One More Shot (Hometown Players #1) (10 page)

M
y mentor, Tori, is on the verge of being late again for our weekly check-in. I smile as she runs into the director’s office with thirty seconds to spare. I hand her the sugar-free vanilla latte I knew she wouldn’t have time to pick up herself and she smiles gratefully. Carl, the director of therapy at Sea-Tac, sits down at his desk across from us.

He glances over at Tori and smiles, his gray eyes crinkling in the corners. “As usual, I have heard nothing but good things about the work you two are doing together.”

“She’s the best intern I’ve ever worked with,” Tori tells him, smiling at me.

I feel proud and happy. It’s good to be recognized for my efforts here, especially after feeling like such a failure in life lately. All that past drama coming back to life with Chance and Jordan showing up in Silver Bay did nothing for my sense of self-confidence. Even though it had been weeks since it happened, I couldn’t shake the bad feelings it had stirred up.

“Because of the great work you’ve been doing together, I’m giving you a new patient.” Carl’s smile has changed from one of approval to one of excitement. “It’s a special assignment and it’s a big celebrity patient, but I trust you two to keep it together and do your best.”

He flips through some file folders on his desk, looking for one in particular. I glance at Tori, who seems unimpressed.

“Probably a football player,” she tells me confidently. “We get them in here all the time.”

Carl finds the file he’s looking for and passes the blue folder to Tori.

She flips it open and scans it, then sits straight up in her seat and reads it again. Her head snaps up, her blond ponytail swishing, and she stares at Carl with wide eyes.

“This is a joke, right? You’re teasing me, aren’t you?” she asks excitedly. I lean over but I can’t read the file because she’s now clutching it to her chest.

Carl says, “No, Tori. It’s real. They’re trying to fast track him back into the game and they need our help.”

My heart has started hammering in my chest. Get him back in the game…it’s an athlete. I know it’s not a football player—Carl said so. Tori is a hockey fan. Tori is a Winterhawks fan.

“Oh no…” I whisper, but no one is paying attention to me.

“It’s going to have to be your main case from this point forward.” Carl runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “You’ll have to go to the arena and oversee his on-ice practices too. Make sure he’s not overdoing it. His trainers say he’s not the best with restraint.”

“This can’t be happening,” I whisper, and tilt my head back, covering my face with my hands.

Tori claps her hands excitedly, clearly not reading my reaction properly. “I know! It’s so great! I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“Tori, I know how much you love the Winterhawks, which is why I gave this to you, but you need to keep it professional,” Carl advises. His bushy eyebrows knit in a paternal way, and then he glances at me. “And, Jessie, I can’t emphasize enough how big a deal this is. He’s one of their top players. Normally I would never assign an intern to someone like him, but you were requested specifically.”

I look up and see Carl and Tori staring at me. She looks less thrilled at that news.

“We were friends in high school,” I mutter. Carl nods and Tori smiles.

“Mr. Garrison will be here in half an hour or so,” Carl tells us simply. “So be ready.”

As Tori and I leave his office, it takes everything in me not to run all the way down the hall and out the front door, never to return. I can’t believe this is happening to me. For over six long years I have managed to avoid him, and now, just when I had started to think I was over him, I can’t keep him out of my life.

“Jordan freaking Garrison!” Tori whispers excitedly as she drops down in her chair, but as she turns to me her excitement seems to falter. “Did you…was he your boyfriend?!”

“I dated a guy named Chance in high school,” I find myself babbling. “He works for NBC now as a sports reporter. And Jordan dated a girl named Hannah Huet.”

“Hannah. Right. I remember seeing pictures of him with her when he was a rookie in Quebec,” Tori mutters, and I feel my blood turn cold. Hannah went to Quebec to visit him? Why? Were they…

“Really?” I question. “Are you sure?”

She shrugs. “I was a huge fan when he started in the league. I saw this shot of him leaving a nightclub drunk after they finished first in the league and won the President’s Trophy. There was a curly-haired blond chick with him and a few other players. Caption said it was his hometown girlfriend.”

