29. Brent
29
Brent
I ease myself into the tub of ice water on the last day of camp and groan loudly. Two-a-day practices never get easier. Though I’ve been vigilant about my workout regimen during the off-season, I still feel like I got my ass kicked today. Thank God the heat wave has broken, but temps are still close to ninety and it’s like a sauna. The outside practices are short but feel too long in the sweltering heat.
I lay my head back against the edge of the tub, close my eyes, block out all the noise around me, and manage to doze off.
“That’s time, Hutch. Don’t want your toes freezing and falling off.”
I open my eyes to see Mickey standing next to me with a towel.
“Or your dick.” This from Lucien Saint, the star quarterback who is walking by.
“Hey, Mickey. Check the tub to see if it already done shriveled and fallen off. Maybe that’s why he don’t get out.” Another voice joins in the ribbing.
I stand up, flip off my teammates with both hands, telling them exactly what I think of their remarks. Grabbing the towel, I step out of the tub and dry off. Throwing the damp towel in a bin, I take another one to wrap around my wet shorts and follow the trainer to a padded table and sit on the edge. But before Mickey has a chance to start, Randy calls him from across the room.
“I gotta go talk to the boss. Okay if Joey starts on you?” Mickey asks.
Fuck. I don’t want to embarrass her by telling Mickey I don’t want Joey to work on me. I can’t give the real reason, but I also don’t want anyone to think she isn’t good at her job. Although my opinion probably doesn’t even matter anymore since she has won over most of the players in a very short time.
Resigned, I nod, and Mickey walks away, calling out, “Hey, Joey! Hutch is ready for you.”
The hairs on my neck stand up, and it’s not because of my cooled-down body. Sure enough, Joey rounds the table and stands in front of me.
She smiles at me coolly, impersonally, then focuses her attention on my leg.
“I saw you holding your knee earlier. Let me know if I hit a particularly tender spot.”
She gently palpates the area around my knee and looks up at me to gauge my reaction. I’ve noticed her do that with other players—watch their faces for reactions rather than waiting for them to say something.
Sure enough, I can’t help but wince when she touches a particular painful spot. When I don’t say anything, she raises her brow at me.
“Does this hurt?” She purposely goes over the area again, making me let loose the hiss I’ve been holding in.
“Yes, damn it!” I growl at her. She knows it does and is enjoying torturing me.
“Then speak up instead of trying to be Mr. Macho. And be sure to come to my presentation next week when I talk about dumbasses who don’t report injuries and then are out for the season because they did irreparable damage that could have been prevented. It was my thesis,” she finishes in that prim voice she uses when she’s annoyed.
I look down so she doesn’t see me smile. I love that voice. And it’s cute how she doesn’t use actual swear words. That thought has me going down the path of how she would sound if I got her to talk dirty, with words for certain body parts that she never uses. I’ll have to try it out now that camp is done, and I can check out of the hotel. Fuck knows she’s not a prude. She’s game for anything in bed—shy, but always willing.
I’m going to be experiencing a whole different kind of pain soon if I don’t stop thinking of what we do in bed. I shift my thoughts to my performance in this morning’s drills as she continues her examination, which includes asking me to bend my knee and move my leg in various directions. When she finishes, she tells me in her most professional voice, “It doesn’t feel as bad as it did a few weeks ago. Probably just the strain of increased workouts. I’ll put a note in your file to see if the doctor wants to do an ultrasound on it just to be sure. Keep icing it as often as you can and start wearing the brace again, even off the field. I’ll tape it up after. Now lie down, and I’ll do some manual work.”
Oh no. I don’t think so. I’m not risking a hard-on here in front of our coworkers.
It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve fucked her, and I’m barely holding on to my restraint. I have no problem going without sex if there’s no time or interesting offers. But having her touch me as she massages out my tight spots makes me crave the mind-numbing bliss I can achieve only with her.
“It’s fine,” I growl. “I’ll wait for Mickey.” What the hell is the matter with me? It’s not her fault I can’t control my libido around her. Oh, wait. It is. For being so fucking gorgeous and sexy and sweet and—
“Suit yourself,” she says, turning away too quickly for me to see if it’s annoyance or hurt she’s feeling at my rejection. Fuck.
She tells one of the interns to bring ice for my knee.
“Sure thing, Josie,” the punk replies.
I raise my eyebrow at the name he used, wondering if she started asking others to use it. I hope not because I like that it’s my special name for her. The intern takes one look at my glare and scurries away after wrapping the ice pack around my knee. I turn to face Joey, but she is now talking to Saint, who is grinning at her like a lunatic and flirting.
Lucien Saint might be a friend and teammate, one I work more closely with than any other, but he is also a slick-talking son of a bitch and the darling of the media—nationally and even more so in New York. The son of a former NFL player, he is also a Heisman Trophy winner, first-round draft pick, and future Hall of Famer.
