A HAIL MARY
Gillian
IT WAS A bad idea.
No, he was the bad idea, but there was little I could do now except go.
My breath hiccupped, and as I reached for my phone to turn my alarm off, I once again recalled every second of the conversation I’d had with my father last night.
Lucas Carrington was the player I’d run over. I still cringed just thinking about it. The only thing making it worse was finding out who he was.
This insanely hot, flirty, bold player with a brooding side was my father’s golden egg. The quarterback he’d eyed long ago, watched countless interviews with, and in the end decided he wasn’t worth the risk, but then at the last minute dire circumstances caused him to change his mind. He’d decided to draft Lucas because he said it was fated. That losing his quarterback the very day of the draft was some kind of sign he couldn’t ignore.
The truth was Lucas Carrington was my father’s Hail Mary.
And the crazy part was it wasn’t like my father didn’t know what he was getting into. He did. He knew that Lucas wanted to get the hell out of Chicago, that he had attitude issues, and that he had yet to learn the meaning of having real respect for his team.
And so it turned out, my father ignored all the warning signs that screamed pass, and instead picked up this Notre Dame elite player because he saw something in him.
With a sigh, I sat on the edge of my small bed and placed my feet on the linoleum floor. That was my father for you. He saw something in someone and stopped at nothing to bring that person to his or her potential.
In Lucas’s case, though, I worried that not only was he more than he could handle but this time his expectations might have been unrealistic. Perhaps he’d bitten off more than he could chew.
Shoving my phone in my bag, I stood and hurried to the dresser that was mere feet from my bed. The room I stayed in was small, but at least I didn’t have a roommate. Then again, it wasn’t as if I ever did when I was here. There were never girls my age around to share a room with.
That hadn’t changed.
I’d been awake for hours and had already showered and dressed before I’d laid back down to wait for the time to pass.
For some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about Lucas and the strange attraction I felt toward him.
This was the first time I’d ever thought about one of my father’s players that way, and I couldn’t stop thinking. Thinking about what would happen between us if I weren’t an intern, or if I wasn’t the coach’s daughter? Would he kiss me, run his rough hands over my body, or maybe more?
Would he still . . . even though he shouldn’t?
Would I let him, knowing he shouldn’t?
My mind had become a flurry of upheaval and I had yet to comb through the mess.
Forcing a last-minute glance at myself, I looked in the mirror and winced. My face showed evidence of my early rising. There were dark circles under my eyes that no amount of makeup could hide and my hair had refused to do anything I wanted it to, so it went into a braid.
No more time to fret. It was time to go.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled my braid over my shoulder and hurriedly left my room. I was on the fourth floor of Chapman Hall, and my father stayed across the hall from me. Technically speaking, he had a number of rooms—one he used as a living space, one as an office, one as a viewing room, and the other as his bedroom. Still, I didn’t want to run into him.
The rest of the staff occupied the fifth and six floors, and the players were spread out across the top three floors. Last year we were split among dorms, some of which didn’t have air conditioning. This year we’d been relocated to the newest and largest dorm. And not only did it accommodate all of us, it also had air conditioning.
Downstairs at the door, I closed my eyes. I could do this. I knew how to take care of injuries like his. I was more than qualified. And yet, I had a sinking sensation in my belly that I couldn’t expel.
Once I pushed the door open, I had to squint against the wash of the early morning summer sun and then I finally ventured out.
Olivet’s grounds were beautifully landscaped. The sidewalk paths wound their way around the buildings, which were nestled into the trees.
The team practiced on the four grass fields at the very east end. They also used the fitness facilities and meeting rooms in the Douglas E. Perry Student Recreation Center, which was located on the Northeastern side of campus directly across from the practice fields.
I wasn’t in a hurry.
Yet I walked as fast as I could across the grounds.
When I found myself inside the large brick building and heading down the hall to the training room, my palms began to sweat. After I wiped them on my gym shorts, I unlocked the door and scolded myself for being nervous.
I could do this.
I could absolutely be in the same room as a hot guy with ripped abs, sinewy muscles, and broad shoulders.
I’d been around men like him my entire life.
So why was he different?
It was dark inside the room, no one was here yet, and I took a moment to breathe deep before flicking on the lights and then emptying my bag.
This room was about half the size of the Bear’s Training Room in Chicago, but it was still state-of-the-art. Remodeled a few years ago, it had been designed with the Bears’ needs in mind.
