The athlete, Nando Rodriguez, groaned into his fist and then slammed the ground. “Give me the damage, Anderson.”
“Left blocker left you open for the taking, huh? You didn’t break anything, so take a breath. You’ll be back on the field kicking ass and showing Billings you’re prettier on the field than he is.”
Nando laughed at that statement, and I glanced up to Billings, a huge linebacker with an even bigger future in the NFL. He was smiling.
Brock knew these players, their personalities and their physical skills.
“I am better with my feet,” the kid said.
“You’ll be faster with this. Hold still for a minute, would you?” He quickly fastened the brace, securing it with confident motions.
I stood there, watching. I didn't know if I should leave or continue staring, so I became more awkward. Shit. I stood there, sweating, tapping my fingers against my side.
Brock got up and spoke to me in a kind voice I’d rarely heard as we walked off the field. “What did you learn there, Grace?”
“In what way?”
He patted the kid on the shoulder, gesturing me to walk with him back to the cart.
I followed him, his long legs making me take two steps for his one. “You showed me the ankle brace earlier this week, but I really liked how you spoke to him during it. You kept his mind off the pain and made him laugh.”
“Good. Glad you noticed that.” His nod filled me with all sorts of pride. “Now, what would you have done differently?”
“I don’t think I would do anything differently.” I frowned, the momentary pride changing to confusion. “Why did you ask that?”
We sat in the cart, the first aid box on my lap. All around us the whistles, the huddles, the coaches, and helmets clashed, yet I waited for him to speak. “I use my experience to bond with them. I played my whole life. I can use that knowledge to make them feel better. I talk about plays or things I've done. You can't do that. That's not me being an asshole, it's the truth. So, what would you do then?”
Those piercing blue eyes stared at me.
I nibbled on my lip, trying to think of the correct answer. He was right. I couldn't talk like he did, making football jokes like one of the bros. I wasn't a bro. I would never be a bro, so what did I do? I sighed.
“Why the sigh, Grace? I'm not harping on you for anything. I want you to think of a certain bedside manner tactic to use and learn as this goes on.”
“I'm a perfectionist. I need to think about the question because I don't want to half ass that answer. I don't have one right now.” I pursed my lips. He nodded a couple of times, and I continued, the ideas coming to me when I started to relax. “I'm very charismatic. I always have been. I could talk to a wall and hold an entire conversation. I've never felt uncomfortable talking to anyone.” Besides him, but my filter let me hold that comment back for once. Thank god. “I'll work on that.”
“Yes. You're incredibly friendly. You seem to get along with people well.” His brisk tone gave me no feeling of accomplishment.
What every girl wants to hear, friendly. I laughed, and he gave me an odd look. “Yeah. I'm friendly.”
“Was that sarcastic? I can't tell.” He frowned, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “I've watched you at work, and you always make your customers smile and laugh. Athletes are a bit more entitled at times. They want to lash out when they are in pain, and I want to teach you how to handle that.”
“I've dealt with some entitled people before. I'm not worried about it,” I said, thinking about all the customers I had had in the past who made me want to spit in their water. I shook my head in disappointment, hating how some people treated others so poorly. How one treated a waiter or waitress said a lot about who they were as a person. “How do you plan on teaching me that?”
“Teaching you about the game, the muscles, the movement. That sort of thing. No one can talk shit when you know your stuff. That's the first step. You'll build a reputation for yourself.” He paused, looking at me with a small smirk. It grew, the sides of his mouth curving up into that beautiful smile I had grown to love and hate. “Now, rookie, you have the shit duty today. You ready?”
“Bring it on. Bring it on, baby.” I clapped my hands, hoping I didn't look worried. I mentally flinched, praying it wasn't cleaning jock strops or the locker room bathroom. That wouldn't be a trainer’s job, right? “What is it?”
“When the water bottles are turned in, you have to hand wash all of them.” He sucked in his bottom lip, trying to stop his smile.
“You're enjoying this.” I crossed my arms, scoffing. “You're sick.”
“It's a rite of passage.”
“I'm going to ask Matt about it. If it's not true, then… Well, I don't know what I'll do, but it won't be good.” I jutted my chin out, my stubbornness coming out in waves. The players had shitloads of water bottles. Shitloads. It was a real measuring unit.
“Matt likes to lie.”
“Meaning, he didn't have to do this. I see how it is.” I hopped out of the cart, beginning the walk to the cleaning room. “This is cruel.”
