pressed, I’ll admit I don’t think I’ve ever had great sex.
My vagina is a sad, cold, lonely old woman who spends her days in a rocking chair knitting herself a sweater.
Even my vibrator is tired of seeing her.
It’s only natural that a good-looking man who seems physically attracted to me would wake the old lady up.
But Asher Reyes is not the man to hop back in the saddle with.
Mixed metaphors or not, the point is the same. He’s trouble, and I don’t have any time or space in my life for it.
Then there’s Joe, who is watching me with deliberate eyes as I walk out of the cool, dark tunnel into the bright August sunshine and over to the sideline of the field where the team is practicing.
My mom and I talked about him for a long time last night.
I don’t like knowing he’s followed my career—both on the ice and in medicine.
It only infuriates me more because I don’t know why.
Why would he bother doing that with a child he abandoned?
Asher is on the field, talking with a few of the players, the ball in his hand that he gesticulates with as he speaks.
He’s tall, and his presence is commanding, both on and off the field.
I’ve never seen him play before, but I can tell he’s passionate about what he does, and he’s not even in game form.
The first day of training camp was Monday, and that’s when he took the hit.
Movement on my right has my head flipping in that direction and immediately locking onto another player wearing the same red jersey Asher is wearing whereas every other player is wearing white.
I’m going to assume that makes him another quarterback, but I don’t know for sure.
He’s giving me the “I’m a stud” smirk, and inwardly I roll my eyes in derision.
Football players . They’re all the freaking same.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he says by way of a greeting. “Girlfriend or wife?”
“Pardon?”
“Are you someone’s girlfriend or wife? Since I know you’re not press.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”
His brown eyes drop to my stomach. “Wrong badge. Yours just says, Visitor.”
“If you already knew that, why did you feel the need to take another look?”
He breaks out into a huge smile in a way that tells me he’s not the least bit embarrassed. “Leo Dodd. QB2, but soon to be QB1. But you never answered my question. Are you single?”
“Yes. I’m a single mother.”
He laughs. “That doesn’t scare me off the way it does other guys. I love kids. I’m the oldest of six.”
“Congratulations to you, but I don’t date ball players.”
“You should,” he continues, stepping in closer to me. “We’re a lot of fun. In fact, I bet if I took you out tonight, we could have a lot of fun together.”
“You can’t be serious with that line.”
“Actually, it’s the truth. Not a line. But if you’re not into ball players, then what are you doing here, visitor?”
I point toward the field. “Watching your QB1 so he can stay QB1, since I’m your new team orthopedic surgeon.”
“Beauty and brains. I like it.”
“Hey, Rookie!” Asher calls out just as something zips like a bullet through the air in our direction.
The ball nails Leo right in the stomach, making him hunch over with a loud groan and an audible wheeze.
The impact causes me to jump for how close that was.
“Stop flirting with my doctor and get your ass back on the field where you belong.”
I blink about ten thousand times, my heart up in my throat. My head snaps in Asher’s direction, but he’s not paying me any attention. He’s too busy breathing fire at his backup. He could have hit me. I was no more than two feet from where he threw that ball.
The kid grumbles something out to me about how he’ll see me later, and then he slinks onto the field, being teased and jostled by other players along the way. Asher stares me down, and I fold my arms over my chest, anything but amused.
He jogs over to me, smacking the rookie on the back of the head as he goes by.
Before I can react, he’s on me. His arm swoops around my back, and his sweaty body presses into mine. His mouth dips by my ear, and his hot breath fans my neck. “I’d never have hit you, ice queen. Ever. My shoulder might be messed up, but I’m accurate as fuck.”
“Ice queen?”
I can feel him smile. “I had that name in my head for you before I looked you up. Pretty fantastic coincidence, right? Actually, I watched the video of you skating in the Olympics. You were amazing. Why did you stop?”
I push at his hard chest, trying to move the wall of muscle back. He smells good. How can a hulk of a sweaty man smell good? But he also… feels familiar like this. Pressed against me. Like we’ve done this before when I know that to be impossible.
“You’re touching me again, player.”
He doesn’t go far, but his hand unwinds itself from my back. “I’m staking my claim. That kid might steal my spot on the team, but I won’t let him steal my doctor.”
“Is that jealousy or just obnoxious male ego?”
“One hundred percent jealousy and male ego.” His tongue snakes out and licks my neck.
“The hell?” I shove him off me.
He takes a step back, all cocky smiles as he walks backward toward the field.
I wipe my neck. “Gross. If you don’t want someone who hates you cutting into you, don’t do things to make me hate you.”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t like me tasting you. But now that I’ve officially licked you, you’re mine, ice queen. So hot and yet so cold.”
I shake my head, anger building within me, and I snap out, “I can’t believe you—”
“Watch me play, Dr. Hathaway.” He cuts me off. “I’m about to show off just for you.” He winks at me and then jogs off back onto the field.
That son of a bitch. I can’t believe he just did that. He licked me in front of everyone, right here on the field. Players. All of them. The conquest, and the easy pussy, and whatever it takes to get a woman in bed are all they care about.
I let him put his arm around me. My attempt to push him away was meager at best.
I can’t allow the fact that he’s the first man to show me any real attention in far too long to overshadow what I’m here to do. Ice queen is what he called me, so it’s the ice queen I shall be.
Hot. Arrogant. Good with his hands. A woman could succumb to all of that. Especially when he pins her with those magnetic eyes and sexy smirk. But the truth is, he’s a risk I’m not willing to take.
And I have far too much at stake to play his games.
For all I know, he treats every woman he meets this way. Like an object to claim and then destroy. Disposable when the next one comes along. Only useful until he gets what he needs from them. I refuse to be his discarded trash.
For the next hour, I watch him throw a ball around the field.
I watch as he commands his players’ focus and compels them into action.
I watch as he makes most of his passes and misses a few.
The ones he misses are when a defensive player is heading for him.
Which tells me he’s skittish about getting hit again.
It also tells me he’s already hurt. I might not know football, but I know athletes, and I know sports medicine.
“Hell of a game you’ve got here, Joe,” I deadpan as he comes over to stand beside me.
“Looks like the running of the bulls, only instead of chasing terrified tourists stupid enough to wear red, they’re chasing a ball like a dog chases a frisbee.
I can see why it held you so captive that nothing and no one else mattered. ”
He ignores my sarcasm as he says, “He needs surgery,” in that stern, self-important voice he likes to use to prove he’s in charge when all it does is make him sound like an asshole.
“Isn’t that why I’m here? To cut into your top bull and try not to turn him into ground chuck?”
“You’re here so that he has a chance to come back next season. With any hope, we can finish on top even without him.”
“I’m not a coach, nor do I care about whether or not you finish on top. I’m here for his injury and nothing more.”
“Fix him up then, Wynter, so I can get him off my roster. I want to trade him at the end of the season, and if he keeps throwing the ball like that, he’s useless to me.”
I grit my teeth. I might not like the player, but I hate the coach. “Does he know this is your plan?”
“If he’s healthy and can prove himself, I’ll let him fight for his spot. Maybe. Depends on what he’s worth for a trade before that. Right now, I want to see what the kid can do. This is a football team, not a charity. Winning is all that matters.”
I keep my focus on the field even though I’m no longer watching. His words stick to that cursed soft spot that still hides in the hollows of my chest. “As it’s always been for you.”
“I’m not as evil as you think I am.”