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Boot straps, Amanda! Pull your ass up.
I barge into the gym to find Hendricks glaring at a very tall, very fit woman––the physical therapist, I assume––his hands planted on his hips like a spoiled child. Maybe not a child. There’s a whole lot of muscle on display. And the white, shiny basketball shorts he’s wearing are showing the outline of things they really shouldn’t be showing.
Sweet JC, this man has no shame. “Is there a problem?” I dare ask.
“She’s leaving,” the shameless man announces. He’s glaring at this poor woman, willing her gone with some serious hate vibes he’s throwing her way.
“Mrs. Hendricks?” The woman’s determined brown gaze bores into mine.
A burst of manic laughter rips out of me. “Who, me? Oh, no, no, no. Ha, that’s funny. No. Definitely no. Umm, Mr. Hendricks is a houseguest. My brother’s teammate.”
The physical therapist returns a confused expression at my scatterbrained response. “Mr. Hendricks needs to complete thirty hours of PT before he takes a physical. Team rules, ma’am. Otherwise they’ll put him on IR.”
Injured reserve. He would miss the entire NFL season.
Grabbing her bag, she starts to exit. “Maybe you’ll have better luck than me convincing him, Miss…”
“Shaw.”
“Any relation to Calvin Shaw?”
“He’s my brother.”
She grimaces. “I’m sorry.” She glances back at Hendricks. “Hope you can talk some sense into him,” the therapist tells me, jerking her chin in Hendricks’ direction. Before I can disabuse her of the notion that anybody on God’s green earth could do such a thing, she walks out, saving me the trouble.
As soon as the therapist leaves, silence falls heavy in the room. Hendricks’ attention switches to me. We seem to be engaged in some kind of staring game. I’m not sure what the stakes are, but I am definitely sure I’m not in the mood for any games.
“Sam, go feed Roxy, please. It’s time for her dinner.”
Sam’s gaze darts between me and the jerk on the other side of the room. Roxy begins whining loudly, turning in circles around us. Her nails click, click, click on the wood floor. The way Sam keeps watching the angry dude tells me he’s much too curious about what is going on. “Sam, please?”
Sam huffs. Boy and dog walk out. Hendricks looks away.
“Why won’t you do your PT? Don’t you want to play this season?”
He picks up a hand towel off the bench press and wipes his chest.
“Hendricks––are you retiring or do you want to play?”
Camilla is generally a good judge of character and she says Hendricks is one of the good guys. Pain does awful things to people, I remind myself. Especially chronic pain.
I do feel bad for him…in a way. Yes, he’s a rich, gorgeous, professional athlete that has the world by the proverbial balls, but jerks are people, too. He has feelings like everyone else…I think. He deserves my understanding…kind of.
“You’re not going to heal any faster eating trash and not working out,” I say, gentling my voice to coax the wounded creature from the black lagoon into sharing whatever is swirling around that stubborn head of his.
His gaze narrows, warily flickering to me and away as I approach.
“I’m sure your doctor has a light training schedule you can get started on.” It’s like trying to engage a block of cement. “I can even show you some gentle yoga positions that can help.” Still nothing. Discouraged but not defeated, I continue my onslaught of gentle persuasion. “Have you spoken to him?”
His head tips back, glare aimed at the ceiling.
“Look, I get it.” My hand naturally falls over my heart chakra. “You’re in pain. You’re scared about your future. I’ve been there. I’m just…” The shrug is involuntary as I choose my next words carefully. “…trying to help. What I’m saying is––I would like to help you.”
He takes his eyes off the ceiling to glare at me. He means to send me running from the room, and three years ago I probably would have. Three years ago I would’ve avoided the conflict altogether. This is a man who gets paid big bucks to be intimidating and that he is. But it’s a new me––the me that kicks ass and takes names. The me that doesn’t run and hide from conflict and second-guesses herself at every turn. It’s the me that stands and deals. And that me has a sneaking suspicion that it may all be an act.
“If you got it, Tony Robbins, you wouldn’t be wasting my precious time with your special brand of life coaching. Go peddle your bullshit to the bored housewives of the Hamptons.”
Or maybe not. My temper jolts awake. I didn’t haul myself out of the gutter to be ground under the boot heel of this guy. The hell with that.
Namaste, mutherfu––
“Anything else?” he snaps.
“Nope,” I return with a forced smile. Then I leave him to his own awful company.
