“Can you point me in the direction of the physical therapy department?” Where some arrogant ass will give me exercises fit for a toddler, essentially castrating me in the process…

To say Reid Andrews was in a foul mood was a total understatement, but that didn’t mean the hospital receptionist deserved his wrath. He listened as she gave him directions and thanked her as he set off.

The closer he got to his destination, the more his muscles bunched in irritation. He shouldn’t be here. He should be back in Vegas, working his injury out with his coach and team doc. Not Sparks, Nevada—which was practically Reno and way too close for comfort to his hometown of Sun Valley to the north. Now he would be working with someone who had no concept of his sport or how important it was for him to get back in the cage as soon as possible to prep for his rematch.

For as long as he could remember, he’d been fighting. Fighting in the sport he loved above all else—Mixed Martial Arts, or MMA—to get to the top, and then fighting his ass off to stay there. Fifteen years later, he was one of the richest light-heavyweight fighters in the UFC, with a record of 34-3 and a fanbase of millions. Of course none of that mattered now because if he couldn’t get healthy in time for the rematch, his career was over.

A doctor talking on his cell and checking his pager crowded Reid around a corner and bumped into him. The guy didn’t even look back to apologize as he continued to clip down the hallway. Reid clenched his jaw and held his right shoulder as he waited for the pain to subside. Even from an impact so small, it hurt like a bitch.

He had one of the most aggravating injuries a fighter could have: a torn rotator cuff. To literally add insult to injury, it hadn’t even happened in a fight. He’d gotten the damn thing while training for his title fight. Thirty-four was almost ancient for a fighter, especially one who’d been at it for as long as he had, and his body was starting to reflect that, injury by godforsaken injury.

Sidestepping an old lady traveling at the speed of a land snail, Reid cursed his trainer, Butch, for sending him here.

Shortly after Reid had had the surgery to repair his right shoulder, the camp’s sports medicine doc needed to return home to take care of his ailing father. Scotty wasn’t expected to be back for a couple of months, and since Reid was the only injured one in the camp, Butch set him up with a local PT for the interim. But if Reid kept working with that guy, he wouldn’t be ready to fight until he was fifty, so he’d taken his therapy into his own hands.

Unfortunately, Butch got hip to what he was doing and bawled him out for not listening to Scotty’s replacement and taking it easy. But Reid didn’t know the meaning of taking it easy. His mottos were more than just your average motivational fodder. He lived by things like “give more than your everything or you’ll amount to nothing” and “if you didn’t come to win, you should’ve stayed the fuck home.” Shit like that had been drilled into him since he was old enough to throw a punch at his old man’s command.

He refused to accept the possibility of not completely healing in the next two months, thereby losing his shot at ever reclaiming his title. Every year the sport produced younger and better fighters, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for the older fighters to compete. That’s why Reid trained as hard as he did. There would always be some guy who wanted his belt and was working his ass off for a chance to take it, so he had to train and prepare that much harder to keep it. He was pissed as hell Butch had given him an ultimatum: leave camp and do PT the right way or he was pulling the fight.

Fuck. That.

Fine, whatever. He’d make his coach happy and go to this lame PT shit. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to treat it any differently than he did his regular training. He didn’t have time to dick around. He needed to get back to Vegas a.s.a.p. so he could reclaim what was rightfully his.

Reid pushed open the double doors and walked through a large room resembling the inside of a YMCA. Treadmills, ellipticals, weight sets, and exercise balls. No sparring cage. No floor mats. No punching bags. However there was an old man of about eighty-plus years walking so slow on a treadmill that he was practically immobile.

“This blows,” he mumbled as he approached the small office with his PT’s name, Lucinda Miller, on the partially closed door. He raised his hand to give a quick rap before announcing himself, but paused when he heard soft sniffles coming from the bowed head of a brunette sitting behind the desk. At least he assumed it was a desk. It was hard to tell what was under the stacks of files and papers. Instead of knocking, he cleared his throat. “Sorry, this a bad time?”

The woman spun her chair around to face the back wall, hitting her knee on a file cabinet in the process and muttering an expletive he’d bet she didn’t use publicly very often. Though he hadn’t seen her face yet, he couldn’t help but find her clumsiness sort of cute. When she grabbed a Kleenex from somewhere on her floor and blew her nose, he was reminded that she was in a vulnerable moment. “I can come back.”

“No, no.” She blew her nose and then gestured behind her without turning around. “If you could just go have a seat in the next room, I’ll be right with you.”

