CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Emery
“I know I imagined it.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Not the kind where the call drops or someone gets distracted, but it’s the time taken for the best friend to choose her words carefully. She’s about to systematically dismantle you and all the reasons you’re giving yourself not to react.
“Imagined it? Absolutely not,” Trish finally says. “No way. Hard stop.”
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the driver’s seat. “Trish—”
“No,” she says. “Listen to me. What man goes shopping—let alone for home décor—buys you ridiculous things, spends an entire day laughing with you, and then almost kisses you if he doesn’t like you?”
“Then why stop?”
“Because he respects you and your professional capacity and doesn’t want to put you in jeopardy?”
“I think you’re overthinking this,” I say.
She snorts. “Like you’re one to talk.”
“I assure you in that moment, he wasn’t thinking about official capacity in the least.”
“Then what was he thinking?” she asks with a hummed sound. “Because it was most definitely that he wanted to kiss you.”
I bark out a laugh. “You don’t even know the man, so how would you know what he’s thinking?”
“I know the fact that you telling me about it is enough. You’re an intelligent woman, Em. One who doesn’t like gossip or need grand gestures and you thought he was going to kiss you.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong about a man and his intentions,” I say dubiously. “Besides, he could have just wanted something else.”
She groans dramatically. “The man is an NFL player with a hot body and shoulders the size of a small country. Of course, he wants something.” She pauses and then answers my question about how she knows what he looks like. “I’m googling him right now.”
“You are not.”
“I absolutely am.”
“There’s a reason I held off for so long telling you about this whole . . . situation.” Not to mention the whole initial meeting that we’re not going to get into yet.
“Why? Because you don’t want to hear me say what I’m about to say?” Another dramatic pause. “Girl, that man is fine. You need to hit that.”
I laugh despite myself. A little dose of Trish is all I need to straighten my head out. “So much easier said than done.”
“Why?” she asks.
My job. My reputation.
“I have reasons, and all of them have to do with my professional life.”
“Professionals need to get fucked good and hard too,” she says matter-of-fact. I burst out laughing and she follows suit. But before I can respond, she continues. “You’re making excuses—valid ones, but they’re still excuses. And you only do that when you’re lying.”
“I don’t want him,” I blurt out. “I imagined all of it.”
“Uh-huh. The almost kiss. The look in his eyes. The feel of his body against yours.”
My breath catches because she’s repeating the thoughts I have in bed at night. The ones I’ve had way too many times.
“All imagined,” I repeat, digging my heels in.
“You keep telling yourself that. But hey, if you need permission? Or a push? Or someone to remind you that you’re allowed to want things even if you are a professional? You’ve got it. Stamped, sealed, delivered, from your bestie Trish.”
“Like I said, it’s a line that could have serious implications if crossed.”
She hums as she thinks. “Then I guess you better invest in a damn good vibrator to relieve some of that pent-up sexual frustration, because it’s going to be a long-ass season having to put your hands all over him—professionally speaking—and not be able to act on it.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re human,” she says. “Which is refreshing to mere mortals like me and about damn time.”
“Funny.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of other wealthy, kind, eligible men in Austin you can sleep with. Pick one of them and then you won’t have to worry about crossing any professional lines.”
“A regular comedian.” I sigh but smile.
“That’s why you love me.”
“I do.” I pause. “Thanks, Trish.”
“Anytime.”
I end the call and sit in my car a moment longer, phone face-down on my thigh.
Trish is wrong.
She has to be.
Because attraction like that doesn’t appear overnight. It doesn’t bloom fully formed out of a few morning runs, one good day, and a near kiss. It doesn’t make your pulse misfire, your thoughts spiral, and your carefully constructed boundaries feel suddenly flimsy.
That’s not attraction.
That’s imagination.
And maybe a little romance over a nice guy after being with a dick for so many years.
I slide out of the car and straighten my shoulders as I walk inside, slipping into the version of myself who belongs here—Dr. Porter. Calm. Observant. Controlled. In control.
This is my space. My domain.
Lucas Hale is just a player. A patient. A complication I refuse to entertain.
Problem solved.
The doors to the weight room swing open to the right of me, and I decide to take the shortcut across to my office.
Metal clangs. Music thumps. Bodies move in practiced rhythms and distinct cadences. It’s chaos, but of course, my body reacts before my brain does.