I feel sick. Tori doesn’t seem to notice as she glances around the office at the all the NHL memorabilia on the walls. I remember the first time I walked in here. I almost died. Every square inch of wall space is covered with Winterhawks posters. Avery Westwood, Igor Asimov, Chris Dixon and there’s even a signed jersey from their goalie, Mike Choochinsky, under glass.

I stare at it again now and give Tori a quizzical look. “Should we…declutter?”

Tori laughs. “Nah. I think it’ll put him at ease if he knows I know about hockey and have a vested interest in getting him back on the ice.”

“Okay, then.” I shrug, sinking into the chair behind my tiny desk. I drop my head onto it as Tori sits behind her desk and starts reading the details of Jordan’s file out loud.

Tori’s phone buzzes twenty-five minutes later, making me jump. She squeals like a fan girl at a boy band concert, then takes a deep breath to calm herself before she answers. Kelli, our receptionist, tells her what we both already know—Mr. Garrison is here for his appointment.

Tori says she will be right out and hangs up, and then she does something odd. She pulls her hair out of its ponytail and lets it flow loosely down around her shoulders. She looks good. Probably way better than I do right now.

“Why don’t you go meet him and I’ll just wait here,” I suggest with a forced smile.

“Sure.”

I spend the next five minutes praying the ground will open up and swallow me. But it doesn’t. And then the office door is opening again and the giant lug I have known for over fourteen years walks in. He’s dressed like a bum—a pair of gray workout pants and a red V-neck T-shirt under a black Winterhawks hoodie—but somehow still looks like a Calvin Klein model. He stops and stares at me. I avert my eyes.

“Mr. Garrison, you know Jessie Caplan, I’m told,” Tori announces sharply, pointing to me. I frown because her tone is cold and distant. The polar opposite of the fan girl who walked out of this room five minutes ago.

“Jessie.” Jordan smiles and winks at me. Clearly, he thinks this is hilarious.

I stand up and give him a terse nod as he moves past me, farther into the room. Tori offers him a seat and I move to stand next to her as she sits behind her desk, opening his file again. Jordan readjusts his Winterhawks cap and finally pulls his eyes off me. He notices the room’s décor. He smirks. “This is your office?”

I shake my head. “It’s Tori’s office. I’m squatting in it during my internship.”

His sky-blue eyes move up the wall behind Tori’s desk, taking in all the posters. His smirk now has a hue of arrogance, and holy hell, do I ever want to slap it off his face. “I can get you one of mine and sign it if you want.”

Tori stares at him for a long uncomfortable moment. I try to figure out what she’s thinking. “That’s not necessary, thank you.”

Jordan’s smile disappears instantly. His eyes find mine but I look away. The twinkle that’s been in those clear blue eyes since he walked in disappears.

“I’ve been looking over your file and the treatment and setbacks you’ve had so far…” Tori slips right into business mode. “We’ll start today by running you through some basic exercises to test the strength and flexibility in the ankle so we know what to focus on going forward. Jessie, will take you down to the training room and get started.”

Jordan nods wordlessly while I turn and glare at Tori. What does she mean, I should take him down there? By myself? Where the hell is she going to be?

Tori stands and motions for Jordan to do the same. He walks toward the door and I whisper hotly, “What are you doing?”

“I’m supposed to let you run solo on one case before your internship ends,” she explains in a low voice. “This is that case.”

Jordan is standing in the hall now, arms crossed over his wide, muscular chest, his sky blue eyes staring at us impatiently. Tori gives me a little push at the small of my back. “Now go.”

Now it was going to be just me and him for the next half hour as I lead him through a series of exercises. The training room is big and airy, so I can stand a nice comfortable distance from him as he does the exercises. And there are two other therapists in here with their patients, which makes it feel safer too.

After a few mobility exercises, during which I realize he’s lost some range of motion, I pull over a chair and tell him to do heel raises on his bad foot, using the chair for balance. He rolls his eyes and in typical Jordan fashion starts to do the lifts without holding onto the chair. He’s showing off.

I simply watch and take notes, keeping my best unimpressed look on my face. On only the fifth raise, he wobbles and curses under his breath as he grabs the chair. I make a note on his chart and keep my eyes on the paper because I hate watching him struggle. And I hate that I care, but I do. I know being sidelined from hockey is the worst possible thing that could happen to him. It’s not just a career for him, it’s something that gives him self-worth.

