Chapter 17
“N o. I won’t do it.” My words are sharp, refusing to be challenged. Yet the asshole does it anyway.
“Yes, you will,” Joe states calmly from behind his desk, his hands neatly folded on top of the wood. Hell, I hate this man. “It’s part of your job requirement here. You have to travel with the team for games. Last week you didn’t because of Asher’s surgery. This week you have no excuse.”
Except for a son I don’t want him to know about. A son I have with his injured quarterback.
“You have an orthopedist on staff, and I am only licensed in Florida and Massachusetts. If I travel with the team, it’s not like I’m about to do any sort of surgery until the team returns home. Anything emergent would have to be done by a local physician.”
“I don’t care. Team doctors travel with the team.”
I grit my teeth. “I do not work for the team. I work for the hospital.”
His green eyes hold mine. Green eyes that match my own. That match my son’s. “You are the team orthopedic surgeon for the season, Wynter. You will travel with us to Cincinnati on Saturday for the game Sunday.”
“No.” My insides fester. How do I get out of this without telling him I have a son I won’t leave?
I may work long hours, but traveling for work isn’t part of my gig.
No matter what, I see my son every day. He is always my first priority.
That was the promise I made to him when I held him in my arms for the first time.
I refuse to be away for a minimum of seven weekends over the next four months.
“Yes.”
I plant my hands on the other side of his desk, beyond furious. “Find another surgeon, Joe. I don’t want to be here. I did Asher’s surgery, and it’s done. You didn’t need me to travel last week with the team, and now suddenly you do? I’m calling bullshit. Why the fuck do I still have to be here?”
“Because I want you here.”
I hate how calm he is. Always so cool. So apathetic.
“Why? I’ve already told you I don’t want you in my life. Stop trying to steal a piece of it now. It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late.”
His words freeze me in place, stealing the air from my lungs.
My first thought is that moving here was a mistake.
Only it’s difficult to think that after the last two weeks with Asher.
Mason is in love with him. Totally. Completely.
In. Love. He laughs at everything Asher says and does.
Crawls over to him for hugs and snuggles every chance he gets.
Prefers Asher to feed him dinner because—let’s face it—Asher is a lot more fun than I am.
It’s been cruelly beautiful watching my son bond with his father. And watching Asher fall just as much in love with him.
But now it’s Tuesday, Asher’s surgery was a week ago, and I’m forced to deal with yet another emotional blow. This one is from the man who started them all. At least the scratch on my cheek and any redness that had been there are already gone.
I straighten my spine. “I’m not traveling with the team, and that’s final. Feel free to fire me.”
A knock on the door interrupts us. “Come in!” Joe barks.
The door swings open, and in walks Asher. He’s not surprised to find me here, and it shows as he quickly studies me, scowls ever so slightly, and then turns his full focus on Joe. “You wanted to see me, Coach.”
He doesn’t apologize for interrupting. He doesn’t offer to come back another time. Instead, he moves deeper into the room and shuts the door behind himself.
Joe leans back in his chair, wiping a hand across his sun-weathered forehead. “Yes. How’s the shoulder feeling?”
“The pain is mostly gone, but I haven’t tested it much. Dr. Hathaway gave me very strict post-op instructions that I’ve been following. I’m here to meet with the rehab team this morning.”
“Do you feel you can travel with the team this Saturday even though you won’t be playing and you’re on injured reserve?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. I think the kid will need you there.” Joe stands, shuffling useless bullshit on his desk so he can seem important. “Why don’t the three of us go down and meet with the training staff?” He moves past us, having to lead the pack because, again, he’s just so important.
“After you, Dr. Hathaway.”
“Oh, a gentleman,” I quip acerbically. “How rare your breed is to find in this sport.”
Joe makes a noise, and I grin as I move in behind him, walking toward the main hallway that will lead us back down to the locker rooms and training area. Asher slides in beside me, his hand reaching out and brushing mine before he snatches two of my fingers.
My head snaps in his direction, but he’s facing forward, his expression stoic, giving nothing away. His fingers squeeze mine and then he releases them, shifting to place distance between us.
He doesn’t know anything more than what I initially told him about Joe, and he hasn’t asked.
I need boundaries after what happened Saturday night.