Sounded good. As much as he hated to see a woman upset, it was bad enough having to console someone he knew, much less a woman he didn’t. Finding the room, Reid leaned his hips on the padded table, absentmindedly cracking his knuckles as he waited. It was only another minute before she breezed in, eyes on his file, while making a beeline to the small desk along the wall.

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” she said. “Let me just take a brief moment to look this over and we’ll get down to business.”

“Take your time.” Something about her voice poked at his brain. Almost like he’d heard it before.

“Okay, Mr. Johnson, let’s take a look at—”

They froze as recognition took hold.

“Luce?”

“Reid?”

It had been several years—shit, six, maybe even seven or more, he couldn’t remember—since the last time he’d seen his best friend’s little sister. Her face was blotchy with her eyes rimmed in red from crying. so he almost hadn’t realized it was her, but the freckle at the outer corner of her left eye vaguely shaped like a heart gave her away. It was just barely visible under the dark-rimmed, rectangular glasses she wore.

“Oh my gosh,” she said, giving his waist a hard squeeze. It’d been so long since he’d seen anyone from their hometown, and besides her brother, she’d be the only person he’d care to see. He returned her hug, tucking his head down to hers. Her hair smelled like a mix of flowers and summer, so different from the heavy perfume concoctions he was used to women wearing.

She released him, taking a seat on the swivel stool in front of the desk while tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear. “I can’t believe it’s you. Wait, why does my chart say Randy Johnson?”

Reid chuckled at the ridiculous name he used for anonymity. “It’s an alias.” Wanting to erase the pained look from whatever had happened before he arrived, he gave her a wicked smile and added, “And sometimes a state of being.”

Her brows gathered together for the few seconds it took to sink in, then her cheeks flushed with color and her eyes grew wide. “Reid!”

He couldn’t have stopped his laugh if he wanted to. The shocked look on her face was totally worth it. “Come on, Lu-Lu, you can’t still be that innocent after all these years.”

“My innocence or lack thereof is none of your business, Andrews. And be forewarned: if anyone hears you call me one of those ridiculous nicknames, I’ll stab you in the jugular with my pen.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough, Lubert.” She rolled her eyes, but he interrupted her before she could get a good mad on. “Speaking of names, what’s up with Lucinda Miller? I don’t see a ring. You in the witness protection plan or something?”

She averted her eyes, suddenly finding that her name tag needed repinning. “No. I was married briefly in college. Jackson probably didn’t tell you about it because we eloped and it didn’t last very long.” She cleared her throat and smiled at him, but it barely reached her cheeks, much less her eyes. “You know how it is. Capricious youth and all that. I just never bothered to change my name back. But at least I still have the same initials, right?”

Her attempt at disguising her true feelings reminded him of what he’d walked in on. Something or someone had hurt her, and it instantly called on his protective instincts. After all, Lucie wasn’t just any woman. He’d grown up with her trailing after him and her brother, Jackson Maris. And since Jax, also a UFC fighter, was in Hawaii with his training camp and couldn’t help make things right for his little sister, Reid would gladly step in.

“Why were you crying, Lu?”

“Oh, that?” She waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing. I have terrible seasonal allergies and sometimes they get so bad I sound like a blubbering, snivelling mess, that’s all.”

He scoffed. “This is why Jax and I never let you tag along on our more devious ‘misadventures.’ You’re a terrible liar and wouldn’t have lasted five seconds under parental interrogation.”

She stood, placing her hands on her hips. “Well according to your trainer, you’re a terrible patient, so I guess we both have our faults. Now, unless you want to waste your entire session on pointless chatter, I suggest you let me assess your injury.”

Reid recognized a brick wall when he ran into one. She wasn’t going to talk about it…yet. One way or another he’d get it out of her. “Fine. Assess away, Luey.” Reaching between his shoulder blades with his left arm, he pulled his T-shirt off over his head, taking care not to jostle his right arm too much. He tossed the shirt onto the chair in the corner.

“How much PT have you had since the operation?”

“I don’t know, the usual amount, I guess. A session a day or so. But it wasn’t enough, so I was doing some extra training on the side.”

She paused and arched a brow at him. “In other words, you were overdoing it, which is counterproductive to your recovery.”

“‘Overdoing it’ is such a subjective term.”

“No, it’s not, Reid. Anything more than what your doctor or therapist instructs is overdoing it. If I’m going to help you, you need to do exactly as I say. If you can manage that, I’ll have you as good as new in about four months.”

“What? Didn’t Butch tell you about my rematch in two months? I need to fight on that card, Luce. Diaz has my belt, and I’m taking it back.”

Lucie shook her head. “Reid that’s insane. Even if I devoted the majority of my time to you, I can’t guarantee you’ll be ready to fight that soon.”

