CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Emery
It takes me longer than expected to be ready to head home.
My ride home on the personnel bus from the stadium to the team headquarters took a turn for chaos when it got a flat tire. The wait for a repair was so long that the team bus was able to drop the players off at the complex and then come back to get us.
I signaled ahead for another trainer to take care of any player needs since I was stuck on the bus.
When we finally got to the offices, I made the decision to finish all my notes there, distraction-free, while they were still fresh in my head.
I added comments to my player files of what I saw and didn’t see from those patients of mine who did see reps on the field.
I noted who was hesitant, who pulled back, and those who looked like they weren’t suffering from an injury at all when I damn well know they are.
When I finish player notes, I’m shocked to see that it’s 10:30 p.m.
“Whoa,” I mutter and press my fingers to my eyes. “Thirty more minutes.”
That’s the time frame I give myself to document my observations of the Rebels’ medical team mechanism as a whole.
Today was the first day I could see the program in action during a game.
Each cog turned for their different function, but there was some obvious discombobulation there.
It might just be a new season snafu or inherent issues that need to be addressed, improved, or streamlined.
I make notes to watch for them next preseason game and research options to elevate the program that I can add to my proposal when I present it at the conclusion of my probationary period.
And as I gather my things to head out, it’s rather ridiculous that I keep reliving each and every play Lucas was part of.
The side arm toss. The Hail Mary down the field.
The play action pass to the tight end through a break in the line.
And while there might have been shoulder discomfort, he showed no signs of it.
I know it’s not because of anything I’ve done with him in the few short weeks he’s been my patient, but a strong showing is a strong showing nonetheless, and I’ll take the small victory. I’ll help him build on it. We’ll shift toward prevention now over rehabilitation.
By the time I swipe my pass on the way out of the complex, the halls are quiet and the place is vacant save for the security guard sitting at his desk.
“Last one out again, Doc?” he asks.
“Story of my life,” I say with a tired smile.
“This city has a lot to offer you. You need to get out more,” he says, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I know. I’m still getting my feet under me. That usually takes a couple months . . . and then I will.”
“Ah, a Type A perfectionist,” he says.
“Something like that,” I say as he pushes open the front doors for me.
“Mm-hmm. May I suggest you quicken the pace or else life is going to pass you by.”
My feet falter as I stop and look at him, give him a subtle nod in acknowledgment. “I know. I’m working on doing just that one day at a time.”
“Good. Life’s too short.” He waves me off. “Have a good night, Doc.”
The doors shut behind me with a heavy click. The parking lot is dim despite the lights buzzing overhead making the shadows stretch longer than they should. I scan the lot for my car and groan.
Shit. That’s right. I forgot I parked around in the corner lot because the buses were blocking the main lot entrance when I pulled in here today.
I adjust the strap of my bag and start walking, cognizant that I’m alone in the dark, but not really worried considering this place has serious security.
“Sorry about your bus and the tire.”
I startle, my shoes scraping on the pavement and my hand going immediately to my heart.
Lucas is leaning against the brick wall near the corner. He looks relaxed with his casual shorts and team crewneck, and yet I can tell the adrenaline from the game is still humming through him.
My pulse spikes for more reasons than just being startled.
“No big deal,” I say. “Those things happen.”
“I tried calling to see if you needed a ride. I didn’t see your car here”—he motions to the lot at my back. “Just wanted to make sure you had a way to get home.”
“I must have had my phone on do not disturb. Sorry. My car is over there.”
He nods. “You’re here late.”
“I had a lot of notes to make. I was busy.”
“You’re always busy, Emery. I thought you were trying to live some.” He tilts his head to the side, those blue eyes of his searching mine as the silence stretches.
I open my mouth and then close it. Why does he seem so annoyed? Did I do something wrong?
“What? No congratulations for a good game?”
I study him for a beat. For such a good showing, he seems irritated. Or is it that he had a good showing, and I didn’t praise him like he’s probably used to?
“You played exceptionally well,” I say.
His mouth tilts. “So, you did watch.”
“Of course, I watched,” I say. He knows I did. I smiled at him after his touchdown. “You’re my patient. It’s my job to watch so I can maybe catch something you’re hiding from me. How’s it feeling—”
“You watched because it was your job,” he states.
“Yes.”
“But for no other reason,” he says evenly and then chortles. “Yeah, I guess I couldn’t expect that.”
I laugh and decide to call him on it. “Is the Lucas Hale missing the acclamation?”