We played together briefly in San Diego when he was drafted, before he was traded to the Firebirds. When we played on the same team, the two of us worked in sync like a finely tuned machine. We were able to read each other, and he passed the ball to me more often than any of the wide receivers. We had been a successful duo in football for those few months. Our youth, our antics in the end zone, and our popularity with the ladies put us in the media spotlight often.
Thanks to the Firebirds’ marketing department, we’re in the press again as if we’re the latest celebrity couple. They’re hyping us up as the dynamic duo or some shit, touting a reunion of epic proportions. Luckily, we fell into a rhythm on the field as if we hadn’t played apart for years.
Off the field, Saint has a reputation for using women like disposable commodities. No way am I letting him near Joey. But what am I going to do if he sweet-talks her into going out with him? It’s not like I’ve made any promises to her.
Except monogamy while we’re together . Does she think it’s over between us for some reason? Something that feels like panic flares within me.
What the fuck is the matter with me? So what if she wants to move on? I don’t do girlfriends. In fact, I was the one who stupidly insisted she was clear on that before we started.
And yet I have the urge to drag her away whenever she laughs and jokes with the other players. Or touches their bodies while she’s treating them. Seeing that make me want to stomp over and pull her hands off them.
And put them on mine.
Am I… jealous?
No . I shake off the idea. That’s ridiculous. I’m just looking out for her because if I don’t, these guys will get the wrong idea, and working here will become a nightmare for her. She still has a few more weeks to get through.
I’m just looking out for her.
Even I can’t believe my own bullshit and I snort in disgust at myself. The heat has obviously fried my brain because I’m being completely irrational.
Yet I can’t help my violent urges at every satisfied groan, every sigh, every “thank you, Joey darling” Saint utters in his Southern drawl whenever she tapes, stretches, or massages him. Somehow she ends up working on him regularly, and one or both of them seem to be conspiring to pick a table near mine so that I have a front-row seat when she puts her hands on the quarterback.
She’s facing away from me, standing between my table and Saint’s, so I have a perfect view of her ass. It wiggles and moves as she helps the quarterback with some shoulder movements. I should turn away before I embarrass myself, but I can’t do it.
Despite my fears of having an erection if she worked on me, I honestly didn’t think I’d actually have the energy to get it up. But apparently Joey can still make it happen, as beat as I am, and she doesn’t even have her hands on me.
“What the fuck!” I yell when a small cold pack lands on my lap.
“Sorry, thought I saw some swelling at your groin,” Mickey says, grinning. “Wanted to make sure it didn’t become too inflamed before you had a chance to take care of it.”
I glare at him for a moment, then laugh self-deprecatingly. “Thanks, asshole.”
“Anytime, man.” Mickey slaps me on the back. “Joey, Hutch is all set?”
“No,” she says over her shoulder. “He’s waiting for you to do the manual work. And he’ll need his knee taped. I put my notes about it in his file.”
“Gotcha. Thanks.” He looks at me. “I’ll be back in a few. Keep icing. Both places.” He laughs and walks away.
The ice pack on my knee is barely cold anymore, so I switch it out with the one Mickey threw at me. I watch as Joey rubs out a tight spot on Saint’s throwing arm that he complained about earlier. I scowl when she hooks his arm through her own and holds it against her chest for leverage. The smug bastard smirks at me and quirks an eyebrow at me as if to ask, Problem?
I ignore him.
“Hey, Josie. What are you doing tomorrow after work?” Since the players have the day off, she’d be able to leave at a decent time in the evening. “I’ll pick you up for dinner. We’ll meet Charlie.” I have no intention of inviting my sister. Joey must have guessed that because her response is quick.
“Can’t. I have plans,” she replies shortly.
“What kind of plans?” It better not be with another man.
“Laundry.”
“Fine, then I’ll bring takeout tonight,” I growl, not caring anymore that Saint can hear every word.
“Busy.”
“Right. Let me guess. You have to wash your hair,” I say sarcastically.
“Good guess.”
She gives me a blinding smile as if I’m brilliant. And did I just hear a snort from the asshole whose arm is touching Joey’s breasts? Granted, she’s holding it in place close to her sternum, but still. She’s freezing me out with Saint listening.
But I’m not going to give up. “Come on, Josie. We haven’t been able to hang out for a while. When are you going to invite me for dinner again? I’ve been craving your chicken tandoori.” I want to make sure Saint knows just how close we are.
Uh-oh. She was icing me out before, but the fire in her eyes is blazing as she finally looks at me.
“Really? I’ve been craving the midnight snack I had that night. I’ll have to see if I can pick up some of that while I’m out tomorrow.” She turns back to Saint. “I’ll be back with a cold pack for your shoulder,” she says and walks away, leaving me shocked.
Saint makes a diving whistle and explosion sound. “Crash and burn, baby! I haven’t seen something like that in—ever! That was beautiful!”
I ignore the fucker’s amusement. I’m still focused on Joey’s words. Around midnight after the tandoori dinner, she had been snacking on me . I feel a twitch in my shorts at the memory while my hands curl into fists at the thought of her doing that to anyone else but me.
Maybe it’s time to remind her that we aren’t over yet.