I walked into the hospital the next morning feeling like the world could see it stamped on my forehead: Wes Blakefield’s sex slave. But the nurses acted perfectly normal, and no one even looked up when I entered the doctors’ lounge.

“Good morning, Dr. Ashworth.”

“Oh hi.” Dr. Evans was pouring a cup of coffee. His timing couldn’t be better. “Dr. Evans, I was wondering if I could discuss a patient with you.”

“Sure. But I’m headed into a surgery.”

“Me too,” I added. The older man liked the rest of us to know he was still active on the surgical team.

“Maybe we could walk together,” he suggested.

“Of course.” I hurriedly grabbed my coat and stethoscope and followed him out of the lounge.

“What’s the consultation?” he asked.

“Oh no, it’s not a consult.” I slowed to match his pace. He had a bit of a limp in his walk. “I was wondering if you would take over a case for me. I completed the surgery last week, so it’s only a couple of follow ups.”

“And why do you need me? My schedule is really full. I doubt I have an opening.”

This was the part I had tried to figure out. What was I going to tell any doctor I asked to take Wes as a patient? Please take him, the sex is too amazing for me to keep him on my patient list. Please take him, I’d rather him rip my clothes off than be a respected surgeon. Or maybe I should say please take him, he’s the best fucking rock star in bed and if you don’t take him, I’ll quit my job to be at his beck and call. I closed my eyes, realizing I’d lost all self-restraint and respect. I was basically a quarterback’s whore.

“Well, to be honest, sir, I heard you were a big Wranglers fan and I thought you might want to work with Wes Blakefield.”

The older surgeon stopped in the hallway. “Are you serious?”

I nodded. “I don’t really know that much about football. and I know you do.” I was losing IQ points by the second.

“Do you have any idea what his passing record is? Or his quarterback rating?”

I shook my head. “Not a clue, and that’s why I thought this case might really mean something to you. You could give him the kind of care maybe I can’t.”

Dr. Evans adjusted his glasses. “I see. I see that you’re putting the patient’s interests ahead of your own. And I think that’s the right decision.” He nodded. “Yes, I’d be happy to add him to my list.”

I jumped. “Oh great! I can’t wait to tell him.”

His brow furrowed. “I think I can have my office call and schedule with him.”

I dropped the smile quickly. “Of course. You’re right. Thank you so much, Dr. Evans. I know he’ll be in good hands with you. And if you have any questions about the surgery, please page me.”

“Will do. Thank you for thinking of me, Dr. Ashworth.”

I headed for my OR prep room. “No problem.”

Step one of unchaining myself from my doctor-patient ethics was complete. I reached for the soap and started scrubbing under my nails as I prepared for surgery. This morning, I was reattaching a torn knee ligament.

I wondered how Wes’s morning was going with the team. He had mumbled something this morning about trying to get plays changed. I still didn’t know what that meant. With only one crash course in football and most of that spent naked on the couch, I wasn’t sure I had retained much of what he had said.

I began scrubbing my other hand, careful to trace all the creases in my skin.

I had spent two nights in Wes’s apartment. Of course, that meant I had to get up extra early to make it home and pick up clothes for work, but it was worth it. I was scared to death. Scared to be with him. Scared to not be with him. Scared that it seemed we were somehow igniting something between each other that could blow up in our faces.

But I couldn’t stop myself.

“Dr. Ashworth, the patient is prepped.” One of the nurses spoke to me through the speaker system.

I hit the button with my elbow. “I’m headed in.”

I pictured Wes one more time, then pulled down the shade, dividing him from the rest of my thoughts. When I was in the OR, I had to be the one in control. Not him. He could have that privilege in bed. Not here. Not at work.

* * *

I tossed my keys on the counter and heated up a bowl of soup for dinner. I should have brought some of the leftover Chinese food from Wes’s, but I was in a hurry this morning to make it to work on time.

I ate quickly, then walked to the shower, steeping myself in steam and heat. The first surgery hadn’t gone smoothly, and the ligament repair took an hour longer than I thought it would. After that, I had a surgery canceled because a patient refused to come to the hospital, and my third surgery of the day ended up being assisted by the head of my department, so I basically sat back and watched him do everything.

I was tired and annoyed, but the hot water felt good. I dried off with a towel and ran when I heard my phone buzz.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Doc.”

I immediately blushed. “Hey.”

“Are you going to watch the game tonight?” he asked.

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Are you telling me I haven’t converted you to a football fan yet?”

“No, I’m not saying that.” I giggled. He sure had one convincing way to make a woman want to know everything about the sport.

“Okay, I’ve got to go, but it starts in twenty minutes. I’ll be on the sideline, of course.”

“You better be.” I knew I sounded stern. “Oh wait, before you go. Good news, Dr. Evans said he’ll take you on. You’re no longer my patient.” I held my breath, waiting for what Wes would say. Did things change today? Did it still matter to him?

“That’s the best fucking news I’ve heard.”

“Then, this is still…” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. We hadn’t put a label on it. There wasn’t a definition for what we had started together. It was new.

“Yes, this is still.” He laughed. “Baby, I’ll call you later. I’ve got to walk out with the team.”

“Good luck. I hope you guys win.”

“Thanks.” He hung up and I hugged the phone to my chest. So this must be what cheerleaders in high school felt like when they pulled for their boyfriends on the field. I was always the one at the library, never at the game. But somehow, I had turned into that girl. The one who was going to watch her man at the football game, even if he was on the sideline tonight.

I poured a glass of wine and turned on the TV. Other than yesterday, this was the first time I was making it a point to watch an AFA game. It was weird. I felt kind of nervous, even though he wasn’t playing. I felt the butterflies lift off when I saw the camera pan to him on the sideline. Damn it. He wasn’t wearing his sling. What the hell? I knew I wasn’t his doctor anymore, but I explicitly explained he had to wear it at all times if he wanted to heal those bones.

I was startled when I saw a beautiful brunette sidle up to him and shove a microphone in his face. She looked like a super model.

“I’m talking with Wes Blakefield, Wranglers star quarterback. Wes, we’ve heard some things about your hand. Can you clear up the rumors that you won’t be playing in the play off games?”

He flashed a gorgeous smile at her and I felt a pit of anger. Was he flirting with the sports reporter?

“Hey, Becky.”

She smiled. “What do you want to tell Wranglers fans?”

“As you can see, no cast, no sling. I’m just taking an extra week for precautionary measures. Wranglers fans don’t need to worry.” He rubbed the side of his sculpted jaw. “Easy sprain to recover from, and I have the best doctor looking after me.”

I eyed him through my TV screen. Easy sprain my ass—I had kicked butt on his surgery. There was nothing easy about putting someone’s hand back together.

“What do you think about Cosech starting tonight?” she asked.

“He’s been working through the drills and running these plays all season. He’s ready. And I’m really happy he gets a Monday night start.”

I rolled my eyes. I knew none of that was true. Wes was pissed the other guy was on the field instead of him, but at the same time, I was amazed at how convincing he could be. Becky sure seemed to believe him.

“Thanks for taking a minute for me, Wes.”

“Anything for you, Becky.” He tapped her on the back before turning toward his team’s bench.

I knew I was shooting daggers at my television screen, and I didn’t care. Professional flirt didn’t even begin to cover what he was. I settled onto the couch to watch the game. The first quarter was about to start.