“I’ll be here.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes my stomach flip.
I back toward the pool edge, needing distance. “I have to go. Mom has an appointment.”
“Tell her I said hi,” Brody calls out, which is weird because he’s never met my mom, but sweet in the way I’ve learned is just how Brody operates.
I grab my towel and bag, aware that I’m fleeing. But I’m only three steps toward the door when it opens again.
“Brody Carter, you told me you’d be in the weight room!”
A woman walks in. Tall, dark-haired, carrying herself with the confidence of someone who regularly deals with hockey players’ bullshit. This must be Elliot.
“I was going to the weight room,” Brody says, not even trying to sound convincing. “But then I remembered I needed to swim.”
“You hate swimming.”
Roman snorts.
I try to edge toward the door, but Elliot notices me.
“You must be Dr. Walker. I’m Elliot, Brody’s wife.” She extends a hand, and her handshake is firm before she turns toward her husband. “You saw them from the weight room window and decided to crash their therapy session, didn’t you?”
“I would never?—”
“You literally texted me ‘Cap and hot PT in pool. Going in.’” She holds up her phone.
Roman makes a choking sound.
My face is definitely crimson.
“I meant ‘going in’ like going into the pool area,” Brody says weakly. “For exercise.”
“Sure you did.” Elliot turns to me. “We have a book club on Tuesday nights. Very informal, mostly wine and gossip disguised as literary discussion. You should come.”
“I—that’s nice of you to offer?—”
“Fair warning, we find the books with the smuttiest descriptions. But the wine is good and it’s nice to have people who understand the schedule insanity.”
I glance at Roman, who’s studiously examining the pool tiles like they hold the secrets of the universe.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
After I change, I practically run to my car, sitting there for a moment to collect myself. The morning started as professional therapy and ended with me being absorbed into the WAG social circle while standing in a pool with a half-naked hockey captain whose teammates are actively trying to matchmake us.
My phone buzzes.
Mom
Blood draw moved to 9. Pick up coffee on your way?
At least that’s normal. One normal thing in my increasingly abnormal life where I’m treating the city’s most attractive hockey player while his teammates document it via text and his friend’s wife invites me to book club to discuss pool sex scenes.
I start the car, and my phone buzzes again.
Roman
Sorry about Brody.
