“I think we both know you’re not dumb.”
“Aww, thanks, Plummy.”
“What is dumb,” he continues, cheeks flushed, “is hoping pain goes away when simple treatments could ensure it will, and prevent it getting worse.”
In my periphery I see Brady counseling his proteges Nurse and Larsson. As goalies quite often are, they’re the last to undress, everyone else already being in the showers. How Brady dealt with, or didn’t, deal with his injuries altered the course of his future. I don’t want that. And with Mom struggling financially the way she is,wecan’t afford it either.
I drop my head, roll my shoulder and wince as pain slices through me. “It feels weird. Kind of numb and tingly, but it hurts. Bad.”
“And when did it start?”
“When Hoffman boarded me. Straight away it felt like my arm was pushed down, or further inside me.”
Palms flat on his thighs, James pushes to stand. “That doesn’t sound dumb, but it does sound like it needs investigating. Coach White’s gone, so…” He then reaches out, offering me his right hand, to my uninjured left. “Will you let me help?”
I want to take his hand, like really, really badly, but something’s stopping me. Leaning forward, I whisper, “It’s a matter of trust.”
James snorts and squats again. “Okay, Billy Joel.”
“Who?”
“Nothing,” he huffs, blush spreading down his neck. “Looking the way you do, I forget you’re a kid sometimes.” I can tell he regrets it as soon as he’s said it, and the air between us thickens as a result.
“I’m not a kid.”
“You don’t trust me, then?” he counters.
“I do trust you, Jamie. I just don’t trust myself.”
Faith is the only one I’ve ever tolerated calling me Jamie. I don’t like it. Never have and thought I never would, but seeing the word form and roll from Cory’s sassy mouth, almost had me flopping face first into the floor. Doc was one thing. But him. Saying Jamie?
Yeah. That’s hot.
Throughout the six years it’s taken me to complete my training, I’ve seen and worked on dozens of attractive, near-naked men. None of them have prompted the visceral reaction Cory Malkovich doing nothing but sitting on the edge of my table, legs innocently swinging, has.
Hard as stone and struggling to breathe, all I can think of is an episode of Friends. Phoebe, a massage therapist, loses control of her unyielding desire, bends down and bites the plump ass of her client. Never in my life have I identified more with a straight woman.
I feel you, Pheebs. I feel you.
“Is there a problem, Doc?”
Yes. You. Inhaling through puffed cheeks, I raise my gaze stopping just short of meeting my off-limits patients’. “Nope, not at all. Just giving that ice a little time to reduce any swelling, and the heating to warm the room up.” Liar. “Does your movement feel any freer?” Grimacing, Cory gives his shoulder a slight forward roll.
“It does, a little yeah.”
“Good. Well, let’s get that shirt off and have a look.” The words are out there, but my feet aren’t listening.
After way too long, Cory gives a huffed laugh. “I’m no medical expert, but I think you need to come closer to do that.”
“I do. Yeah. It’s just.”
“You don’t trust yourself either?” There’s two ways to go here. One, be the dismissive jerk that comes so easily. Or two, be the person Cory has an uncanny ability to draw out of me.
“Little bit, yeah.”
Caught off-guard by my confession, Cory’s brows raise and his teeth sink into that bottom lip I keep picturing smeared in last night’s white pasta sauce. “Well, I trust you, remember? So we’re all good.”
Nodding, I release another ridiculously large breath and edge forward. Honestly you’d think there was a crocodile waiting for me, not a young athlete I’m treating. “Do you think you’re able to remove your jersey?” His eyes say no but he moves his hands to the hem and attempts to lift, managing to raise it only slightly before wincing. Placing my hand on his wrist, I hold him still.
