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She smiles—at him. Of course she does. My jaw tics.
“Hi, Shayna,” I say.
She draws in a deep breath and turns her head in my direction. “Nice to meet you.” She nods.
The cold and clinical nature of her hello freezes my insides. She’s clearly not here to put anything behind us.
So that’s how she wants to play it? Pretend we don’t know each other? Pretend I haven’t been balls deep inside her while she screams my name when she comes? All right, I’ll play along. For now that is.
“Same. I hope everyone’s been nice.”
Her eyes narrow an infinitesimal amount, but I notice. She’s trying to act unaffected by my presence. “Everyone’s been very nice, yes.”
I nod. “Good to hear.” Looking back in Brady’s direction, I say, “I came over to see if you want to go out on Saturday night. Nothing crazy, just thought we should get to know each other better before the season. But let me make the arrangements. I know you’ve lived here a while, but I have some killer hookups in the city. I’ll work my magic and get back to you.”
“Great. Do your thing.”
I glance at Shayna one last time. “It was nice to meet you.”
She nods but doesn’t bother making eye contact with me, instead focusing on stretching out Brady’s foot.
I reluctantly walk over to Dr. Frampton. She’s clearly still giving me the cold shoulder. Guess that means I’ll have to try harder to warm her up. For both of our benefits this season.
Four
Shayna
By the time afternoon hits, the players are out on the practice field. Most of the medical staff observe from the sidelines, keeping an eye out for any sign of weakness or injury that a player either isn’t aware of or is trying to hide.
The reality is that there are only so many open spots on the roster and it wouldn’t be the first time an athlete on the brink of making it doesn’t mention a tight hamstring or a sore knee. Part of our job during training camp is to look for that sort of thing and give input to our superiors. It’s all for the betterment of the team, but I feel like a snitch. I would hate to be responsible for someone not achieving their dream.
But the fact number forty-one keeps pulling up his left leg slightly faster than his right, as if it hurts when he bears all his weight on his left knee, isn’t what’s forefront in my mind.
As much as it irks me, Lee Burrows is consuming my attention.
Partly because I have to stand on the sidelines and watch him practice. It’s like I’m at a Chippendales show, because I’m growing hotter the more he sweats. It’s abundantly clear that the man is still a football god. It’s not like I didn’t already know, but seeing it live and in person is another thing altogether. I can’t keep my eyes off him long enough to pay attention to the other players. Lee moves around the field with such fluid movement and a commanding presence. Does he really have to lift his shirt to clear the sweat off his face? God, his abs are incredible. My thighs clench together at the remembrance of having him there.
I thought I’d put my attraction and lust for him to rest a long time ago, but apparently not.
I saw that quick flash of hurt in his eyes when he came to talk to Brady while I was working on him. It was a split second—there and gone—but for whatever reason, his expression has stuck with me all day.
When I saw him approach, I thought Lee was going to be all caveman, so I was surprised when he took my sign and pretended we didn’t know one another. There’s no pleasure on my part in hurting him. I just have to remind my subconscious that we hate Lee Burrows—no matter how hot he makes me.
I force myself to turn my attention elsewhere on the field just before Lee tosses a ball Brady’s way.
“It’s hard to look away, isn’t it?”
I startle at a woman’s voice next to me. She’s a petite brunette with olive skin, dark eyes, and dark hair to match, wearing tan dress pants and a black mock-neck tank. Must be some bigwig here.
“I’m sorry?”
She gestures toward the field. “It’s hard to look away from them, isn’t it? They’re all at the top of their game, in their prime… all that testosterone needy for somewhere and someone to unleash it on.”
I laugh and look at the ID around her neck. The wind has flipped it over, stopping me from reading it. I like to think I’m no longer as shy as I was in college, but I’m still reserved, and she’s clearly anything but. Not that she’s wrong. These men are the kind who can pick you up and fuck you against a wall without breaking a sweat.
She holds out her hand. “Bryce Burns. I write sports for theSan Jose Chronicle.”
“Good to meet you. Shayna Kudrow. I’m an athletic trainer.” I accept her hand.
