Page 24 of The Backup Plan

He snorts. “There was pain before the injury and pain after. It’s football. Besides, you sound like every doctor I’ve ever had. If I’d listened years ago, I never would have kept playing. I never would have won a Super Bowl.”

“And yet you’re still injured,” I say calmly.

A charged silence settles between us.

He studies me now. Those blue eyes of his are assessing and scrutinizing and deciding. Is he looking for cracks to exploit? Is he looking for the woman from last night instead of the doctor in front of him?

“You’ve never worked in the NFL,” he finally says, voice even.

I don’t take offense to his comment and meet his gaze without blinking. “No.”

His smile is smug. “Well, forgive me then if I don’t take career advice from an inexperienced—”

“Woman who specializes in fixing elite athletes when their bodies start betraying them?” I cross my arms over my chest and lean my ass against the counter behind me. “My training has lasted about as long as your years playing in the league. Residency and specialty and fellowships. I appreciate your concern over my experience—I’d have it too if my career depended on it—but I assure you I’m here because I’m damn qualified, and the only thing I like better than preventing someone from being injured is getting them back on the field as close to one hundred percent after an injury. I’m the one person in this building who doesn’t give a shit about your legacy. While they pay me to care about your immediate future, I actually care more about you and your functionality for the rest of your life.” I wave a hand. “But go ahead. The door’s right there if you think I’m incompetent because . . . I don’t know . . . I’m a woman?”

He exhales slowly and something about the way his abs ripple with the motion and the rise and fall of his shoulders has heat curling in my lower belly that I refuse to acknowledge. Although it is fucking annoying.

“Wow. That was . . . something,” he says, eyes wide and a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Impressive speech. You’re quite defensive though.”

“And you’re reckless.”

“You’re thorough though, I’ll give you that.”

“And you’re stubborn to a fault.”

We stare at each other.

I move farther away, fighting the smile tugging at my lips, and slip my professional mask back on.

“Get dressed,” I say.

“For the record, my questioning your experience had nothing to do with you being a woman,” he says.

I cringe at my overreaction. At wounds Jared left that still simmer beneath the surface . . . and that I reacted to.

I shrug it away and change the subject. “I have what I need for now. We’ll do a deeper eval tomorrow. I want to watch you work through some drills. Do some strength tests on the machines. See what your current PT regimen is so I can tweak as needed.”

“Can’t wait,” he says wryly.

“And Lucas?”

“Yes, Doc?”

“If you want to play this season, like have me rooting for you to get off the sidelines, you need to start telling me the truth. With all this cutthroat competition to make the starting roster, I’m the closest thing you have to a friend in this place. Use me to your advantage.”

His mouth curves in a slow, dangerous smile.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You might be the first person who’s ever asked me to do that.”

I don’t smile back as he bunches his shirt in his hand and then walks out.

But my pulse doesn’t slow either.

I stare in the direction he walked long after he turns the corner.

How do you handle someone who was once a giant in the sport? How do you show respect but deliver honesty? And how do you do all that with a man who you know will fight you every step of the way?

“If it were easy, Porter, you’d bitch about that too,” I mutter to myself and then head to my desk to type up my evaluation notes.