Chapter 2
“Okay,” Dr. Maren says and puts down his pen. He stands up, walks to a narrow closet in the corner, and pulls out a hospital gown. The flimsy, tie-in-the-back kind. He folds it once and sets it on the table next to me.
“Put this on. Everything off underneath. Then lie back for me. I want to check a few things.”
A physical. Right. That makes sense, I guess. At least we’re done with the therapy talk. I was starting to think this guy wasn’t gonna prescribe me anything at all. Maybe this is the last hoop I gotta jump through before he hands over the magic pill.
“Sure thing.” I grab the gown and head toward the bathroom door he points me to.
The washing machine is louder in here. Like a drum solo through the wall.
I strip down, toss my sweats and team hoodie on the counter.
Catch myself in the mirror. Except for a deep purple bruise across my ribs from a hit I took last Friday, I look good.
Broad shoulders, thick arms, abs carved out from thousands of hours in the weight room.
I look healthy. Strong. Every inch an athlete.
So why does one part of me feel so broken?
I pull on the gown. Pale green, thin, scratchy. Makes me look like I belong in a psych ward. I feel exposed walking back into the exam room, bare-assed under this flimsy thing. But I lie down on the table like he asked.
Dr. Maren is putting on a pair of gloves. A snap of latex against his wrist. He has a medical cart now, with some metal instruments I don’t recognize. He pulls a stool up to the side of the table, right by my waist.
“First, I’m just going to do a quick reflex check and some nerve sensitivity tests. Standard procedure.”
He taps my knee with one of those little rubber hammers. My leg kicks out like a puppet. He does the other knee. Same thing. Then he runs something sharp along the bottom of my foot, and I flinch so hard the paper rips.
“Ticklish?”
“Little bit.”
“Good. That means the nerves in your lower extremities are functioning fine.” He pauses, looking at me.
And for the first time, I notice how intense those eyes are.
Brown, but with flecks of gold around the pupils.
They don’t blink. “I’m going to check your blood pressure, then do a basic abdominal and genital exam. Alright?”
Great. Just how I wanted to spend my afternoon.
He wraps a blood pressure cuff around my arm and pumps it until my fingers go numb. Watches the gauge. Lets it deflate. Doesn’t say anything, just writes a number down.
“Why do you have this setup at your house?” I ask, trying to make conversation before he gets all handsy. “Is this even legal?”
He gives me a small, tight smile. “I have a medical license. I just choose to practice outside the system. More privacy for people like you. I have a very specific client list. Athletes, celebrities, politicians. People who can’t afford to have their problems end up in some database somewhere.”
I smile weakly. “So you’re a doctor for the rich and fucked-up.”
“Something like that.” He pulls the stethoscope from around his neck and moves behind me. “Sit up and take a few deep breaths.”
I do, filling my lungs with the sterile, antiseptic smell of the room. The cold circle of the stethoscope presses against my back, between my shoulder blades. Then another spot, lower down. When Dr. Maren is satisfied with my breathing, he moves to the front.
His gloved fingers press into my side, near the ribs. His thumb grazes the bruise, and I hiss through my teeth.
“That’s a nasty contusion. When did you get this?”
“Last Friday. Blindside hit.”
He presses around it. “Nothing broken. Have you been icing it?”
“Religiously.”
“Good.” He moves to my stomach, pressing below the rib cage. “Does this hurt?”
“No.”
He moves lower. “Here?”
“Nah.”
There’s this weird feeling when his hands get close to my hips. A tingle. Warmth spreading across my skin under the scratchy gown. Nerves, of course. This whole situation is nerve-wracking. I can’t help but notice how close his hands are getting to my dick.
It’s what doctors do, I know that. But having some dude you’ve never met pressing and prodding and squeezing all up in your business is just... fucking weird.
But the last thing I want is for him to notice how tense I am, so I just lie there, staring at the popcorn ceiling, trying to pretend I’m somewhere else.
“Lymph nodes feel normal,” he says, more to himself than to me. “No hernias.”
And then he says the words I’ve been dreading.
“I’m going to need to examine your penis and testicles now.”
I try to swallow, but my throat is sandpaper. “Right.”
He lifts the gown to my waist. Matter-of-fact. Like he’s checking under the hood of a car. Cool air rolls over my skin, and I fight every instinct to cover myself.
“Try to relax.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one lying bare-assed on a table with a dude’s face in his crotch.
He’s gentle. I’ll give him that. Handles my junk like it’s a fragile piece of equipment, turning it this way and that.
A strange warmth spreads through me. Involuntary.
My hips shift. Just a little. He cups my balls, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger.
Checking for lumps, I guess. I know this part.
Team physicals. But team physicals are always rushed. A quick cough, a grab, and you’re done.
Dr. Maren is thorough. Focused. He checks everything. The base, the shaft, the tip. And I have to stop myself from thinking about how it feels, because it feels... weird. Not bad. But weird. A little too good, maybe. And that’s the last thing I need right now.
But it’s like telling yourself not to think about a purple elephant. The second you try, it’s standing right there in the middle of the room.
And then it happens.
Against my will, warmth floods my groin. That faint tingle from before ignites into a full-blown fire. A hot spark shoots up my spine.
What in the actual fuck?
My dick starts to swell. Slowly at first, then faster. Filling with blood, stiffening against my thigh. No. Not now. Not here. How is that even possible?
I squeeze my eyes shut. Think of anything else. Football. Playbooks. That stupid fucking washing machine in the other room. But it’s too late.
I’m getting hard.
And he’s holding my dick.