Lady and the Champ (23 page)

It’s definitely him. I tighten my fist. I’ll give him one chance. What he has to do to earn a reprieve, I don’t know, but I have to give him the chance.

He smirks. “Well, well. Austin Sherwood. I suppose you’re here to—”

Whatever he could have said to make me stand down, that’s not it. I cock my fist back and punch him in the mouth.

He staggers back. I grab his collar before he can fall and draw him back upright so I can hit him again. This time I hold tight to his collar and swing him around so he can’t retreat into the house.

I didn’t exactly forget about the paparazzi and reporters out in the yard, but I’m not exactly taking them into account, either. And as I put my fist into Roger’s face again, his body spins toward the photographers. There are clicks and flashes and people crying out. I get in three or four more good hits—and Roger manages to catch me a couple of times, as well. Then there are hands on my arms, my shoulders, and they’re dragging me off him. His face is bloody, his teeth bared, eyes wild. My knuckles are bloody, and there’s blood on my shirt.

And there are cameras everywhere.

* * *

“
W
hat the fuck
were you thinking?”

Coach throws his iPad down on the table in front of me. There’s a picture of me on the front page of the sports section. I look…insane, one hand cocked back, the other twisted in the collar of Roger’s shirt.

“You know what happens now, right?” Coach is still yelling at the top of his lungs. I’m sure everybody in the stadium can hear him at this point. “You’re suspended.
Indefinitely
. Pending criminal charges. You hear me? Criminal charges. If this guy decides to press charges for assault, you’re fucked. You understand, Sherwood?
Fucked
. No playoffs, no championship—no fucking career. You’re gone. Over.”

I stare at the picture in front of me. It’s pretty damning. But of course it is. I went to the guy’s house and dragged him out by his throat and beat the shit out of him. I can’t deny it.

“It was him.” My voice sounds cold, dead. “He was the one who had that picture put up on the screen during the game. He was the one who put it up on the Internet.”

Coach isn’t having it. “So that gives you the right to drag him out of his own house and pound him in front of thirty people with cameras?”

“He stole the picture. He hurt her. He made her lose her job. He put her up in front of all those people.” The rage is rising again. I’m not sure I can do anything to keep it down.

“None of that matters, Sherwood. It’s not going to matter to the press, it’s not going to matter to the league, and it’s not going to matter to the cops. You’re in deep shit, Sherwood. About the deepest shit I’ve ever seen.”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t even bother. There’s nothing for you to say. Somebody will call you if there’s any news.”

Any news. He means if Roger presses charges. I just nod. There’s no point.

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” Coach says, so I do.

* * *

I
head
for the locker room, where I know the rest of the team is getting ready for practice. The rage is still seething, but there’s some fear mixed into it now as well. Coach is right—my career could be over because of what I did. Chloe’s career in ruins, my own teetering on the brink.

All because what? You wanted to fuck her?

No
. It’s more than that. So much more that I can’t even form the thought. I plow into the locker room, shoving past my teammates, most of who stare at me like I’ve gone nuts. Maybe I have. No, I definitely have. I feel like my skin is trying to crawl off, like my chest is going to explode.

Before I really realize what I’m doing, I’m in front of my locker pulling off my shirt, dragging on my pads and jersey.

“Dude,” Orrin says. “You’re not ready to practice yet. Doc said so this morning when we got here.”

“Just going to do some warm-ups,” I tell him, although it’s a lie. I want to pound this feeling out of me. If that takes barreling through a full practice, then so be it.

“You better be careful,” he chides. “You blow your knee out, Chloe’ll kill you.”

I bare my teeth at him with a growl. Yes, I’m growling. I’m like some goddamn pit bull. “Who do you think you are, Orrin? My fucking mother? Shut up.”

“Fine. But anybody asks me, I’m not backing you up.”

“Whatever.”

It doesn’t matter what he thinks. Doesn’t matter what I’m supposed to be avoiding or not avoiding. I have to do something or I’m going to lose my fucking mind. I jerk on all my football gear, grab my helmet, and head out to the field.

Chloe would completely, totally
flip
her shit if she knew I was out on the field in full gear, doing regular warm-ups so I can run. My knee still hurts, but it’s stiffer than anything else by now. It’s not a good thing to do, and it’s not a smart thing to do, but I need this. Need to pound the anger out into something that isn’t somebody else. Otherwise there’ll be more than one picture of me in that paper, and possibly more than one set of charges filed against me. I could actually end up in jail.

Goddammit. How did this all get so fucked up? I run faster, pounding all the anger into the grass under my feet. There’s nothing else I can do.

Not for me, not for Chloe, not for anyone.

I
drive to the stadium
, figuring he might be there. Probably working with a new physical therapist. I can’t leave him hanging. If they’ve assigned him somebody else, I should at the very least brief the new PT on what I’ve been doing and what Austin needs. Hopefully Austin will talk to me. Let me apologize. I don’t want to leave things the way we did.

None of this has really been his fault. As far as the relationship and the feelings that led me to send him that damn picture in the first place, we made that together. Maybe I shouldn’t have let it happen, but the thought it might be over makes me inexpressibly sad.

