CJ
The doctors told me it would be good as new and yet after a couple weeks, I’m not convinced. Dammit all. If I don’t get back on the field soon, there’s no way my contract is going to get renewed. I need to get a whole lot better, a whole lot faster.
Stan, my manager-trainer is at the front desk, arguing about insurance. I told him I needed better care than this God-forsaken hole-in-the-wall but he insists it’s the best place in the city.
And that young woman who just came in the door? She better not be my physical therapist. She’s obviously slept in those clothes, her hair is wet, and there’s dark circles under her eyes. That’s hardly the professional that I need to get me back in the game.
She shakes hands with Stan and puts her long blond hair into a pony tail. Then staring down at a tablet, heads my way. Under that coat, she’s probably shapely but it’s hard to tell. One thing’s for sure, those cute features, pouty lips, and thick lashes are better suited for a model.
I’m not blind. I like the way her jeans hug her tight ass and I’m sure I’d enjoy her in bed but that’s not what I’m looking for. There’s no way in hell she’s tough enough to get me in shape.
“Hello Mr. Quinn.” She holds out her hand as if she thinks I’m going to shake it.
When I stare into the space behind her head, she drops her arm back down, cheeks red. I don’t mean to be rude but this isn’t going to work out.
Stan hasn’t left yet so I jump off the table, grab my cane, and pull him aside. “What the fuck! I told you I wanted to be one hundred percent before next season. What the hell is that?” I point to the girl. “I need a real physical therapist, not a fucking Barbie.”
He eyes me like I’m a piece of shit. “You’re lucky to have her. Lucky to have anything at all. You screwed up big time.”
His attitude is totally uncalled for. “Hey. I wasn’t found guilty of anything. I’m the victim here.”
“Shit, CJ. You were in a car with a minor. The press has taken ahold of it and made you look like a rapist. Have you seen any fans lately? Any tweets that sing your praises? Now go make nice while I make sure your bills get paid.”
Dammit. I could’ve sworn on a stack of bibles that the woman in the bar that night was in her mid-twenties. I made one bad decision. I got into a car with a beautiful stranger who wanted a quick lay. I was just being a good guy, happy to accommodate but I’ll get it all sorted out. I have to. Otherwise all my dreams are down the shitter.
While I’m deep in those unhappy thoughts, Stan swivels on his heel and slams the door to let me know how pissed off he is. At least for now, I guess I’ll have to make nice with Barbie here.
My right knee hurts like a mother-fucker as I hobble back to where she’s standing. Even though she heard the whole interaction, I have to give her credit. She doesn’t seem the least bit phased. Instead of giving me lip, she takes my cane, puts it in a corner, and then points to the therapy table.
“Sit.”
Today is going to be a big fucking waste of time. Paper crunches under my butt when I hop up and cross my arms over my chest.
“Lie back.” The pretty blond removes her coat and hangs it up in a closet.
Then while I stare at the tin ceiling, she pulls my sweats up, pokes at my bum knee, which makes the tendons burn like hell.
“Next time come in shorts. It’s easier.” Her blond brows furrow, lifting my leg as if it weighs nothing at all.
“There isn’t going to be a next time.” I send her my perfected glower as she pushes my thigh into my chest.
That fucking hurts. “Enough!” I twist my leg out of her grasp.
She stares coldly, voice condescending. “Ten more times. You count.”
I do as she commands, feeling a bit childish but if she makes my injury worse, I swear I will fucking sue this place.
Once done with that torture, she turns to the treadmill, sets a too-fast pace, and says, “Walk.”
I stare incredulously at the timer. I can’t believe this little bitch. Who does she think she is? Without my cane, that’s impossible. After sixty agonizing seconds, when she’s not looking, I reach to slow it down.
Of course, she’s watching and slaps my hand. “Leave it, Mr. Quinn. Concentrate. Work on your gait. Tuck in your abs. You’re walking like a duck.”
Blow it out your ass, Barbie.
I wonder if this is payback for earlier and start to speak my mind when a blue-haired woman walks in the door with her husband. I have to hold my tongue while my blond torturer leads the elderly woman to a table, asking her questions about her hip and back.
What the fuck? Now I’m sharing my therapist?
Maybe Stan didn’t make it clear how important this is. Maybe that blond is one of those chicks who hates football and has no idea I’m worth millions but it doesn’t matter.
Barbie’s toast.