Fifty minutes vanish in a blink; the way they always do when the class gets rolling. I linger on the pool deck afterward, chatting with Ginny, who’s practically glowing as she tells me how much the class has helped her hip replacement recovery. Her pride warms me more than a hot shower ever could.
Eventually, I tear myself away and start to gather my gear.My hair clings damp against my cheeks as I glance down the deck and spot trouble.
Reggie.
She’s planted herself squarely in Arthur’s path, the human equivalent of a toll booth.
“You remind me of my third husband,” she’s saying when I hurry over, towel cinched tight around me. “Truth be told, he was the only one who could keep up with me in the bedroom.”
Arthur’s eyes find mine, wide and pleading.Save me.
“Hey!” I interject brightly, sliding between them. “Thanks for coming to class, Arthur. We loved having you. But don’t you have a flight to catch?”
The grateful look he shoots me sends a flutter spiraling through my stomach. Then his gaze drops—slowly, inexorably—sliding over the curves of my towel-wrapped body.
The flutter becomes a full-body tremor.
He clears his throat, his voice rougher than before. “I do, actually. It was nice to meet you…”
“Regina Winchester.” Reggie leans in, ever the opportunist. “But you can call me Reggie. Or anything else you’d like.”
Arthur’s face stays completely impassive, but his clipped reply makes me bite back a laugh. “Noted.”
Then his eyes flick back to me, holding for one charged heartbeat too long. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
How soon?The words scream in my head, but all I manage is a nod and a professional smile. “Sounds great. Good luck this week.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
He sidesteps Reggie like she’s radioactive and strides toward the locker rooms, towel still clutched in his hand.
“You know,” Reggie says, lips curling mischievously as shewatches him go, “there’s more than enough of him to go around.”
“Reggie,” I warn.
“I’m just saying.” She sighs dreamily. “We could share him.”
The thought slams into me before I can stop it:I don’t want to share him.
And that’s when I know I am so, so screwed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ELLIOT
My hands flyto my face like I’m watching a slasher flick and the masked man has just stepped out of the shadows with a butcher knife. Honestly, I don’t know which is more terrifying—horror movies or live hockey games.
I have to clap a hand over my mouth when one of my patients, Austin Crawford, gets slammed into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass. My stomach lurches. I spend all day treating these guys, taping their joints, stretching them out, icing whatever hurts—just to watch them go out there and reenactJohn Wickon ice.
“Ugh,” I groan into my palm, already mapping out Austin’s next session in my head. Lucky for me, he actuallylikesice baths.
“You gonna be okay?” Sam asks, not bothering to tear his eyes from the drama on the ice. He’s completely relaxed like he’s watching a chess match.
“Of course,” I mutter. “Just wondering how much time Austin’s going to need on my table tomorrow.” I know hockey is brutal. If it wasn’t, half the team wouldn’t need me around.This is the job: they smash each other to pieces, and I try to put them back together.
The horn sounds to mark the end of the first period, and Sam sits up straighter, taking in the size of the crowd and the sea of jerseys surrounding us. His smile is easy. He smiles more often these days. “These are great seats.”
He’s not wrong. We’re only a couple rows back from the Otters’ bench, close enough to see the scuffs on their helmets. It’s much louder than when we’re tucked away in one of the private boxes Ben usually arranges. Down here, you don’t just watch the game, youliveit.