Determined not to let my emotions get the better of me, I head toward the stadium. I don’t want to lose him. It’s not fair. If we’d met under other circumstances, none of this would have happened.

Approaching the locker room, I hear voices long before I get there. So practice is still on the same schedule Austin gave me when we started working together. A paranoid part of me wondered if they’d change it just so I wouldn’t be able to show up uninvited.

I enter cautiously, aware I’m technically not supposed to be there. When the players see me, though, they smile and wave, though they look sympathetic.

Orrin approaches me. From what I’ve seen of him, he’s a good guy and a pretty good friend of Austin’s. He looks cautious, maybe even a little nervous.

“Hey. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.” I glance around; I don’t see Austin or any of the other PTs from the practice. “I assume they sent somebody else to work with Austin?”

He shrugs. “I guess. If they did, we haven’t seen him here. Or her,” he adds belatedly. “Actually, they told us not to let you in if you came by.”

“Wow, really?”

He shrugs as if the decree embarrasses him. “Yeah. Nobody here’s going to throw you out though. We all feel pretty bad about what happened.”

I nod, but I don’t want to give him an opening to chat about it. “Is Austin here?”

“He was.” Now he looks vaguely sheepish, and suddenly I know what he’s going to tell me. “He went out to the field. He seemed pretty upset.”

Shit. “He went into the field?”

“Yeah. In uniform and everything. Looked like he was going to go practice on his own.”

“Dammit.” He’s not ready to practice, especially on his own and unsupervised. “He’s going to wreck that knee.”

“That’s what I told him—” Orrin starts, but I’m already on my way out to the field.

Sure enough, he’s out there, pounding his way through a series of blocking dummies. He’s not holding back, either; I can see the intensity of every step, every contact. He’s not even wearing a knee brace.

Of all the things that have happened over the last few days,
this
is the one that feels the most like a gut punch. I’ve spent so much time convincing myself the picture wasn’t his fault, the fact I got fired wasn’t his fault. Which is true—he didn’t make either of those things happen. It was just bad luck, poor timing, and an asshole coworker.

But this? This is all on him. And it’s the biggest betrayal of all. He knows what Mason did—how he ignored my instructions and threw me under the bus. This is the same thing. He’s doing whatever he wants again, with no regard or respect for me.

When I was just his PT, him pushing the boundaries was just irritating. But now, it’s more than just an annoyance. It tells me everything I need to know about how he feels about me. About what kind of person he is.

At this moment, he might as well be Mason Carter. He might as well have cheated on me with every groupie, every cheerleader, every halfway attractive girl who crossed his path after we got involved. These are his true colors—complete disregard for me and my career, for me as a physical therapist, and for me as a human being. He’s not cheating on me with another woman, but he’s cheating, just the same.

I feel the tears overflowing, hot and silent. I thought he was different.

He isn’t.

Turning away, I head back toward the stadium. I hear his voice behind me calling my name. I don’t turn back around. I refuse to. I can’t even look at him right now.

“Chloe!”

I speed up. He’s faster, of course, and a second later his hand closes on my arm and pulls me around. I jerk free of his grip and face him. His expression is stricken, almost as if he understands why I’m so upset.

“Chloe…I just needed to get my head clear.”

“At the expense of your leg?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I gave you explicit instructions to avoid weight-bearing exercise until you got the go-ahead from either me or the team doctor. Did the team doctor give you permission? Because I know I damn sure didn’t. You have no respect for me or my position as your therapist.” I can barely grate the words out—they physically hurt as they emerge.

“That’s not true!”

“Don’t want to hear it.” I spin and keep walking, heading for the parking lot. I hear him galumphing along behind me, his cleats making obnoxious noises on the tile.

“I’m sorry! I just needed something to get myself back on an even keel.”

“Try meditating,” I snap back.

I’ve had it. The tears are flowing freely, but it’s just that—no chokes, no sobs. I’m furious, and getting more furious by the second.

“You never listened to a goddamn thing I said, Austin. From day one you were pushing it, like you didn’t want to get better at all.”

“I did—”

“You didn’t.”

“I was just trying to get a rise out of you then.”

I barely restrain the urge to wheel on him again and just keep walking. “It worked.”

“I was being careful—”

This time I do spin. “No, you weren’t. You were running.”

“Chloe—” He reaches a hand out toward me. I back away and then start walking again. Fast.

“No. We’re done, Austin.”

I’m at the door by now and I shove through it, scoping out my car as quickly as I can. Thank God for reserved parking; otherwise I’d have to walk across half the parking lot, undoubtedly with him trailing behind me trying to convince me to not be utterly, thoroughly enraged.

“I don’t know why I thought you’d be any different.” I dig my car keys out of my pocket and click the fob to unlock the doors. “You’re all the same. Think you’re hot shit—don’t have to listen to anyone. Not even your goddamn doctor.”

I jerk the door open. “I’m done. I’m just…” The sobs finally break through. “I’m just fucking done.”

