Lady and the Champ (3 page)

On the other hand… Fucking with people like her is straight-up fun. I could bring her down a peg or two. Make her admit she wants my dick. The anger making my ears hot starts to fade a little, and I grin.

Yeah. That could be really, really entertaining.

I fish my phone out of my pocket, ignoring the “No Cell Phones, Please” sign on the wall, and call my manager.

S
lut-shaming
: an unfortunate phenomenon in which people degrade or mock a woman because she enjoys sex, has sex often, or from rumors based on her sexual activity.

I push back from my desk and rub my eyes from the glare of the tiny screen of my phone. I can’t believe he actually made me look up the definition.

Yeah, there’s no way I was slut-shaming Austin-freaking-Sherwood. The guy made a happy-endings joke. How does anybody manage to be such an asshole? I know the answer to that, though. He’s been pampered and petted and told he was God’s gift to the world since he stepped onto his first varsity lineup. I know the type far too well. And I hate them.

My throat tightens as I sit behind my desk, completely aware of the fact that I’m probably going to get fired. You don’t get called on your day off by your boss to get an atta-girl. Sure, Austin was an asshole, but I fucked up. I lost my cool. He was baiting me. I knew that, and I still fell for it.

It’s not like I’m new to sports-related physical therapy. I’ve worked with football players before, and I’ve mostly ignored them. And even the fact he popped wood on the table—it’s not like that doesn’t happen on a fairly regular basis. Hell, I know a lot of professional massage therapists who’ve seen that probably ninety times more often than I do. It’s just…one of those things.

If I’d stayed professional, it might not have been a big deal. So why did I lash out at him so hard?

Because he’s really fucking hot, that’s why.

I’ve never reacted to a man that way before. Uncertain and flustered, like I suddenly grew extra hands and maybe an extra head. Like every time he looks at me, my skin catches on fire. I’ve never had such a hard…make that difficult time working with a patient. I’ve never had such a difficult time keeping myself focused, paying attention to the landscape beneath the skin instead of the shape of the body itself, the textures, the smells, the heat pouring into my fingers… Thinking about what it would feel like to be under that big, strong body, taking his weight on my chest. And I’m pretty sure the reason I got so irritated about his arousal is because it mirrored mine. Because I wanted to get more closely acquainted with it. Much more closely.

I need to get laid. Badly.

“He’s waiting for you.” Teri, the receptionist, waves me toward Dr. Richards’ office.

I glance at the set of white doors, swallowing hard before standing.

You’ve got this.

Teri’s smile looks genuine. I’m so paranoid I’m looking for even the slightest indication something is wrong, that everyone in the office knows what’s about to happen but me.

Just then, Roger Parsons, another of the PTs who’s worked here about three years longer than I have, comes out of the therapy area carrying a clipboard. He takes one look at me and his expression tightens like he just ate a lemon full of battery acid. He grabs a folder off Teri’s desk, tosses me a glare, then stalks back into the room whence he came.

Okay. What the hell was that about?

I glance at Teri, wondering if she has any insight, but she doesn’t say anything. Her smile has faded just a bit, though. Shit. What is going on?

Only one way to find out.

My boss, Dr. Richards, is an older man—maybe sixty, but he doesn’t look it. He’s always been good to me, not condescending like a lot of men can be, especially in sports-related fields. He was the only one who returned my calls. Somehow he saw through all the bullshit my ex spun in the press. Or he took a chance. Basically, he hired me when no one else would.

And I’ve just pissed off a major client.

My stomach turns with self-disgust as I open the doors to his office. Dr. Richards sits behind his cluttered oak desk, where seven football bobbleheads greet me. He gives me a wide smile and stands.

Whoa. Not the reaction I was expecting.

“Chloe, good to see you. Have a seat.”

I settle into the chair in front of his desk painfully as though it’s a pincushion. He sits back down and folds his hands on the desk, still smiling.

“I’m sorry I called you in on your day off.”

But our client mentioned that you slut-shamed him yesterday, and I’m afraid we can’t tolerate an employee who—
Oh God. Shut up
.

I swallow hard. “It’s all right.”

“I just didn’t want to put this off.”

“Okay.”

I stretch my lips across my face, feeling like a mannequin. Something must flicker there, though, because he says, with a chuckle, “Chloe. Relax. You look terrified.”

“No, I’m not.”

He just chuckles again. “You’ve been doing a great job for us, Chloe. Your work ethic is excellent. I won’t deny that I had some reservations in the beginning about you—”

Thanks to my asshole ex.

“—But you’ve never backed down from a challenge, even when we’ve thrown things at you at the last minute. Like yesterday, when you stepped in to work with Sherwood.”

Whatever minor relaxation I managed disappears, and I go tense again. “I’m sorry if that didn’t go as well as you expected—”

But he waves me off before I can get all the words out. “No, no, no. You did a fantastic job. Or you must have, because Mr. Sherwood has asked you to be assigned as his personal physical therapist from here on out.”

Wait, what?

My mouth drops open and hangs there for an interminable few seconds. When I realize I’m gaping at him like a trout, I snap it shut again. “Seriously?”

“Yes. He called last night and left me a message. It’s why I had you come in this morning—so we could get everything set up and get you started working with him right away.”

“Seriously?” Wait. I just said that. Maybe if I open my mouth again, something else will come out.

That doesn’t work. Instead I end up sitting there with my mouth open again. Dr. Richards is eyeing me with more than a little amusement, a nice dose of puzzlement tossed in on the side. “Yes. Seriously.”

“But…why?”

