3. Brock
3
brOCK
I ’m getting too old for this. There’s really no denying it. I’ll never willingly give up playing hockey, but my body just can’t seem to handle the extreme punishment it gets on the ice like it used to. It takes me longer to get up when I fall and my recovery time after injuries is almost laughable. But pushing that puck around the ice still gives me an adrenaline rush like nothing else.
Well, almost nothing else.
I’ve always enjoyed and appreciated women. Their soft, luscious curves are enough to drive a man insane. But I’ve never been completely bonkers for a woman before.
That’s truly the only way to describe my extreme reaction to Dr. Caroline Wilson. Simply talking to her on the phone is enough to have me daydreaming about her the entire damn day. And my nighttime dreams about her… Well, let’s just say, they certainly aren’t rated PG.
The really crazy part is, I don’t even think she likes me very much. Sometimes, she’ll open up a tiny bit, and I’ll think she’s actually trying to awkwardly flirt with me. But then, a moment later, she shuts off and is as elusive and distant as ever. It’s absolutely maddening.
Tonight’s game was a tough one. We ended up pulling out a win with a last-second shot that brought us to a score of 3-2, but over the course of the game, I received more illegal, forceful cross-checks into the boards than I can count. As soon as our rivals realized that the stripes were lenient about calling penalties, the game took on an unprecedented level of roughness.
The fans loved it. There was a time when I would have loved it, too. In fact, my mind and heart love it now, but my aching body is complaining––loudly.
I sink into the icy bath and squeeze my eyes shut as the initial tingling pain shifts into numbness. Even though I have loved the ice rink my entire life, being cold really isn’t on my list of favorite things. I gladly endure the temporary discomfort, though, because I know it will help reduce my post-game inflammation and sore muscles.
Uncertain if it’s her irresistible scent or just my general awareness of her nearness, I peek one eye open just in time to see Dr. Wilson swish past me on her way to properly stitch up Stoner’s cheek. He took a puck to the face and kept right on playing––earning him the respect of our fellow players and the fans on both sides of the stands.
The mental image of the beautiful doctor leaning over to stitch me up has my open eye falling shut as I imagine her tender touch caring for me, rather than Stoner. Somehow, the buttoned-up silk shirts the woman wears under her starched white medical coat are even more sexy than a lacy, low-cut top ever could be.
I sink deeper into the frigid water and allow my naughty thoughts of the team doctor to keep me warm.
The doctor’s eyes are filled with alarm as she shakes my shoulder. “Brock, wake up! You’ve been submerged for more than fifteen minutes. We need to get you out of there now.”
I glance around the medical recovery room and am startled to realize that I completely lost track of time. The other players have cleared out, leaving me alone with the gorgeous doctor.
As soon as I move to emerge from the water, she places a warm hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy. Let’s go nice and slow.”
I can think of plenty of things I want to take ‘nice and slow’ with her, but I manage to keep that to myself as I follow her instructions and climb out of the water.
She wraps a warm towel around my shoulders, and I’m horrified to realize that I’m shivering. This is not at all the tough, manly impression I want to give her. The way she’s rubbing her hands up and down my arms is nice, though––really nice.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t paying closer attention to the time.” Her big, beautiful eyes shine with sincerity as she gazes at me.
“It’s not your fault,” I assure her.
“It is, though,” she chastises herself. “Stoner was such a mess that I gave him my full attention. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”
I can’t stop the flash of jealousy that spears through me at the thought of Stoner having her ‘full’ attention. That envy quickly dissipates, though, as she puts her arm around me to guide me to the cushy leather sofa. The fact that she doesn’t seem the slightest bit concerned about getting wet or cold is completely endearing.
Once we’re seated beside each other, she leans over me to grab a folded blanket from the edge of the sofa. Mumbling almost to herself, she says, “We need to get you warmed up.”
I’m tempted to tell her that being beside her is warming me up faster than anything else could, but when she wraps the blanket around me and tucks it in on both sides of my hips, words completely fail me.
No amount of cold water in the world could douse the fire that spreads through my veins at having the literal woman of my dreams fussing over me like this, right after I’d been dozing and picturing all of the naughty things that I’d like to do with her.
The blanket over my lap does little to hide the straining from my swim trunks. Her eyes are drawn downward, then they widen in surprise at the sight.
“Oh!” She jumps backward as if it is a snake that may strike her at any moment. Looking down at the floor and nervously tucking her hair behind her ear, she says, “Umm, I’ll give you some privacy.”
Not wanting to leave things with her on this uncomfortable note, I try to make light of the situation by saying, “You’re a doctor, so I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t seen a million times before.”
“Right,” she agrees as she stands to leave. Turning back in my direction but staring at the floor, she says, “It’s just a natural, physical reaction. No big deal at all.”
I can tell by her high-pitched tone and nervous mannerisms that it is a big deal to her, but I’m not sure what to say or do to put her at ease.
Indicating the bulging blanket even though she refuses to raise her gaze from the ground, I say, “Obviously I’m very attracted to you, but I would never act on my primal urges without your enthusiastic consent.”
“Oh, I know you wouldn’t do anything like that.” Her voice comes out in a shrill half-shout, then she lets out an awkward giggle, whirls around, and scurries out the door.
I tip my head back on the couch, stare at the ceiling and say sarcastically to the empty room, “Real smooth, Brick Man.”