Chapter 11
IVY
One Month Only
Gregory Stallworth appears like a vulture circling roadkill.
I'm loading equipment into my car after a long day when his shadow falls across the parking lot. The late afternoon sun glints off his Rolex. Everything about him, from his dark tailored suit to his wicked smile, screams predator.
"Dr. Chandler." His voice is smooth. Wrong. "Do you have a moment?"
Every instinct in me says no. "I'm actually in a hurry."
He blocks my path to the driver's side door.
"This won't take long. I wanted to discuss your research as a concerned representative of the players."
The words sound reasonable. His tone is anything but.
"What concerns?" I say in a level, professional tone. The way I've trained myself to talk when dealing with members of faculty who assume I'm an undergraduate assistant.
"Your presence is causing distractions and performance issues." He gestures vaguely at the facility behind us. "The injury to Mr. Volkov, for instance."
Anger slices through me. "Misha's injury had nothing to do with my research. He took a hit during play..."
"A hit that might have been avoided if certain players weren't distracted by other concerns." His cold eyes pin me in place. "We've also seen a correlation between your arrival and our recent losing streak."
"What losing streak? The team won the last game."
"But they've been losing since you arrived."
"That's statistically insignificant." I grab my tablet from the car, pulling up data. "The baseline testing shows early concussion vulnerability markers in three players that could prevent long-term damage. One of them is showing signs of consistent improvement with pre-clinical CTE..."
"Pre-clinical." He says it like it's a dirty word. "Meaning nothing's actually wrong yet."
"Meaning we can intervene before permanent damage occurs. That's the entire point of preventative research."
"Or perhaps it's creating anxiety where none existed. Making healthy players worry unnecessarily." A cold smile frames his face. "I'm suggesting you reconsider the scope of your work here, Dr. Chandler. Perhaps you should have fewer invasive assessments, spend less time in the facility."
The subtext is clear: disappear.
"I'm not changing my research protocols because of what you think, especially when your concerns aren't supported by actual data."
He chuckles. The sound makes my skin crawl.
"Data. You academics and your data. Sometimes the human element matters more than numbers on a screen."
"The human element is exactly what I'm trying to protect."
He tilts his head, studying me like I'm an interesting specimen.
"That's debatable. You might just be trying to prove yourself and make a name on the back of these men's careers."
The accusation drives more anger into my bones.
"I'm trying to keep them safe."
"So am I, Dr. Chandler. So am I." He steps back, giving me space. "Think about what I said, for everyone's sake."
Then he walks away, leaving me seething with barely controlled rage. I fumble with my keys, forcing my hands not to tremble as I unlock the door.
Assessment tools and the portable eye-tracking device that cost more than three months of my stipend sit in my trunk. I should arrange everything like the meticulous researcher I'm supposed to be.
Instead, I collapse into the driver's seat and jam the key into the ignition.
My car doesn't start.
I turn the key again. The engine makes a clicking sound that's universally recognized as 'dead battery, you're screwed.'
"No!" I slam my palm against the steering wheel. "Not now. Please not now."
Three more attempts yield the same result.
I pop the hood and climb out, then stare at the engine like I have any idea what I'm looking at. I don't. My expertise is in biomechanics and neuroscience, not automotive repair.
"Come on, you piece of..."
I grab a random wire and jiggle it.
Nothing happens. Obviously.
"Start working already!"
"That's not how engines work."
I jump, banging my head on the hood.
Declan is standing beside me, gym bag slung over one shoulder, dark hair damp from the shower. He's wearing jeans and a fitted black T-shirt that clings to every alluring muscle. Those green, amused eyes look soft.
He's concerned.
"Are you following me?" I snap, rubbing my head.
"I parked three spaces over." He nods toward a sleek black Mercedes. "I saw you murder your car and thought I'd intervene before you electrocute yourself."
"I'm not going to electrocute myself."
"You're holding a battery cable, Ivy."
I look down. He's right. Dropping it immediately, I step back from the engine.
"The battery is dead," I mutter.
"I can see that."
He moves closer, leaning over to examine the engine. I inhale his woodsy cologne and his scent.
"When was the last time you had it serviced?" he asks.
"I don't know... Six months. A year?"
He straightens, eyebrows raised. "A year?"