He pushes off the wall and moves toward me. “Yes.”
“Lucas—”
“I’m missing more than that though.”
“Like . . .?”
“Like I’m missing our morning runs. I miss seeing you on my doorstep at the apartments. I’ve even missed you during our last two torture sessions when a PT has had to fill in for you.”
“I was called into meetings—”
“Conveniently,” he says, annoyance and something else lacing his tone. Frustration? Over what though? “But what I miss more than anything, Emery, is you.”
Oof. That’s why the frustration.
I glance around in a minor panic. This isn’t the place to have this conversation even if we’re the only two people here. “Lucas, we’re both at our place of work right now. We can’t—and professionally we can’t—”
“But what if we both agreed that we wanted something more?”
“More?” I bark out the syllable, and the few chords of my laugh that follow sound hysterical as I deny the truth. “I’m flattered you think that, but—”
“Tell me I’m wrong, Emery,” he insists, voice rough.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
He steps closer and I inhale sharply. His soap. His shampoo. The fullness of his lips. The scruff on his jaw.
For a minute I forget that I’m not supposed to like him.
“Lucas.” His name is a plea. A promise. A warning.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know all the reasons. I know the risks. But avoiding me and professional consequences don’t mean that whatever we feel when we’re around each other isn’t real.”
My heart pounds so hard it drowns out everything else.
“This can’t happen,” I say. “It doesn’t matter if you want it to and I want it to, it just can’t happen. Even this conversation shouldn’t be happening. I’m sure there are cameras and—”
“Not on this side there isn’t.”
“I have to get home.” Every bone in my body wants him. It’s stupid. It’s crazy. “This is exactly—”
He grabs my arm as I walk past him and yanks me firmly against him. “What neither of us wants,” he says. “Drop your bag.”
“What? Why?” I ask, flustered. He takes my bag from me and sets it on the ground.
“Because you’re going to need both hands for this,” he says seconds before his lips slant over mine.
I freeze momentarily as my mind tries to catch up with what my body is feeling.
Heat.
Desire.
Him.
The kiss isn’t gentle.
It’s not rushed.
It’s devastating.
His lips tease mine like they’ve been holding back for days—weeks—and the instant his lips part, I’m gone.
I melt into the kiss without thought, without caution, without anything but the heat unfurling in my belly and the slow, sweet ache burning at the apex of my thighs.
My hands clutch at his shirt, fingers curling tight into the fabric as a tactile reminder that he’s solid and real and right here.
His hands slide to my waist, fingertips scraping under the hem of my shirt. His touch is warm and steady, and my body sparks in response as if every nerve is waking up at once.
My knees threaten to give out as his tongue tangles with mine.
My pulse pounds in my ears as the groan deep in his throat washes over me.
This is wrong.
This is everything.
I kiss him back like I’m branding the moment into my memory. The taste of his kiss. The firm press of his body against mine. The broken, wrecked way he breathes my name against my mouth.
It feels inevitable.
Like something my body has known long before my brain can catch up.
And then fear crashes in.
Cold. Sharp. Unforgiving.
“No man wants a woman who loves her work more than she could ever love him. The fancy initials after your name don’t mean shit.” It’s Jared’s voice first.
Then Lucas’s from moments ago. “You’re always busy, Emery. I thought you were trying to live some.”
I press against his chest, trying to break the kiss. I can’t do this again. Can’t compromise who I am and what I want for someone else no matter how damn much I want this kiss. Want him.
“Lucas.” It’s breathless. Shaky. Uncertain. “Stop. We have to . . . stop.”
He does immediately but not without a groan that I feel deep in my bones.
His hands drop. His eyes search my face as my lips still tingle from his.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper.
He nods once—hurt and desire and confusion a mixture swimming in his eyes. “Okay.”
That single word somehow hurts worse than an argument.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back, picking up my bag, and looking around out of fear. What did I just do? And in the one place it can’t happen? “I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have—”
“Emery.”
I pause, drop my head for a beat, but don’t turn to face him. “Congrats on the game,” I say quietly. “You deserved to have that.”
And then I walk away, hands shaking, his addictive taste still on my tongue. The feel of his fingers still burning my skin.
And for the first time since I told myself this couldn’t happen, I stop lying to myself.
The hardest part won’t be wanting him.
It will be seeing him across rooms, hearing his voice, remembering the feel of his hands on my skin, and choosing over and over not to let myself have him.