Chapter 12 Parker
PARKER
Ilove watching ice hockey.
Every game I attend, I’m just as excited for the action as I was the one before.
Nothing changes, and I hope it never does.
But standing on the sidelines, wearing an LA Vipers’ team-issued polo shirt with an iPad in my hand and the head athletic trainer standing beside me, having an intellectual conversation about the men shooting around the rink before us, hits in an entirely different way.
I’m a part of it now.
Ice hockey runs through my veins. But now, I’m not just a player. I truly am a part of the family, and I will be forever grateful for this opportunity.
The need to prove myself as a woman in a man’s world burns through me. I’m competitive—I always have been. You have to be if you’re going to be successful at any sport. But while I might no longer strap on skates or shoot a puck around, the need to be the best I can be hasn’t ever left me.
I have worked my ass off to be here, and I’m not going to waste a moment of it, or give anyone even a second to question my skills, knowledge, and ability.
“Storm,” Jarad starts, pointing at our first-line winger as he shoots around the back of the goal.
“Favoring his left side when his right is the strongest. I suspect his groin pull from last year hasn’t healed properly.”
“It has,” a deep voice barks from behind me.
I don’t need to turn around to know who it belongs to.
Dillion Mitchell, the other assistant athletic trainer, and my new colleague.
I don’t know all that much about him. We’ve only met a handful of times, but while most of the team takes the time to acknowledge me, and chat with me, he never has.
Don’t get me wrong, I have no issue with him not wanting to talk to me.
Just because I’m often at games, and best friends with the head coach’s daughter, it doesn’t mean I expect any member of the Vipers’ organization to know who I am and want to interact.
What bothers me is the look in his eye. It’s a look that makes me uncomfortable.
I want to ignore it and convince myself that I’m being silly. But I learned a few years ago that I should trust my gut feeling. If I'd done it more then I might not be so jaded when it comes to dating and relationships.
I’m getting better. If I see a red flag now, I’m out that door faster than a winger on a breakaway.
But this isn’t a place where I can walk away from bad eggs. I’m going to have to be professional and work with them. I just pray that I’m wrong and he’s not going to make my life here harder than it needs to be.
“Okay,” I muse, turning to look at him with a calm expression. I really don’t want to piss the guy off on day one. “Then he’s picked up something recently that isn’t being treated correctly. I know how Storm plays and—”
“And you think we don’t?” Mitchell snaps, his hackles up like a pit bull about to attack.
“That isn’t what Parker is saying,” Jarad assures him.
Mitchell’s eyes drill into me. He’s silent for a second before conceding.
“I’ll pull him in after practice and see what’s happening.”
“No need. Storm is on Parker's list now.”
What?
“What?” Mitchell balks. “He’s one of our most vital players. He needs more than—”
“Careful,” Jarad warns. “It might be Parker’s first day, but she is just as qualified and capable of doing this job as we are. It doesn’t matter which players are on whose list. All will receive the same high level of treatment they deserve.
“I emailed lists earlier. Most of yours are the same as previously, but I’ve made a few adjustments.” Jarad’s tone is firm, not leaving any space for argument.
Mitchell nods, aware that he hasn’t got a leg to stand on.
I, however, stand there internally freaking out that my life currently seems to contain a hell of a lot more of Lincoln Storm than I’d like.
At home—his home. In the trainers’ room.
My fingers twitch as I think about working on his body. Getting up close and personal.
I can’t. It’s got disaster written all over it.
My lips part to say something that might get Storm moved back to Mitchell. But then, my eyes find his angry ones a beat before Linc shoots around behind him, clearly struggling with a lingering injury, and I realize that I can’t.
Mitchell is the reason Linc is in pain and not playing at his best. I can’t allow that to continue.
Jarad continues discussing each player with us, taking notes before he instructs us to attend a meeting after we’ve met with our athletes after practice.
He leaves us standing by the boards to watch the rest of practice, and the second he’s out of sight, I swear the tension ramps up.
It isn’t the good kind.
It takes long, painful seconds, but eventually Mitchell speaks.
“Storm is at the top of his game right now.”
“He’s playing well,” I agree, because he is. But he can be better.
I know Linc better than any other guy out there, and I know exactly what he’s capable of. Right now, he’s not at his peak. He’s still really fucking good, sure. But he’s been better.
“You’re—shit,” he hisses, cutting himself off as one of our third-line defensemen trips over his partner and hits the ice hard.
Mitchell takes off to help.