“He said he was very happy with his session yesterday.” He pauses. “I take it this is a surprise? He didn’t say anything to you?”

Oh, he said a lot of things to me yesterday. I barely—just barely—manage not to say it out loud. “Not about this, no.” My shock is phasing rapidly into anger. Why in the world would Austin ask for me to work with him after I explicitly told him not to? What the hell is he playing at here?

“Huh.” Dr. Richards looks disappointed, as if he expected to hear an interesting story about my fun times with Austin Sherwood.

I feel my molars scrape together.

“I was hoping you could tell me what you did to impress him.”

“I honestly have no idea.” I’m going to find out, though. And Austin had better have a damn good explanation. He’s put me into a position that’s beyond awkward, and I don’t appreciate it.

“Well.” Dr. Richards shrugs it off, though I can tell he’s not entirely satisfied. “In any case, I’m sure you understand how important it is that we keep him happy. He’s a very well-known player, and his endorsement could bring us a good number of new customers in the long term.”

I nod. Now I’m starting to get irritated at Dr. Richards, which isn’t the best idea. But I know how important Austin could be as a client. It’s a given. And that gives me another reason to be irritated. I don’t need to be lectured. In fact, it’s the first time he’s ever acted like I needed to get extra instructions about an assignment. In the past, he’s just trusted me. Yet another thing I can throw at Austin Sherwood’s feet.

“I understand.”

He gives me a smile. “I’m sure you do. That’s one of the reasons I’m happy you’re taking him on as a patient. I have the utmost faith in you.”

“Thanks for that. When do I get started?” Accepting my fate doesn’t mean I’m not going to rip Sherwood a new one when I see him next. Of course, part of me is leaping with joy that I’ll be able to see him again. Touch him. Scrub the knots out of his body. My mind drifts to thoughts completely inappropriate for a physical therapist, and I drag them back. Dr. Richards is talking. Answering my question, even. It would probably be a good idea for me to listen.

“Playoffs are coming up,” he says, “and your job is basically to get him prepared for that. He’s got a couple of nagging injuries, I’ve been told, that haven’t been giving him too much trouble, but they want to be sure it’s not going to be an issue going into the home stretch on the season. So I’d like you to get started right away. This afternoon if possible.”

Great. I’m only going to have a couple of hours to get ready. I need mental preparation more than anything else, and that’s always the hardest.

“I know you’ll do great,” he says then, and I realize he’s taking my near-silence as a sign I’m doubting myself. “I have every confidence in you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Richards. I appreciate your trust in me.”

He smiles. “It’s well deserved, I assure you. Just remember—make him happy.”

Austin’s “happy ending” comment floats through my head, and I grit my teeth again. There’s no way in hell I’m making Austin Sherwood as happy as he apparently wants to be. Fortunately, I know that’s not part of my job. Keeping him under control is part of my job, though, and that could prove a challenge if I’m reading him right. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.”

* * *

I
’m
on the way home when my cellphone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I have a good idea who it is.

Three guesses. First two don’t count.

Sure enough, it’s Austin Sherwood

“Hey, Doc!” he says cheerfully. “Richards says everything’s cool and I should call you. So I’m calling you.”

“Who’s speaking?” I say coolly. I know, of course, but he didn’t introduce himself and why should he just assume I’ll know it’s him? He needs to be taken down a peg or two. Or, you know, nine thousand and twelve.

“You are,” he answers.

I want to smack him through the phone. The deadly pheromones he exudes in close quarters seem to be weakened when they have to bounce through a series of cell towers. Good to know.

The smartass comment is followed by a swear-to-God giggle. “It’s Austin. Austin Sherwood.”

“Good morning, Mr. Sherwood. It’s good to hear from you.” My voice is cucumber-cool. “How may I help you?”

There’s a short silence, then he says, “Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it.” The mischievous tone has leached out of his voice, and now he just sounds smugly collected. “I was told by Dr. Richards that I should call you to make an appointment for our first physical therapy session. Would today at two work for you?” A pause. “Ma’am?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. Two would be fine. Shall I expect you at my office or at the team facility?”

“Team facility,” he answers, which surprises me not at all.

Personally, I’d like to meet on more neutral territory, but that’s fine. I can handle him wherever.

Okay, “handle him” might not have been the best way to characterize that. The palms of my hands start to tingle a little. They want to handle him, all right. In all kinds of ways that could get me fucking fired. “Fine. I’ll meet you at two.”

“See you th—”

I hang up before he can finish his sentence.

* * *

T
he team’s
practice facility includes several rooms where the PTs can work with the players, as well as workout areas, a track, and everything else a football team needs to stay in shape between games and during the off-season. I expect to find Austin waiting for me in one of the treatment rooms, because that would be the most logical place. So of course he’s not in any of them.

I consider calling him, but that’ll give the bastard an advantage. I’d rather find him and surprise him. So I go looking.

Heading into the locker room, I hear the sounds of someone getting dressed and follow it. Sure enough, there he is, standing in front of a locker. He looks like I caught him halfway through getting dressed. Or—I correct myself as he shucks his shirt over his head—getting undressed.

By all appearances, he hasn’t heard me yet, has no idea I’m in the room. He rolls his T-shirt up into a loose ball and tosses it into the locker, then scrubs a hand through his hair. I watch the muscles in his back flex, go taut, and release as he moves his arms. Hair half-straightened, he rotates his shoulders backward and forward, swinging back and forth a few times at the waist, loosening things up. His gray sweatpants barely cling to the rise of his buttocks, exposing the white elastic band of the briefs he wears under them.