Chapter 2 #2
“Torn rotator cuff, some nerve damage.” My jaw tightened. “Surgery scheduled for a few weeks from now, but they want me to regain some mobility before I go under the knife.”
He bit his lip, and my cock twitched. “How are you managing the pain?”
“Pills. Therapy. Not sleeping much.” I shrugged with my good shoulder. “The usual rehab routine.”
“What do you do? For work, I mean. Something that uses your body.”
“Yeah. NFL quarterback.” My voice carried more exhaustion than I intended. “Was, anyway.”
Why did I add that last part?
“Mmm.” His hands hovered near my shoulder, not quite touching. “Your body's been protecting itself, holding all that tension. I can help with that.”
His understanding caught me off guard. Most physical therapists talked mechanics and exercises. This guy seemed to get the deeper shit.
“Vincent said you do therapeutic work.”
“Among other things.” He smiled, warmth and mischief mixing in his voice. “I work with the entire package—body, heart, whatever needs attention. Sometimes what hurts on the surface isn't the real problem.”
Right. This guy was selling a complete experience, complete with new-age buzzwords. But then he smiled, and all I could think about was buying whatever the hell he was selling. I found myself studying his face, seeing nothing but genuine interest. And attraction.
Don't overthink this, Cord. It's therapy. With benefits.
“What did you have in mind?”
“For now? Let your body tell me what it wants. See how you respond to my touch.” The way he said it made every word sound like foreplay. “No pressure, just... listening.”
Made me think of other kinds of touching, other ways my body might respond to him.
“And if I want more than just listening?”
“Then we explore.” His smile turned knowing. “I'm good at giving people exactly what they need.”
My pulse kicked up at the promise in his voice. The air between us felt charged.
“I'd like that.”
“I'd love to work with you, but—” He gestured to the yoga mats still scattered around, the lingering scent of sweat and sandalwood. “I've got another group coming in about an hour. Could you come back tonight? We'd have the space to ourselves.”
“Sure,” I heard myself saying. There was an easy confidence about him, genuine warmth that differed from the usual professional bullshit.
When was the last time someone offered to help without wanting something in return?
“Perfect.” He touched my good shoulder, and even that brief contact sent heat through me. “Bring something comfortable that you can move in.”
After I left Dusty's studio, I checked my phone and regretted it. Text messages from Ruben glowed on the screen: ESPN wants to schedule interview about comeback timeline. TMZ asking about your absence, they think you checked yourself into rehab. Keeping quiet but won't last.
Fuck. I shoved the phone into my pocket. Even sanctuary came with deadlines.
My shoulder throbbed, a dull ache that had become my constant companion since the hit.
I'd already taken my morning pill, but the temptation to take another tugged at me.
Just one more to get through the day without thinking about the surgery, or interviews, or the fact that I might never play again.
I decided to explore before dinner, walking the grounds to clear my head.
The stone pathways wound through carefully landscaped gardens, connecting the various buildings scattered across the property.
I passed the cluster of massage huts near the pool, their Spanish Colonial design matching the main building.
The nightclub sat dark and quiet this early in the day, but I could hear music starting to pulse from inside as staff prepared for the evening.
The fitness center's glass walls showed rows of equipment that would put most professional training facilities to shame. A few men worked out inside, their bodies gleaming with sweat. Beyond that, the equestrian center sprawled across a cleared section of property, horses visible in their stalls.
Private cabanas ringed the main pool, their gauzy curtains shifting in the breeze.
Men lounged in the hot tubs with attractive companions, the sounds of their pleasure mixing with splashing water and low conversation.
A couple emerged from one of the cabanas, wrapped in robes and looking thoroughly satisfied.
Further down the main path, the private villas began.
Each one was tucked beneath massive oak trees, offering complete privacy behind landscaped screens.
I could just make out clay-tiled roofs and small private pools through the foliage.
The entire property had this deliberate flow to it, public spaces transitioning gradually to more intimate areas the further you walked from the main building.