It costs a lot of money to service a beatdown car regularly. I try to square my shoulders but end up looking down at my shoes.
"I've been busy."
"Clearly." He closes the hood with gentle finality. "Come on. I'll drive you home."
"That's not necessary."
"Your alternatives are calling a tow truck and waiting or accepting a ride from someone who is offering." His lips curve into a smirk.
I hate that he's right about my needing help. That it's him offering with that infuriatingly handsome smirk and those eyes that see too much.
"Fine. But just a ride. Nothing else."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Doc."
An unwelcome flutter goes through my chest.
I gather my bag and equipment and follow him to his car, hyper-aware of how he walks slightly ahead but keeps glancing back to make sure I'm following. Like he thinks I might bolt.
The moment I enter his car, I realize how different it is from mine. It smells like leather and money. The interior is pristine: black leather, beautiful dashboard, not a single item out of place.
It's the car of someone who has his life together.
Unlike me, who doesn’t service her vehicle.
Declan slides into the driver's seat with easy grace, his presence filling the car. If I move a few inches, I can trace the tattoo on his arm with my fingers. He starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot.
"Where to?"
I tell him my address, then stare out the window, trying to ignore the way his hand looks on the gear shift. Strong, capable palms that cupped my jaw and pulled me into that kiss.
"You okay?" he asks after several minutes of silence.
"Fine."
"You're gripping the door handle like I kidnapped you."
I pry my fingers away from the handle.
"Just tired. It's been a long day."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly."
"Suit yourself."
He says the words like he doesn't care how I feel, even though he finds my lips pleasurable. King would ask gentle questions until I opened up. He'd know exactly how to ease the tension inside me.
Declan just drives, giving me space.
The city slides past my window. Rush hour traffic means we're moving slower than I'd like, which means more time trapped in this car that smells like him. I try not to notice how his forearms flex when he shifts gear or how his lips move as he sings an unfamiliar song in a baritone.
When he glances in my direction, heat pools low in my belly.
This is bad.
"Gregory talked to you today, didn't he?" he says, cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
I turn sharply. "How did you know?"
"I saw him in the parking lot and saw your face after he left." His jaw tightens. "What did he say?"
"Nothing important."
"Ivy."
"He thinks my research is distracting the team and wants me to scale back," I say in a bitter tone. "Apparently, I'm bad for performance, according to him."
"That's bullshit."
I laugh without humor. "Misha got hurt. The team's been losing, except for the last two games you won. Maybe he's right."
"He's not." Declan's voice carries an edge I haven't heard before. "Your research is important. Gregory is an asshole who doesn't like things he can't control. Don't believe a word of anything he says."
His tone makes me study his face. His expression looks neutral, but he's gripping the steering wheel and his shoulders are bunched up with tension.
"He’s your agent, right?"
"Unfortunately."
"Then why did you let him sign you up? Why are you still with him?"
He sighs. "It's a long story about family history. Not worth getting into."
But I want to get into it. I want to know why his voice hardened and his hands tightened on the wheel. I want to understand the Declan inside, the one behind the cocky smirks and penetrating kisses.
The thought terrifies me.
Because understanding Declan means getting closer to him and risking my research, my credibility, everything I've worked for.
King is safer. He sends flowers and food and has thoughtful conversations that don’t threaten my career or my heart. Except my heart is already threatening itself by pounding too hard every time Declan looks at me.
We pull up outside my apartment building as the sun sets, turning the sky orange. The temperature has dropped to a sharp evening chill. I turn to thank him before leaving.
"Do you want to come in?"
The traitorous invitation slips out of my mouth as I glance at that angular face with stubble. His eyebrows rise.
"Are you sure?"
I should retract the invitation to maintain professional distance. But my desire to know him more scrambles my brain cells.
"I have wine. Cheap wine but wine. Consider it payment for the ride."
A slow smile spreads on his face, transforming him from arrogant athlete to dangerously appealing.
"How can I refuse an offer like that?"
Once we enter my apartment, I regret inviting Declan in. Research papers cover every surface. Books are stacked in precarious towers. My couch is buried under three days of laundry I haven't folded.
"Sorry about the mess," I mutter, frantically clearing space. "I wasn't expecting company."