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He was a high-level athlete—he was used to pain and then some. “How many ACL tears have you treated?”
“A few. I’ll let you know at the end if you were my best patient.”
He stifled a laugh because she’d deftly appealed to his competitive instincts. He wondered if she used the same technique to cajole all her patients. Probably some played sports—since a torn ACL wasn’t too unusual an athletic injury—even if she’d never treated a professional hockey player like himself before. “Will you dock me points for irreverence?”
“Do you really want to find out?” Methodically, she taped two wires to his thigh. “I’m going to set you up with some muscle stim right now. This will get you started.”
In his opinion, they’d gotten started with the electricity when she’d walked in the room. But he sensed that he’d teased her enough, and she wasn’t going to take any more nonsense, so he kept mum for the next few minutes and just followed her directions.
After the muscle stim, she taught him how to do patellar glides. He followed her instructions about how to move his knee to gain more flexibility. They followed that up with quad sets and heel slides, which she told him to do at home, too.
Overall, he found none of it too arduous. But at the end of half an hour, she announced that his ability to bend his knee had gone from around ten degrees to eighty.
He grinned. “I’m your best?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Superman. Your knee was wrapped in bandages that interfered with motion until now, so you were bound to make some significant improvement.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You’re impossible.”
“No, I’m very possible if you’ll consider your options. Now, insufferable, that’s another thing...”
Sera seemed to grit her teeth. “You’ll need weekly appointments.”
“How long will my therapy last?”
“Depends on how it goes.” Her expression was challenging—as if she’d been referring to his behavior, good or bad, as well as his recuperation. “Usually three to four months.”
“Nothing long-term, then?”
She nodded. “What you’re used to.”
A fling. The words drifted unspoken between them. She’d met his double entendre and raised him. Ouch.
Two
“I can’t do it. There’s no way I can be Jordan Serenghetti’s physical therapist.” Sera drew her line in the sand. Or rather, on the hockey ice—or whatever.
“You have to,” Bernice, the clinic’s manager said, her short curly brown hair shining under the overhead fluorescent light.
“He needs a babysitter—” of the centerfold variety “—not a trainer. Or a physical therapist.”
“We’re counting on you to help us land this client.”
And Jordan Serenghetti was counting on landing her. His appointment had ended over an hour ago, and still she was suffering the lingering effects. Annoyance. Exasperation. Indignation. She’d spent the time since naming her emotions.
True, Jordan emanated charm from every pore. She wasn’t immune. She was still a woman who liked men, and she wasn’t dead. And okay, maybe she was the one with long-suppressed needs. But that didn’t mean Jordan was getting anywhere with her. Again. She still remembered the feel of his lips on her. And he didn’t have any recollection—none whatsoever. She’d just been another easily forgotten face in a cast of thousands. That much had become clear once she’d reencountered him years later while waitressing at the Puck & Shoot, and there’d been not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
She knew the score these days, and this time she was determined that the game would end Sera 1, Playboy 0.
Endure months of close contact with Jordan? It would test her nerves and more. So after her session with him had ended, Sera had sought out Bernice in her office to plead her case. Standing just inside the doorway, she focused on the bobblehead dolls lining her boss’s bookshelves. All the major sports were represented there—including hockey. Scanning them, Sera didn’t see Jordan. It gave her hope that she had a small chance of convincing Bernice. How big a fan could her boss be?
“How about you reassign me and I bring you another baked lasagna to thank you?” Sera cajoled.
“Ordinarily I’d consider a small bribe,” Bernice parried, her desk chair turned toward the office’s entrance, “especially if it’s one of your homemade dishes. But this time, no. The staff has been enjoying the big pan of baked ziti you brought in for lunch today, though.”
Sera lowered her shoulders.
