CHAPTER TEN
Emery
Lucas Hale owns my mind.
Or maybe it’s the echo of last night that still hasn’t fully left my system.
I’m running on caffeine, adrenaline, and a stubborn refusal to slow down long enough to feel the full weight of what almost happened.
My head still feels a half-second behind my thoughts.
That isn’t ideal any day let alone the first day of a new job.
My limbs feel discombobulated, and every so often I catch myself wondering what if Lucas hadn’t intervened.
It’ll be fine. This is just temporary. Manageable.
I’ve built a career on pushing through the challenges. Today wasn’t any different.
Lucas. How did the man who saved me turn out to be the challenge I need to figure out?
He’s obviously in pain. Clearly enduring it for the sake of his own pride and love of the game.
I truly believe I can help him though. Too bad the doctors in his past have let his lies slide and allowed him to live and play in the pain I’m imagining he’s currently experiencing.
As I gather my things for the team meeting, I revel in the air-conditioning, the fact that the organization has it cranked low, and somehow my office has great circulation.
When my phone rings, I almost don’t answer it. I figure I’ll be the first one to the meeting and then realize that might make me look like I’m trying too hard, so I pick up.
“So?” Trish says immediately, no greeting, no warning. “Did you do it?”
I pause, my fingers tightening slightly around the phone. “Do what?”
She snorts. “Don’t play dumb. Did you actually sidle up to the bar and have a drink all by yourself?”
My gaze drifts to the window again. To the practice field and to the men still out there under the sun . . . to anything that isn’t the truth sitting heavy on my chest.
“I did, in fact, have a drink,” I say carefully.
“A drink,” she repeats. “Or a drink?”
I exhale evenly. “I went in. I ordered wine. Then I left.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “That hesitation tells me there’s more. Did you meet some hot guy? Was someone a jerk to you? What’s up?”
I close my eyes and picture her face. Her red hair and the freckles across the bridge of her nose.
If I told her the truth, she’d drop everything and fly out here to be with me.
And while the idea of comfort sounds wonderful, she’s picked me up more times than I care to count over the past year. She’s my crutch.
And coming here was a way to knock that crutch out from beneath me so that I was forced to stand on my own two feet.
“Nothing’s up. It’s just . . . nothing.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Okay,” she finally says. “But you know if you need me, I’ll hop on a plane in an instant. All you have to do is ask.”
Exactly my point. And how lucky am I to have that?
A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “I know.”
“So then if you’re not going to fill me in on last night, then tell me about your first day. New job. New city. Tell me it’s been the best day of your new life.”
I snort. “First, you say that like it’s not mildly terrifying.”
“It’s supposed to be. That’s how you know it matters.”
“Second,” I say. “It is my first day, so a lot remains to be seen. I have an apartment I haven’t seen yet with boxes that were supposedly delivered, so I’m pretending not to think about what awaits me after work.
I just need everything to feel a little more settled, but first impressions are I made the right decision. I definitely think I’ll like it here.”
I can hear her quick clap through the phone as she does when she’s excited. “That’s terrific. Awesome. An improvement from all the shit you left behind.”
“For sure,” I murmur and glance out my window to its perfect view of the practice field. The sun is relentless and yet a set of players is still out there, helmets off now, and jerseys soaked in sweat.
One of them in particular—the one who’s taller, broader—moves with a practiced ease that begs me to watch and assess.
“Earth to Em? Did you float off into deep space somewhere?”
“I’m here. Sorry. I was watching the QB’s shoulder mechanics as he threw the ball.”
“Spoken like only my best friend can speak.”
I chuckle and look away from the window so I can focus. “It’s all exciting. The facility is unreal. The resources are unparalleled. The access is . . . this is everything I worked so hard for. Everything Jared wouldn’t—”
“We’re not going there,” she says. “New place. New you.”
“Yes. You’re right.” I straighten my spine like that will help shake away my past. “New place. New me. New challenge.”
“Ah,” she murmurs. “Can we hope that challenge also comes with a sexy-as-hell six-foot-five man with broad shoulders?”
“Exactly. Yes. All the men here are walking sex symbols. You’ve watched football games before and seen the multitude of shapes and sizes, haven’t you?” I joke.
“Yes, but I typically focus on those very tight pants and what they show under them.”
“Of course you do.” I laugh. “But this—he’s—” Definitely sexy. Oh my God, Emery. You did not just think that.
