5. Ryan
5
Ryan
“Hello?” I say, answering my ringing phone to a number I don’t recognize.
“Mr. Steele,” Emma Carter’s voice travels down the line.
“Miss Carter,” I reply, smiling widely.
I’ve been expecting this call. I’ll be honest, I was expecting it sooner, but I think the flowers pushed her over the edge.
From the frosty reception I’d received on my first visit, I figured Miss Carter wouldn’t be able to tolerate my indulgences for very long, though with the guy’s advice, I made sure it wasn’t too over the top.
“Don’t make it too big,” Steve had said. “You’ll overwhelm her.”
“Yes,” John added. “You want to win her over, not get yourself a restraining order.”
It’s taken her four days, but I’m glad she’s called.
“This has gone on long enough, Mr. Steele. It has to stop.”
“First of all, my name is Ryan. Second of all, I agree. But it only stops if you agree to see me.”
I’m met with a deathly silence. I know she’s still there. I can hear her breathing. Clearly, she’s taking a moment to consider her position. A position where she really has no choice. But then, I did that on purpose.
“Fine,” she replies eventually. “Be at the clinic at 10:30 tomorrow. And bring your notes.”
“Thank you, Miss Carter,” I reply smugly. “I look forward to seeing you.”
When I hang up, I feel pretty pleased with myself. Sure, with my fame, it’s ridiculous that I’ve had to go to such lengths, but in a way, it’s been kind of refreshing.
Thomas walks into the living room about ten minutes later. “What are you grinning about?”
He’s his usual scowling self, but then, I’ve gotten used to that in the last few days.
“None of your darned business,” I reply, pushing myself up from the chair with a wince.
The following morning, John drives me into town. John the butler, not John, my friend. I know where his loyalties lie, though, so I get him to drop me off on Main Street. That way, he can’t run back to the house and report my whereabouts to my brother.
“Do you need me to wait, Mr. Steele?” he asks, after opening my door.
“I’m good, John. I can get a cab back.”
I don’t move until the car pulls away. It might be overkill, but I’m used to playing these cat-and-mouse games. Particularly with the media. Those guys don’t care about privacy. They’re only interested in their views. With the coast now clear, I head across the street—not at any great speed with the pain and this darn limp—and turn in the direction I need to go.
“Good morning, Mr. Steele,” Sharon says with a smile when I enter the clinic. “Won’t you please take a seat? Emma will be with you shortly.”
“Thanks,” I say, limping over to the seats flush against the wall.
There’s an awkward silence, and then she puts her head down to her keyboard again. Another minute later, she says, “Can I get you tea or coffee?”
“I’m good, but thanks.”
“Well, if there’s—”
A door opens across the room, and Sharon stops mid-sentence as Emma walks out with an efficient stride.
“Mr. Steele,” she says, her tone professional and cold. Ice cold.
“Ryan,” I correct, pushing myself to stand.
She doesn’t reply and just stands there, holding the door open, waiting for me to reach it. When I get to her, I dig into my jacket and hand her a thick folder.
“My notes.”
“Good,” she says, taking them out of my hand.
Jeez, she’s an ice queen.
But even with that thought, I can’t help but enjoy the sweet smell of jasmine and coconut as I pass by her.
As we continue down the corridor, she’s already flicking through the papers I’ve given her.
“Hmm, an MCL,” she says, more talking to herself than me.
I know exactly what my injury is, but I play dumb, just so I don’t get frostbite on the way to the treatment room. “What’s an MCL?” I say as we reach the doorway.
“A medial collateral ligament strain,” she replies, opening the door for me to enter. “The medial collateral ligament is a small, thick band of tissue on the inner side of the knee joint that connects the thigh and shin bone. The injury is common in athletes, particularly in soccer and other contact sports, like ice hockey.”
The room is as clean and bright as the outer office, but inside, it looks like something out of a Star Trek movie, with strange-looking apparatuses placed in different areas of the room. Okay. I’m impressed. John said she was good, but I didn’t expect such advanced equipment.
“Can you get up onto the bed for me, please?” she says without lifting her head from reading.
With no effort, I do as she asks, sitting there with my long legs resting on the floor while she continues to read.
The doc told me that it could take a couple of months to heal, but I’m not up for that. I need to be back on the ice, and soon, before I go stark raving mad with boredom. Sure, it’s painful, but pain is part of being a player. I’ve never yet come off the ice without a bruise, scrape, or swelling somewhere on my body.
When Emma is finally finished reading, she places the notes down on her desk and turns to me.
“Can you tell me where the pain is, Mr. Steele?”
“Only if you call me Ryan,” I reply. “I mean, I’m a paying patient. Isn’t it my right to be called what I want?”