I fell asleep in his arms, and other than checking my cheek daily, he hasn’t said anything else about it.
But he was there for me when I needed him, and I believed him about the date with the model.
His eyes weren’t on her that night. They were all over me.
My mind is tripping on that, and I can’t seem to find my balance with him.
The moment we enter the gym and then move through to the training room, loud music blasts through the speakers, and all the players who are scattered around various pieces of gym equipment stop to sing along, pointing their fingers at Asher and using their fists as fake microphones.
Asher groans, but there is no hiding the amusement on his face.
“Is this a Central Square song?”
It has to be. I don’t know for sure because I’ve never heard it before, and I’m not all that familiar with their music, but it has to be.
“Our first hit,” he grumbles. “Baby, This Is Where You Belong.”
“Excuse me?” My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline.
He rolls his eyes at me. “That’s the name of the song, Doctor. They play it after every win.”
“Only the team didn’t win Sunday’s game,” Joe barks sharply. “So there’s no business playing that nonsense.”
“No,” I snap in response. “But their quarterback had a successful surgery and could return this season. I’d count that as a win for the team, wouldn’t you, Joe?”
Joe ignores me as he keeps going, storming down the hall and into the training room with a slam of the door behind him.
Asher stares bewilderedly at me. “You just stood up for me to Coach.”
“Don’t let it go your head, player. I simply dislike you less than I hate him.”
He gives me that cocky grin. “All I got from that was that you like me more.”
“Come on, Reyes,” one of the players yells. “Let’s see those sweet dance moves.”
The guys start to whistle, whipping their sweat towels around in the air. Gross .
“Only if Dr. Hathaway will dance with me,” he calls back, his gaze still on me, that arrogant grin growing as now everyone is into it, hollering and whooping and stomping their feet.
“I can’t believe you just did that!” I scream as the music in the room intensifies.
Asher is not the least bit remorseful as he goes into full-on taunt mode. “What’s the matter, ice queen? You don’t know how to dance?”
I fold my arms. “Ha! That’s a good one. I was a figure skater, player. I took more dance lessons than you have brain cells.”
“Prove it,” he challenges, taking my hand and spinning me around in front of the entire team.
“You’re going to hurt yourself!” I cry as he shoots me out and then reels me back in until I practically slam into his chest.
He loops me under his good shoulder and then twists me around until I’m back in front of him, and then his bad hand goes to my hip because he can keep it low and tight to his body. He moves our hips in a swivel that is pure sex, much to the appreciation of everyone in the room.
“I happen to know this amazing doctor with the sweetest lips and sharpest tongue who can fix me up.”
“I didn’t know it was like that between you and Callan.”
He cracks up, his smile showcasing all his pearly white teeth. “A lot can happen between five boys on the road.” He winks at me. “Are you ready for the big finale?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Sure, you are.” He releases me and then breaks out into some sort of choreographed dance that the other players get in on, all seemingly knowing every move.
He turns to face me and then starts singing the words, his good hand his microphone, only to end it on his knees in front of me, serenading me.
I’m laughing. Hard. I wish I had this on video because it’d go viral in a second and I’d make millions off it.
The song ends and the room erupts in applause. Asher jumps to his feet, spins around, and does a bow I’m positive he’s done hundreds of times over in front of screaming fans.
The music cuts out, and Asher calls out, “Back to work now, boys. Those muscles won’t get bigger on their own, and we certainly won’t kick Cincinnati’s ass unless we put in the effort.”
The team does some sort of man chant, and then Asher is pushing me along toward the trainers’ room.
“Is there anyone who doesn’t worship at your feet and does exactly as you ask of them?” I question, staring around the room at the men who look like they’d do anything for their fearless leader.
“Only you, but that’s part of what makes pushing your buttons so much fun.”
* * *
Icy wind whips across my face as I skate backward, my head over my shoulder, my arms poised, out on either side of me.
The music in my AirPods picks up, and I skate faster, getting ready to attempt a double loop.
I bend my knees, get on an outside edge and explode up into the air in a tight twist—one, two rotations—and then I land on one skate, my other leg out behind me.
Heath wasn’t here today when I came in. I made sure of it. He sent me a text on Sunday apologizing profusely yet again for the blunder of punching me in the face, and I never bothered to respond.
That’s that as far as I’m concerned.