You did.
You definitely did.
“He?” she asks, catching my slip.
“One of my players to rehab is all I meant.” Nice recovery, Em.
“What about him?”
“Nothing. I was just watching him practice and got the conversation crossed with my thoughts.”
“Sure you did,” she says. I can imagine her eyebrows narrowing in question.
“I did. I promise. Day one and they already gave me a challenge the size of Texas when it comes to him. They’re either testing me or believe in me, and I’m not quite sure which it is yet.”
“And he is?” Her voice sharpens with interest.
“You know I can’t say who. Confidentiality and all that.”
“Blah. Blah. It’s not like I’m going to tell opposing teams and get paid for my insight.”
“Stranger things have happened. Not you, but—you know what I mean.”
“I do.” She chews the words but then asks what her creative imagination needs. “Tell me the type at least. Brooding? Oversized and loveable? Hulking and an asshole—”
“How about stubborn but brilliant? Oh, and deeply allergic to the truth when it comes to his own body.”
“Deeply allergic to the truth? Sounds like someone else I know.” She laughs in a way that only a best friend can after truth-bombing you.
“Very funny.”
“I’ll take the jabs where I can to remind you that you’re not going back to being that person.”
“I’m one hundred percent on board with this.”
“Good. Now back to Football Stud. Should I guess here? Clearly, he’s elite and used to being untouchable if he’s in the NFL and having trouble with whatever injury he’s having trouble with.”
“Something like that.” His shoulder clicked beneath my fingers when he rotated it. Not a good sign on a repaired shoulder, but not unexpected.
“You think you can help him?”
“I know I can.” Those four words are so quiet, so even, and I’m proud of them. There’s no false bravado in them. Just cold, hard training and experience that backs up that confidence. “But only if I can get him to trust me.”
“Do you think he will?”
“No. But I think he wants to.”
She pauses, her voice soft when she speaks. “That’s new.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it, and think about my ex. About the slow erosion of trust. About promises that stopped meaning anything. About waking up one morning and realizing that staying would cost me more than leaving ever could.
“Mm. Austin, the Rebels, are my reset. It’s exactly what I needed.” I don’t think I ever realized how much I did until just this moment.
“Fresh start,” she murmurs.
“Fresh start,” I repeat. “Though I wouldn’t mind it being about twenty degrees cooler.”
“No shit.” Trish laughs. “You’ve got this, Em. You really do. You always do.”
“I know,” I say. And I do. “I guess I thought they’d ease me into things rather than throw one of their most difficult cases at me on day one.”
“Yeah, well, pressure makes diamonds. Shine, baby, shine.”
“Or it results in implosions.” I snort.
I can picture her rolling her eyes. “I’m ignoring you said that. Call me later. I want to know more about your first day.”
“I will.” I glance at the clock. Perfect timing to head to my meeting.
“Go be brilliant, Dr. Porter.”
I end the call and draw in a deep breath. “That’s the plan,” I murmur to the silence of my office. And carry that with me as I put my professional face on and head down the hallway to the meeting room.
When I enter, it feels way too quiet for what we’re about to discuss—athletes playing a violent game with high-dollar stakes.
The room is painted in muted tones with a long conference table and leather chairs.
A wall of glass overlooks the practice field—much like mine does but from a much better vantage point.
And on that field, men are still vying, and in some cases bleeding, for a dream that’s far more fragile than I think any of them realize.
I take a seat near the end of the table, set my tablet down, and clasp my hands in my lap. Observant. Professional. Invisible, if I choose to be.
Coach Brooks stands at the head of the table.
Grant Walker, the general manager, leans against the far wall, arms crossed, and phone clutched in his hand like he’s ready to make a player deal at any moment.
Coordinators fill in the rest of the space—offensive, defensive, special teams, operations, finance.
Or at least that’s my assumption since I’m still trying to place everyone.
Oh, and then there’s medical.
And me.
I didn’t miss the way a few heads turned when I entered and took a seat, or the slight pause in their conversations like they forgot there was a new person in their midst.
I note it and let it go. I’m entering what I’ve been told is a tight-knit community and know I’ll have to prove myself before I’m included in that group.
It’s no wonder they gave me Lucas Hale to prove my worth.
“This isn’t a motivational speech,” Grant says, pushing off the wall and moving beside Coach Brooks. “This is reality.”