10. Joey
10
Joey
F or the last nine-plus years, I made it my mission to avoid being alone with Brent. I did a good job of it too—with his help, since he’d done the same—until the night at the club.
So how am I in this situation, the two of us alone in the home gym?
My hands are burning on Brent’s warm skin, my face is hot, and my fingers are tingling as they smooth over his knee. I’ve never felt more awkward or uncomfortable, and I’ve had many moments where I’ve been both, most recently at the hotel after a humiliating night.
But even more humiliating was the night, many years ago, when he kissed me, then recoiled in horror when he touched my body.
I’m the one touching his body this time. Telling myself that isn’t helping. In fact, it makes me more hyperaware of what I’m doing. I no longer have to imagine how his skin feels, if his muscles are as hard as they appear, or…
Okay, I need to pull it together before other parts of my body begin to burn too. I force myself to pretend he’s merely another client and to focus on his injury. Without meeting his gaze, I evaluate his knee, moving my fingers over the muscles and ligaments around it. One hand is under his knee to support it while I carefully move his lower leg in various directions.
“I think the additional workouts you’ve been putting in to prepare for training camp are tightening everything up,” I conclude in my best professional tone. “Are you stretching properly afterward?”
“Probably not as much as I should,” he admits.
“Have someone help you with that in addition to some knee-strengthening exercises. And I’d suggest a brace to keep everything stable during your workouts. You should be fine by training camp as long as you don’t overdo it. If you’re up to it, we’ll do a few simple movements today.”
He’s lying on his mother’s therapy table, hands behind his head. His gaze, fixed on me, lowers to my mouth when I bite my lip.
“Sure.”
Too busy trying to avoid his eyes and breathe normally, I almost forget what he is agreeing to.
I work him through some easy exercises, although probably not so easy for him if he’s in pain. He doesn’t complain, but I stop after a while when I notice the strain on his face.
“That’s enough for tonight,” I say, sliding the exercise band off his leg. “I’ll massage out the tightness and help you stretch.”
I focus on his leg so I don’t drool over the cut muscles of his biceps and triceps that are on display. His hands are locked behind his head again, his stare steady on my face.
Trying to pretend it isn’t Brent whose warm skin and hard muscles I’m stroking is impossible. Even more so when he starts talking.
“So you’re a trainer and a physical therapist?”
“Yes.” Unnerved when he continues staring at me, I add, “I’m taking classes in nutrition now.”
“Really? I’ve been reading more about the role of nutrition in healing.”
His words surprise me into meeting his gaze. “Yes, and in preventing injuries to begin with. Do you follow a special diet?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I try to eat clean, organic, and healthy—most of the time. But let’s face it, I’m getting older and the hits are taking their toll.”
It’s funny to consider him “older.” He won’t be thirty for another few months, but in the Not-For-Long league, the average age is twenty-six.
“I heard you had a chef on the West Coast. You should try to find one here who’s knowledgeable about anti-inflammatory foods and the proper nutrition required for an athlete like you.”
Brent doesn’t say anything, so I continue working on him quietly. I flick a glance at his face to see if he’s falling asleep and find him still staring at me. I duck my head, flustered by the intensity of his gaze.
“We didn’t do a lot to make you sore, but you can put some ice on the knee to help with any inflammation.” I remove my hands from his leg and back away a step. “Use a brace and have someone tape it up before your workouts, so you have some added stability.”
I pause uncertainly. His face is expressionless as he sits up. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and it’s disconcerting. My fingers—and other parts—are still tingling from contact with his warm, supple skin. Other parts of me are tingling from thoughts of sliding my hands higher up his leg. My face heats up. I busy myself putting away the equipment we used.
He gets off the table gingerly. “When do you start with the Firebirds?”
“Just before training camp, in two weeks.”
“How would you like to be my therapist in the meantime? I don’t want anyone with the team to know my knee’s been giving me problems.”
Surprised, I ask, “You want me to work on your knee?”
“Why not? You just proved you know what you’re doing. You’re a great therapist.”
His words mean so much to me, coming from him. Not just as Brent, the man I’ve crushed on forever, but as one of the best NFL players—someone who’ll end up in the Hall of Fame one day.
“Would you be able to come every day to the city for the sessions?” he asks. “Like Charlie said, I should have it rehabbed before camp starts. Of course, I’ll pay you—” He puts his palm up when I start to protest. “I’ll pay you like I would pay any other therapist. What do you say?”
I stare at him in consternation but then give in with a nod. “Sure. Sandra and Charlie will never let me hear the end of it otherwise. But three times a week is plenty. You don’t want to overdo it.”
“You said you’re also experienced as an athletic trainer, so let’s find out what you’ve got there too. You’ll be able to strut your stuff by saying you’ve worked with me.”
I laugh at his complete lack of modesty. How wonderful it must be to be so confident. But then, why shouldn’t he be?
His offer is a good one despite the alarm bells in my head going off in self-preservation. Working for a well-known, top-tier NFL player would be a huge boost to my career goals, not to mention the connections I’d be able to make through him.
“Okay, but remember, I start the new job in two weeks, so it’s only until then.”
“Sure, but I could use you during the regular season too,” he replies. “You’ll be done at the Firebirds by then, right?”
“But you’ll have the team trainers at your disposal.”
“I’d rather have you.”
My face heats at his double entendre, intentional or not.
“Especially,” he continues, “for minor things I’d rather they not know about. You know how it is? Something’s always hurting.”
Why does everything he says suddenly have a hidden meaning? Is he doing it intentionally? His face gives nothing away, though I think I catch a teasing glint in his eyes.
“Come on. I could really use the extra sessions. And I promise to provide an excellent reference when you’re ready to move on.”
My heart beats fast and hard as Brent stares at me intently, as if he’s willing me to say yes. But can I work with him for months, be so close to him, put my hands on him every day, and still maintain a professional relationship?
So what if it doesn’t stay professional?
The devious thought shocks me and sends my imagination into overdrive once again. It provides the impetus I need to say, “Okay.”