My feet falter in the busy space.
I feel him.
My stomach tightens, and my skin warms. Awareness snaps sharp and immediate, because even though I don’t know where he is yet, I know he’s here.
So much for imagined.
Move your feet. Someone is going to notice you being weird. Someone is—there he is. Lucas is standing near the racks with his sleeves cut off and forearms flexed as he laughs at something one of the linemen says.
But people—the players, the trainers, the staff—begin to notice me. A few curious glances. A couple of questioning looks about why one of the staff is standing like an idiot in the middle of the weight room.
Lucas’s head turns and the rest of the noise disappears.
His gaze finds mine like it always seems to. There’s no smile this time. No teasing lift of his mouth.
There’s just focus—on me.
Who was I kidding? Problem not solved.
More like the problem is now staring at me, causing heat to coil low in my stomach, and I hate it.
Hate that my body remembers the feel of his hand on my back.
I have to remind myself to breathe. I loathe that I’m suddenly hyperaware of the way I’m standing, the way people are noticing, but more importantly the way his eyes track me like I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at.
This is far from imagined.
This is chemistry. And chemistry is dangerous when you pretend it doesn’t exist.
So, I do the only thing I can.
I go cold. I throw myself back into the world that Jared created for me where work was the only thing worth thinking of.
I straighten my spine. I don’t smile at him.
Instead, I start walking again toward my office and my other patients waiting for me, but not before I give Lucas the same look I give every other athlete in here—professional. Neutral. Distant.
If my body insists on reacting to him, then my mouth, my expression, my actions, won’t.
And whatever this is? I can control it. Will control it. I have no other choice.
“Morning, Doc,” Tyler says as he hands me the daily Rebel injury update and protocol list. I glance at the paper list and its summary of cases in front of me and know I’ll get more of the details when I log in.
“Morning. Thanks for this,” I say, lifting it up in acknowledgment.
“Always,” he says. “Coach added Nixon to your caseload. MCL strain in the knee. All his scans are in the portal for you.”
“So it was that bad, huh?” I ask. He’d been helped off the field last practice. I was hoping it was nothing but a bad hit that stung too long. Clearly it wasn’t.
“Yeah. He’s not too happy about it.”
“When are they ever?” I smile. “I’ll get him back to new in no time.”
“I have faith that you will. Coach said he put him on your schedule at 10:15 if that works for you.”
“It does.” I glance at my watch. That gives me twenty minutes.
“Great.” He pauses like he’s going to say something and then stops.
“What is it?”
“For what it’s worth, everyone’s saying great things about you.
The players like you. Coach is impressed with how you seem to be everywhere all at once.
” He glances around like he’s trying to make sure no one else can hear him.
“That’s not the norm. Not when you have all these people and different personalities in one place. ”
“Thank you,” I say as my throat clogs with emotion. “That really means a lot to me.”
“It’s not an easy thing—walking in here and being respected—but you’ve managed to do that.”
“I appreciate you letting me know. Truly.”
“Of course. Have a great day, and let me know if Nix gives you any trouble. He can be a pain in the ass sometimes. Especially when he’s hurt.”
“That’s just par for the course,” I say.
I part ways with Tyler, feeling good about myself. It’s not like I need someone to let me know I’m doing a good job and fitting in here, I can gauge that pretty well myself, but it is nice to hear it regardless.
I take a few minutes to put my lunch in the staff lounge refrigerator and grab a cup of coffee, then I walk into my office with my head down as I review the slowly growing list of injuries Tyler handed me.
A few new ones. Others have been cleared to play. Nixon is the only one who’s been moved under my name for care. Today’s going to be—
“Missed you on our runs the past few mornings.” Lucas’s voice is gravelly with a questioning tone and is most definitely not what I expected to hear when I enter my office.
“Argh.” I yelp and startle so badly that it’s amazing my coffee didn’t spill over the side of my cup. “Luc—what are—why are you in here?”
“I have an appointment with you,” he says nonchalantly, his eyes lighting up with amusement for the smile he’s fighting.
“No, you don’t.” Why am I so mad at him? I move toward the opposite side of my office to be as far as possible from him.
“Yes. I do,” he states, pulling on both ends of the towel hanging from his neck.