After he’s struggled through a couple more, I toss him an elastic stretch band. He frowns. “You told me to do twenty. I’m only at twelve.”

“You’re not ready for twenty.”

“I used to do heel raises holding fifty-pound weights,” he says defensively. “I can do twenty empty-handed.”

“You can try but it won’t impress me. I’m not one of your puck bunnies. All it will do is put a stress fracture in that barely healed ankle of yours,” I snap back.

He looks so furious I’m surprised he’s not turning red. As he grabs the stretch band, I try not to smile at my victory. “Sit on the floor, wrap the band around your foot, and pull on the band to provide a little resistance when you point your foot.”

He nods gruffly and does the exercise. It seems to bother him less than the balancing one. As he’s on his final rep, Tori shows up and glances over my notes. She seems impressed. “Good level of detail,” she praises. “Now what do you suggest we do next?”

“Massage and some ice and heat therapy.”

She nods and smiles at me, but she never once acknowledges Jordan, which is not only weird but unprofessional. “Jessie, will you handle that, please, while I go and write up some notes for Mr. Garrison?”

I nod.

“Please, Tammy, call me Jordan. Or Jordy,” Jordan offers, and as he glances at me, I shake my head and wince to let him know he just screwed up by calling her Tammy.

Tori glares at him. “Tori. My name is Tori.”

“Sorry. I’m not good with names. Sorry, Tori.”

Tori takes my clipboard to add my notes to hers and heads in one direction while I lead Jordan in the other, down a long hallway lined with doors that lead to private treatment rooms.

I enter one of the rooms and he follows, closing the door behind us. The room feels small and claustrophobic, but I can’t figure out if that’s because of his giant frame taking up so much space or the giant cloud of tension that hangs above us. I pat the treatment table and he obligingly sits on it, throwing his long, muscled bare leg on the table while the uninjured one dangles.

I pull up my stool and sit by his calf. My breath catches as I flex my fingers and tentatively reach out. This is the first time I have touched Jordan in six years. I’m so angry because I can’t control the sparks I feel as my fingers slide over his skin. He shifts a little bit and I glance up at him, expecting to see a scowl of pain. But I find his blue eyes soft and his full bottom lip jutting out a little like it does when he’s sad or concerned.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, easing off the pressure I had been using to dig into the flesh and muscle just above his ankle.

He shakes his head, then swallows.

“So your boss isn’t very nice,” he remarks gruffly.

“She’s usually incredibly nice,” I say simply. “I honestly don’t know what that’s all about. She was excited to work on you before you showed up.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter.”

My fingers slide to his ankle and I roll the joint in my hands. I forgot how big his damn feet are—how damn big he is period. His ankle is double the size of mine. As kids, when it seemed like everyone would grow a couple of inches over summer break, Jordy would grow a foot. At twelve, he was so gangly and awkward—unless he was on skates. On skates he was always graceful and in control. And then when he hit sixteen his body filled out—muscles everywhere. His body became sculpted and he wasn’t awkward on or off the ice. And that night—the night we had sex—I’d realized his body was built for more than just hockey. He was built for sex. He’d known exactly how to touch me, where to hold me and how to move his hips.

“What?”

“Excuse me?” I blink, taken aback.

“You’re smiling. What are you thinking about?”

I suddenly realize he’s right and stop doing it. I bow my head as I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks.

“Nothing. Sorry.” I clear my throat and press a little deeper into the flesh around his red, angry scar. “Does that hurt?”

“Nope,” he says quickly, but when I give him a stare he adds “Not a lot.”

I stand up, grab a heating pad and turn it on, then wrap it around his lower leg and ankle. Now there’s nothing to do but wait—and stare at each other.

That dimple in his chin is still there…and still sexy as all hell. I don’t know
what’s
going on with his hair. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it. Not surfer long like Luc’s, just…overgrown. Right now a big chunk is sticking out sideways near his ear and I want to smooth it down or tuck it under his cap, but obviously I resist. The uncomfortable silence grows until finally he breaks it.

“You can ask not to work on me,” Jordan says as he stares at his leg.