I rubbed my eyes, grumbling about the lack of sleep I got last night. Every fifteen minutes, there was a nurse taking my vitals. And they sure as hell didn’t look like the hot nurse I fucked the other night. I even offered to pay them to leave me alone, but they only laughed, thinking I was joking.

I let my head sink into the pillow, hoping I could at least catch a nap before the next one came in, poking me with some kind of torture device.

“Good morning, Mr. Blakefield.” The door swung open and in walked Dr. Ashworth.

I sat forward, forgetting how exhausted I was. I suddenly had a new burst of energy.

“Hey, Doc.”

She walked toward me, and I noticed her hair was down today. It was layered in long strands over her shoulders. She was more beautiful than she was yesterday.

“How’s your hand feeling?” She bent to take a look at the incision.

“Hurts like hell.” I tried to catch a glimpse of her eyes, but she was studying my fingers.

“Well, it’s not swollen much.” She twisted her lips together. “But I’m not happy with this finger.” She pointed to my index finger.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s the most swollen.” She jotted something on her clipboard before placing it on the table. She retrieved the stethoscope from her neck and adjusted the ends in her ears. “Let me take a listen.”

I had had more physicals than I could count. The trainers for the Wranglers were constantly checking my heart rate. Checking for hydration and iron count. Physical therapists examined every muscle on my body. But I’d never in all those exams reacted like this. My heart started to pound as she leaned over and placed the cold disc on my chest. She moved it down my rib cage, and I could feel the heat of her fingers. I wanted to grab her and pull her on top of me—she smelled like sweet shampoo and vanilla. But I only had one good hand, and she’d already made it clear what she’d do if I tried anything again.

She moved the stethoscope to my right shoulder and slid it along my bicep. I could hear my veins hammer from my pulse as her fingertips explored my skin. She traced over the tattoo covering my right arm.

She stepped back, wrapping the stethoscope around her neck again. “Your circulation is fine. And you have a strong heartbeat. I’m not worried about blood flow.”

“Oh, you never have to worry about that.” I waggled my eyebrows.

“I’m talking about your broken hand.” She glared at me.

“Come on, Doc. Just a little joke. Thought I’d break the tension from yesterday.”

“Mmmhmm.” She scribbled more notes. “As far as I’m concerned, yesterday never happened.”

“It was funny. Don’t you laugh?”

Her eyes hardened. “I’m a surgeon. Your surgeon. And if you want to get back to football, then I suggest you take this more seriously and stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I’d never wanted to fuck a woman so badly. I didn’t know if it was her attitude or her body, but I had a primal need for her I’d never felt before.

I wanted to kiss her smartass lips until they were red and swollen. I wanted to rip that doctor’s coat off and bend her over this bed. I knew I could have her screaming my name. She’d already seen my dick, and the way she reacted to it, I knew she was impressed. All women were.

“Mr. Blakefield?”

I looked into her eyes, dragging my stare from her tits. “What?”

“Do you agree with the pain management plan?”

“What?” She must have been talking while I was planning how to get her uptight ass into my bed.

“Do you have someone you want to bring in for this? Someone who is going to help you at home?”

I laughed. “I don’t need any help at home, Doc.”

“Aren’t you right-handed?”

“Yeah,” I scoffed.

“Then you haven’t really thought through what it’s going to be like not being able to use your hand for eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks!” I almost jumped out of the bed.

“You have a fracture and I had to surgically realign two of your bones. This is easily an eight-week recovery.”

I shook my head, feeling the fire behind my eyes. Now she’d pissed me off. “That’s not happening. The playoffs will be over.”

She closed her eyes. “Playoffs, games, that’s all anyone talks about since you were wheeled into my OR.” She pursed her lips. “This is your hand we’re talking about. If you reinjure it, you could do permanent damage.”

“Give me some HGH. I know you’ve got something that will speed up the recovery process.”

“I don’t. I have pain meds to help you get through the first week, and I have an excellent physical therapist if the team isn’t able to handle your recovery. But that’s it. There’s no magic cure. No special injection that’s going to work. You have to heal.”

I chuckled. Of course there was. We all knew about the recovery drugs players used to get back on the field. I wasn’t going to be any different. I’d find a way to get my hands on some. The Super Bowl was on the line. The Wranglers would be behind me one hundred percent.

“When am I getting out of here?” The quicker the hospital released me, the quicker I could talk to the trainers about super meds. Eight weeks to recover was not an option.

“You need to be fitted for a brace and a sling.” She looked down at her watch. “We could have you out of here in a few hours. I’ll get started on the paperwork.”

It was instinct. I reached out to touch her wrist, but my right hand was still bound to the mold. I winced at the reminder of my injury.

“Thanks.”

She tucked a pen into her pocket. “You’re welcome, Mr. Blakefield.”

“You know you can call me Wes.”

She had thrown up a professional wall so high I didn’t know if I was strong enough to break it down, but I sure as hell was going to try. I was used to getting what I wanted, and I wanted this woman.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Her blue eyes softened. “I’ll see you back here in two weeks to check on your progress.”

I could have argued and said the trainers would take care of me. The team doctors would oversee the rest of my recovery and wouldn’t want any interference with the treatment, but I didn’t disagree.

“I’ll see you in two weeks, Doc.” I grinned as she closed the door.