I don’t know which trainer’s list the guy is on. I leave Mitchell to deal with it as I open the email app on my iPad.
My heart pounds harder the second my eyes land on Jarad’s name.
I already know that I’m going to find Lincoln Storm as one of my athletes. But who else am I going to get the pleasure of working on?
“Parker Donnelly, we meet again,” Linc taunts as he saunters into the trainers’ room almost two hours later, his hair still wet from the shower and cheeks flushed from exertion.
We’re not alone. Mitchell is already working with one of his players, and we have a few others stretching on the mats, but the second Linc moves closer, his eyes locked on mine, it may as well be just the two of us in here.
“I can’t seem to escape you,” I mutter.
“And why would you?” he asks, holding his arms out wide. “You might try to hide it, but deep down, we both know that I’m your favorite person.”
“Mmm,” I mumble, refusing to dignify that with an actual response. “Hop up, Storm. I want to look at that injury you’re carrying.”
“Still on that, huh?” he asks, although surprisingly, he does as he’s told. He even hikes his athletic shorts up high, giving me the access I need to his groin.
“I’m not likely to forget. You might have the others fooled, but I know you, Linc. I know the way you play.”
My hands are cold. Usually, I’d rub them together for a little more comfort for my athlete, but today, I don’t give him the courtesy.
“I always knew you only came to games to watch me play,” he states smugly.
“You wish,” I mutter as I reach out and gently run my thumb and forefinger up the adductor muscles on his inner thigh, watching him closely for a reaction.
When he doesn’t give me one, he smirks in accomplishment.
“Lie back, Storm. We’re only just getting started.”
“No problem, Doc.”
My teeth grind at his new nickname for me. I should probably be happy about it. It’s a hell of a lot better than babe.
It takes me longer than I was hoping for, but eventually, I find the spot that’s giving him issues.
“Motherfu—” He abruptly cuts himself off, realizing that I’ve just proven my point. And not only to him, but also to my colleague, who heard it loud and clear on the other side of the room.
Everything is fine, my ass.
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but—”
“Just get it fixed up, Donnelly,” Linc demands.
His chest expands as he prepares to embrace what I’m going to unleash on him.
As much as I might want to be rough, I’m not. We need him healed as fast as possible. The Vipers are having a record season so far, and I don’t have any intentions of changing that anytime soon.
Other players come and go, but I don’t let Linc up for longer than I think he was expecting.
“When you get home, you need to ice this,” I tell him firmly when I finally lift my hands from his thigh.
“Yes, Doc,” he teases.
“I’m serious. I’m pulling you from morning skate tomorrow, and I’ll only let you play if I’m confident you’ve been looking after it.”
“You threatening to bench me, Donnelly?” he asks, his eyes wide with shock.
“You fucking bet I am. You’re going to lift that cup this year, Storm, but it won’t happen if you don’t let this heal. Monroe is waiting for me, but once I’ve seen him, I’m going to talk to Coach.”
“Well, shit,” he mutters, combing his still-damp hair back from his brow.
“What?”
“You’re even hotter when you're being all dominant.”
“Get your head in the game, Storm.” I take a step back, his eyes following. “And listen to me. I’m not having any of my athletes putting themselves at risk.”
“Okay,” he agrees, pushing to sit on the table.
“Okay?” I ask, blinking.
He never agrees with anything I say, so it throws me for a loop.
He chuckles as he jumps to his feet and steps closer.
“Loved having your hands on me, Donnelly. Celebrating your new gig tonight, yeah?”
I roll my eyes.
“Of course. Gotta celebrate working with you assholes on the daily.”
I sense Monroe join us before I see him.
“See, Marilyn,” Linc says, throwing his arm around the rookie’s shoulder. “I think she likes me.”
“I just watched the faces you made as she tried fixing up your groin. I beg to differ.”
“Give it time. Just give it time.”
Ignoring him, I keep my attention focused on my next patient.
“Your shoulder, right?”
Marilyn blinks at me.
“Y-yeah. Right one.”
“Great. Face down, then. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
With a wicked grin at Linc, Monroe does as he’s told and settles onto my trainer’s table.
“Go and ice your groin, Storm,” I state when he lingers, watching us.
“Love when you talk dirty to me.”
“Get out of here,” I demand, feeling Monroe’s rumble of laughter as I trace his muscles.
“There,” he states. “Old high school injury that flares up every now and then.”
Linc’s attention lingers a little longer before the heat of his gaze disappears.
“So, you and Storm close?” Monroe asks.