A year ago, that would have been me in the middle of it all, not a care in the world.
But now I was here, like a spectator at a party I was no longer invited to. How do I explain to them that I'm damaged? That I'm still not sure what I can take and give to a lover? How far I can push my own limits here in this playground for fucking?
I probably shouldn't get too fucked up, literally and figuratively, before my yoga date, so I satisfied myself with just watching the others get their nuts drained.
By early evening, I made my way to the main dining room, a rustic space with exposed beams and massive stone fireplaces. I'd planned to eat alone, but spotted a familiar face at a corner table.
“Cord Morales?” The stocky black man stood as I passed his table. “Kendon Michaels. We've never met, but I've analyzed your games from the booth more times than I can count.”
Kendon Michaels. Retired about ten years ago after a solid career with Tampa Bay, now working for ESPN as one of their studio analysts. I knew the name, knew his stats. Good quarterback, smart player, fun to watch on NFL Primetime when I was a kid.
“No shit.” I shook his hand. “Good to meet you in person. Mind if I join you? Eating alone gets old.”
“Please.” He gestured for me to sit as he settled back into his chair, waving the server over to take my order. “I have to ask—how's the shoulder healing up?”
Here we go again. But something in his tone suggested he wanted to know, not just making conversation.
“Getting there,” I said, the standard response I'd perfected. “They've got me scheduled for surgery in a few weeks.”
“Good luck with that.” He cut into his steak with precision. “I had a couple shoulder surgeries before I called it quits. The physical part's hard enough without all the other bullshit.”
He gets it. I knew he meant the media circus, the speculation, the way everyone felt entitled to an opinion about my future.
“You ever miss it?” I asked.
“The game? Every damn day.” He smiled, rueful. “But not the pressure. Not the way everyone wanted to own a piece of you. What I do now...” He gestured with his fork. “It keeps me close to football without all the weight. Travel to the big games, analyze plays, but I'm home most of the year.”
“Sounds like a good gig.”
“It is. ESPN pays well, especially for guys who played the game and can break down the mental side of it.” He studied me for a moment.
“Plus, I got lucky. Bought into a couple tech startups with my last signing bonus. Everyone thought I was crazy.” His smile spoke volumes.
“One of them turned into something big.”
So that's how he can afford the membership fee here. Nice.
He took another bite of his steak. “If you're ever interested in broadcasting, I could put in a good word.”
Television?
“Never thought about it before. Then again, never thought about life after football.” I shrugged as my roast chicken and vegetables was set before me. “Always thought I had at least a decade before I had to worry about it.”
“That's the truth,” he said. “But let me know if you change your mind.”
Sitting behind a booth wasn't exactly on my list of dream jobs, but it was good knowing someone out there was doing it and enjoying it. Something to think about. If the surgery doesn't work out.
“I appreciate that.”
We talked for another hour after finishing our meals. Kendon shared some stories from his time in the league, and it reminded me how much I loved that part of my life, just talking about sports.
When we stood to leave, Kendon shook my hand again, careful of my shoulder. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Cord. Good luck with everything.”
I left the restaurant feeling a flicker of something I hadn't felt in weeks.
Hope, maybe. The evening had cooled further, and the property had transformed.
Lights strung between buildings cast everything in warm gold.
Music pulsed from the nightclub now, and the pools glowed turquoise in the darkness.
I walked back toward my suite, my mind replaying what Kendon had said about broadcasting.
Maybe there were options I hadn't considered.
But then a sharp twinge from my shoulder sent a jolt up my neck, a brutal reminder of my reality.
One pleasant conversation wasn't a cure.
It was just a distraction. Options were for guys who could still lift their arm over their head without wincing.
I checked the time on my phone. Almost time for my evening dose. Good. I fumbled with the bottle, dry-swallowing the pill as I walked. I needed to be steady for my appointment with Dusty. I needed the familiar, welcome quiet to descend.