She continues to gaze at me, and apart from the muscle in her jaw tightening, she stands there perfectly still with no other reaction. I’ll give her her due. That takes some skill. Especially given the fact that I’m being purposefully pedantic.
For a long moment, we seem to be stuck at an impasse, and then she takes a deep breath in and says, “I’m going to need you to remove your trousers and lie down on the bed, please.”
I nearly smirk at her complete avoidance of my name. She’s a clever one. But I do as I’m asked, and a second later, lying in the sports shorts I wore for this very occasion, I watch her approach the bed.
“I’m going to examine your knee. This may be painful.”
“Fire away,” I say confidently. “It’s been poked and prodded already.”
But I have to swallow my pride when her warm fingers press into my knee and I wince at the sharp pain.
“Sorry,” she says, sounding genuinely sorry.
“It’s alright,” I pant.
She continues to examine me, and I continue to moan, trying my best to swallow the sounds that are threatening to break out of my throat.
Not so cocky now, are we?
The agony continues for another minute, and then relief comes when she takes her hands away.
“Okay. You have quite severe damage to the ligament. It’s going to need intense treatment.”
Emma’s tone has changed. She now sounds like she actually cares, or like she’s talking to any other person but me. While I’m surprised, it also feels quite nice.
“You’ll need to come back here every day for at least two weeks. After that, we can assess the progress you’re making.”
“Great,” I say, sitting up on the bed.
“Please lie down again,” she says emotionlessly. “While you’re here, we might as well start your treatment now.”
“Oh. Sure thing.”
Another surprise. I was under the impression that I was being tolerated.
This is her job, you know.
And clearly, she’s professional enough to do it well, even if she does hate my guts.
Later that evening, I FaceTime the guys and tell them the news. They already know I managed to get an appointment, but they were both eager to know how it went and told me to let them know.
“All I can say is, it was warmer outside than it was in her office.”
“You only have yourself to blame,” Steve says, shaking his head. “You should have gone to someone else.”
“No. I don’t agree,” John jumps in. “If you want great care, you’re in the right place.”
I chuckle then. “I think we have two definitions of care, man.”
John rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to push her buttons. That might help.”
“I am not—”
But I don’t get to finish that sentence because both of them protest at the same time, talking over each other excitedly and more or less telling me that they know me too well.
*****
My next two appointments go pretty much the same as the first, but taking the guy’s advice, I try to behave. It’s not easy. A part of me is still upset at her blankly refusing to see me over something that happened nearly thirteen years ago. I mean, get over it, woman.
Surprisingly, however, the nicer I am, the warmer Emma becomes. I mean, I nearly fell off the bed this morning when she called me by my name. She even smiled when she saw my shock in her peripheral vision. And okay, I also acknowledged how pretty her eyes were when she did. But I couldn’t help saying something.
“I bet that was hard,” I said.
“No. Not really,” she replied, while at the same time, massaging the side of my knee.
Now, I’m back at the mansion, sitting in my shorts in an ice bath. I thought she was joking when she told me it would be good for the inflammation.
“You’re punishing me, aren’t you?”
She smiled again, which was no less surprising than the first time. “You can’t actually tell me that lying in an ice bath is going to be a hardship? You spend most of your life on the ice.”
“On it,” I qualified as I limped to the door. “Not in it.”
Holding the door open, she smirked. “Maybe it’ll put some hairs on your chest.”
But as I look down at myself now, no longer feeling the excruciating agony that made me gasp when I first slid into the tub, I can state for a fact that I have plenty of hairs on my chest, thanks very much.
When my phone begins to ring, I dry my hands and look at the caller ID. Taking a deep breath in, I answer.
“Hey, Phil,” I say, pretending that I’m glad to take his call.
Phil Breckland is my agent. He’s a very good agent, too, but there’s only one reason he’s calling me. He wants to talk about the mess I’m in.
“Hey, Ryan. How’re you holding up?”
“You mean, in my great big mansion, tucked away from the world?” I say dryly.
“Yes. You’ve got it hard, that’s for sure.”
We both laugh like we usually do. That’s why I like him; we’re nearly always on the same page.
“Listen, man. We’ve got to get on top of this. I’ve tried to give you a few days to gather yourself, but we can’t keep these vultures at bay much longer. Your reputation is on the line here, and we’ve got to pull something out of the bag, and quickly.”
“Okay. Hit me with ideas. What do I need to do?”
“We need a positive spin to distract them from the scandal,” Phil replies. “Maybe a charitable event, something to showcase your generosity.”
I nod. “That sounds good.”
“Sure,” Phil says, not really sounding sure at all, “but with how big this has gotten, I don’t think it’s going to be enough. I think we need to go big or go home.”
I can feel my heart thumping in my chest, and in dread of what he’s going to suggest, I say, “Like what?”
Phil heaves a sigh down the phone. “You’re not going to like it.”