Page 48 of The Backup Plan

“It’s like having sex and then the foreplay.”

“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” I say and shake my head. “I’d say . . .” But my words drift off when I catch sight of Emery walking into the room. She has her hair down, a pair of sexy-as-hell glasses perched on her nose, and black slacks paired with a red Rebels short-sleeved sweater.

“Never had a doctor work on me before who looked like that,” Lamar murmurs.

“No shit,” I say, more out of reflex than anything.

“No fair you got her as your doc when I have him.” Lamar lifts his chin toward a hulking figure of a man whose biceps stretch the natural limits of the cuffs of his T-shirt. “Nice and all but not exactly great to look at.”

I chuckle as Lamar closes his eyes and settles in. I should do the same, but I find my eyes wandering back to Emery. To that tight sweater. To the hot teacher look. To her confidence as she stands near one of the tables, focused on a tight end’s knee. Her hands move with an easy certainty as she presses and pushes and flexes his leg.

She’s all business right now with her brow furrowed, her lips twisted, and her attention razor sharp. Just the doctor doing her job. Exactly how she wants it.

“You know she’s out of your league, right?” Lamar says.

“Good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion.” I snort. “There’s always hope, right?”

He grins and his chuckle floats out and into the noise of the room. “Just saying. Smart. Hot. Clearly doesn’t put up with bullshit.”

“Sounds exhausting,” I deadpan.

“Sounds like exactly the perfect type.”

“Whatever, dude.” I push his shoulder. “I assure you the only thing I’m looking for in anyone right now is a good time. If that. My focus is here and doing my job.”

Emery glances up, catches us looking, and moves toward us. “Should I be concerned what those looks mean?” she asks.

“Only if Lamar keeps talking,” I say as she checks the dials on Lamar’s machine.

“Since I started here, I don’t think there’s been a time when he’s not talking,” she teases to which she gets a raucous response from the guys around us.

The receiver groans as she readjusts the settings. “Doc’s brutal, Hale.”

“More like efficient,” I say. “There’s a difference.”

Her eyes flick to mine for a split second, and something unspoken passes between us. It’s professional but charged.

I clock it and file it away as quickly as she turns to assess another player.

My eyes stay on her as she works though.

Not only is she attractive, but she’s smart, confident, and clearly knows her shit. No one who’s listened to her assess a player can deny that.

Plenty of women are attractive, Hale. That doesn’t mean shit and especially doesn’t give you the a-okay to act on it. Talk about blurring lines you can’t afford to cross.

Besides, I’ve crossed enough lines in my life to know exactly how fast that shit can backfire. I’m here to play football, not make bad decisions.

Clueless of my thoughts, Emery turns back to her work, all focus and precision. I do the same—staring at the ceiling, as the machine hums, my shoulder tightening and releasing with the current.

“All right, men. Let’s finish up in here and get out on the field,” Coach bellows into the room, sharp and final.

Groans ring out as guys hop off the tables and assistant athletic trainers start disconnecting wires so the others can. Ribbing is given and taken as bodies funnel toward the locker room to grab their gear.

I’m peeling the leads off my shoulder when Coach stops mid-stride.

“Hale?”

The room pauses for a beat. So does my pulse.