Sliding into the car, I slam the door behind me and peel out of the parking lot, sobbing, while he stands there, alone between the cars, devastation on his face and his helmet in his hands.

* * *

O
ver the next
couple of days, I get several texts from Austin. I ignore them. Delete them. I’d burn them if I could. He even tries calling a few times; I ignore that too.

It’s over.

I have no clients, no potential boyfriend. No job. I may never work in the physical therapy field again. Word will get around, and I’ll be blackballed.

I know I should be trying to look for a new job. There are bills to pay, after all, and I don't have a huge amount of money in savings. If I get started right away, maybe I can land a position before everybody hears about what a horrible person I am. But I just can’t muster up the energy. Instead I find myself wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, drinking coffee and hot chocolate and watching Netflix for hours upon hours.

I refuse to think about Austin, but Austin is all I can think about. Things are supposed to work out when you’re in love with someone, aren’t they? Like on all those romantic comedies I keep watching, one after the other, to remind myself that everyone in the movies gets a happy ending. Why don’t I?

I’m finishing up an all-day Julia Roberts marathon when my phone rings. I figure it’s Austin again, so I ignore it at first, but then I glance at the caller ID. It’s not Austin’s number. I pick it up.

“Chloe?”

It takes me a second for my mope-impaired brain to recognize the voice. When it clicks, I let my forehead fall onto my free hand.

“Dr. Richards?”

“You don’t sound good, Chloe. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Fine and dandy.
How else would I be after you fired me, idiot
?

“Good, because I want you back at work. As soon as possible.”

I don’t even know what to say to that, so for several long seconds—maybe as long as a minute—I don’t say anything at all. Finally Dr. Richards’ voice emerges again from the phone. “Chloe? Did you hear me? I want you back at work?”

I lift my head from my palm and stare morosely at the ceiling. “Why?”

“We need you back.” He clears his throat; he sounds awkward as hell, like he’s asking me to prom. “We all miss you.”

“If you miss me so much, you shouldn’t have fired me,” I snap back.

Oops
. Not a good way to talk to your boss
. He’s not my boss anymore though. So what is he going to do? Fire me again? I grin to myself at the joke, an expression that’s probably more of a skull-like rictus than anything else.

“That was all a misunderstanding.” He sounds even more awkward now. Embarrassed, even. Good. He should be. “We looked into the accusations against Roger, and he’s been let go.”

I let out a snort of laughter. It’s not very ladylike, and it’s not very polite. I don’t care. “Too little too late, don’t you think? Besides, I thought you said it didn’t matter who posted the picture, that I was some kind of horrible slut-machine for even taking it in the first place.”

He’s silent for a moment. In my mind’s eye, he’s turning bright red with mortification as I point out the hypocrisy he’s exhibiting. Then another thought occurs to me, and my boss’s discomfiture is no longer as amusing.

“We’ve reconsidered our stance. We want you to come back. Will you?”

“No,” I say, my voice like ice, and hang up the phone.

I pull up my texting app and stab letters on the keyboard.
Stop fucking around with my life
.

It’s not long before Austin answers. It’s far less satisfying than I thought it would be to picture him lurking by his phone, just waiting for me to deign to speak to him.

I’m trying to fix what got broken.

Just stop it. I can take care of myself
.

You don’t have to. I’m here. I’ll be with you.

Oh my God. Seriously? I almost fling the phone across the room, then realize I’m not done.
You’re not here. You’ll never be here. We’re done. Quit trying to fix my career.

A long pause. I picture him mulling over his phone keyboard.

Finally:
We’re not done. I refuse to accept that
.

Well, you’d better get used to it, sweetheart. Stop texting me or I’ll call the cops
.

With that last admittedly empty threat, I do throw the phone across the room. I hear it thump on the carpet and am quietly relieved that it didn’t hit the kitchen tile. I don’t want to talk to Austin, but I don’t want to have to buy a new phone, either.

It continues to buzz. Once, twice…four times. Six. Then it falls silent.

Good. Shut the fuck up.

It rings. I ignore it and wrap my blanket tighter around me.

There’s a nagging tug of guilt at the back of my mind. The championship game is coming up next week. I heard in passing—okay, I was watching ESPN—that Austin’s suspension was lifted because Roger didn’t press charges. Last I saw, Austin was very close to playing form. I wonder if his doctor has cleared him. That was our goal all along—for him to be able to play in the championship. Is he going to make it?

“Why do you care?” I mutter.

Why do I care? Or, if I don’t care, why do I seem to be thinking so much about it?

I shake it off. I have more important things to think about than a man who ruined my life and now refuses to stay out of it. Still, getting Austin in shape for that game was our shared goal. My hope of proving myself worthy of staying employed in an incredibly competitive profession. Not that there’s much hope of that now, but if he’s ready to play, and if he’s successful, it’ll vindicate me, at least in my own mind.

Which is why, when I finally manage to get up to make something for dinner, I turn on the TV to watch the football league reports on ESPN. It’s not to see Austin on TV, that’s for sure. It’s just to see if my work was successful.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.