“Bullshit. You have to say that as a professional, but take into account who your patient is. I’m not like the other people you work on. I’m not your Average Joe trying to eventually get back to normal. I’m a highly trained athlete who’s had to recover from more injuries in the last fifteen years than a hundred Average Joes put together.”

She sighed. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with here, first, okay, hotshot? Sit.”

Reid hopped onto the table and tried not to tense up at the idea of having his arm manipulated. He had a high tolerance for pain, but that didn’t mean her exam wouldn’t be enough to set his teeth on edge.

“Extend your arm to the side and try to keep it there as I push it down.” He lasted only a few seconds before he released the pose with a muttered curse. She pretended not to notice and put him through a couple more strength tests where he managed to keep his swearing rants inside his head. Yay him.

“Okay, last one, Reid. Place your hand in front of your stomach and try to hold it there as I pull it away from your body.”

Clenching his jaw and his left fist he tried thinking of something other than the sickening pain shooting from his shoulder. But as bad as the pain was, the fact that he was so weak and couldn’t hide it was much worse.

“All right, you can relax now.” She made some notes in his file, then turned back and asked, “On a pain scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you can imagine, how are you feeling at the moment?”

“A four. Maybe even a three.”

She arched her brow and crossed her arms over her chest. “Spare me the macho shit, Andrews. I’m not here to challenge your virility. If you want me to do my job, then you have to be one hundred percent honest with me.”

He pinned her with a glare that made men twice her size reconsider stepping into the octagon with him. Lucie didn’t even flinch. He would’ve commended her for it had he not been so aggravated with the whole situation. “Fine. A six,” he grumbled. “But some days are better than others.”

“Don’t worry, that’s normal. Now lay facedown on the table. I want to do a couple more things.”

“You got awfully bossy in your old age, you know that?” He was a tad disappointed she didn’t rise to the bait, but offered a sarcastic Mm-hmm instead as he arranged his body on the table. With his left arm up to cradle the side of his face, he let his eyes close as she began to work on him.

Her delicate fingertips probed the muscles around his shoulder. He had no idea what she was looking for, but he hoped she searched for a while. Her touch felt so much better than how he was usually handled. Of course Scotty’s hands weren’t as soft, but it was more than that. It was the technique she used; like he wasn’t just a fighter made of hardened muscle that could handle rough, prodding fingers, but rather a man who’d asked for a gentle massage after a long day.

He heard a soft sniffle, and it set his mind to wondering what had upset her so much. Growing up he’d practically been Lucie’s second older brother, and it bothered him to know something was wrong.

Whatever it was, she was doing her best to avoid—“Ah, shit!”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, right,” he said wryly. “That was probably payback for using your floppy bunny as a lawn-dart target.”

He couldn’t see her face, but he heard the smile when she spoke. “I forgot all about that. Jackson got grounded for three days, and my mom had to sew all the little holes together. She told me he was a war hero who was going through surgery to get patched up before receiving a medal from the president.”

“Your mom was always good for a story. Jax and I counted on her to give us all our background information for our pretend missions as kids.”

“Mom was something special all right. I still miss her bedtime stories.”

Lucie’s parents had died in a car accident the summer after he and Jackson graduated high school and she was just thirteen. Jackson chose to raise Lucie instead of pawning her off on another relative, which is why he wasn’t as far in his MMA career as Reid. It was an honorable thing, and it was obvious he’d done a damn fine job, too.

Just then it hit him. “It’s a guy, isn’t it?”

Her hands stilled for only a moment, but it was long enough to give him the answer he was looking for. “Is it tender when I press here?”

Like bad heartburn, an unfamiliar lividity rose up for the general male population until he could aim it at the one who deserved it. Pushing up with his left arm he swung his body around to face her.

“What are you doing? I’m not done.”

“You are until you tell me who he is and what the hell he did,” he growled.

“Reid—”

“Quid pro quo, Lu. You tell me who made you cry and why, and I promise to not find out on my own, hunt him down, and kick his teeth down his throat for putting that look on your face.”

He almost regretted throwing down the harsh threat when her face blanched, but if that was the only way he could get her to open up, then so be it. “Here, hop up on the table. We’ll switch places,” he said as he stood. When she opened her mouth to brook an argument, he narrowed his gaze to show her he wasn’t kidding. With a resigned sigh she did as he wanted, albeit not happily.

“There, now you’re the patient.” Despite the pain it caused in his shoulder, he braced his hands on either side of her hips, preventing an escape should she decide it was the better alternative. “So, Miss Miller,” he said looking into her soft gray eyes, “tell me where it hurts.”