“Hey,” a deep voice said. “I’m reporting for duty as ordered.”
I jumped, turning to see Lucas in the doorway.
His blue gaze practically drank me in and instantly I felt my nipples harden. I was wearing a tank top and feared their protrusion was more than evident. It was just so hard not to notice how gorgeous he was. Even in his grungy state, there was so much raw power emanating from him. Unshaved, and his hair a sexy mess, he wore sweatpants and a Bears T-shirt. A duffle hung from his shoulder in a lopsided way, and it was the first thing I noticed about his condition.
Something about it wasn’t right, and I snapped right back into work mode.
“Good morning,” I said. “How do you feel today?”
He dropped his duffle to the ground. “Terrific.”
“No headaches, nausea, or dizziness?”
“Nope,” he said. “How long is this going to take?”
Grabbing a water bottle from the refrigerator and a heart rate monitor from the drawer, I slowly started toward him. “Less than thirty minutes, as long as everything checks out.”
His expression grew pensive. “Great. Then let’s get this over with so I can get back to what’s important.”
There was something in his tone that was off. Sure, he was being a smart-ass, but I was used to dealing with that from disgruntled players. It was their coping mechanism. There was something else going on. “This is important, Lucas.”
“Yeah, right, of course it is.” His voice was cool.
I strode past him and went directly across the hall to the weight room, where I flicked on the lights.
Lucas was obviously in a hurry because he was on my heels.
I tossed him the monitor and then pointed to the treadmill. “Strap that around your chest and then hop on.”
Okay, it sounded a little dirty.
At that, he shot me a glance, and I tossed one right back. But then I was momentarily stunned when he stripped his T-shirt off to affix the monitor to his chest. Lucas had the body of a god, and by the smug look he wore, he not only knew it, but he also knew I knew it.
Climbing onto the treadmill, he tossed his shirt over the rail. Then he pushed the speed button, and the machine roared to life.
I placed the water bottle in the cup holder in front of him. “Get to a pace you’re comfortable with, one you can sustain, and if you start to experience any dizziness or headaches, tell me right away and we’ll stop.”
“And if I have none?”
With the monitoring device in my hand, I watched his heart rate increase and his blood pressure remain steady. “Then we’ll go for the full twenty minutes.”
“And then what, I get a prize?”
I ignored his comment. “No, then, although I can’t diagnosis you, I would say you are non-symptomatic.”
Giving me a nod, he drank some water from the bottle and after he’d put it back in its place, he programmed the timer. From beside him, I noticed he still appeared to have some lingering neck spasms. Not that unusual after what happened.
About ten minutes later he looked over at me. He didn’t speak around his huffing and puffing. That was fine by me because every time his abs and pecs rippled, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about how his sweat would taste if I ran my tongue along the ridge of his ribs or around the concave cup of his belly button.
It was wrong on so many levels.
By the time eighteen minutes passed, his mouth had set into a tight, hard line of determination. Sweat had also coated his entire upper body, but it was far from disgusting.
Ridiculous as it was, I couldn’t stop flicking my gaze from the monitor to his muscled thighs and occasionally to the incredibly mesmerizing set of dimples on his back.
God was he sexy.
“Everything cool?” he asked.
No, everything was not cool.
It was hot.
He was hot.
The treadmill beeped, and I blinked out of my very inappropriate thoughts. As the belt slowed, he grabbed his T-shirt and wiped his face, and then he climbed off. Standing with his back to me, he drank thirstily from the water bottle. I was just about to tell him he had the all clear when he bent to touch his toes.
That’s when the question came to me. Had I actually hit him in the crown of the head? Or had I hit him at the top of his spine, and that was why those neck spasms were still occurring? Although much milder than yesterday, it appeared it was his shoulder at risk, not his head.
He looked up with a small grin. “Looks like I passed.”
“Yes, I would say a concussion isn’t the issue.”
“Great. I’m out of here. Thanks.”
“Lucas?” I asked, distracted, “Where exactly did the water cart come in contact with your body yesterday?”
There was confusion in his stare. “My head, I think. I’m not really sure. It all happened so fast.”
I walked over to one of the pieces of equipment meant to strengthen shoulder muscles. “Do you think it could have been your neck or shoulder area, and not your head?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m fine.”
“I’m not so sure you are. I think we should take a look at the range of motion in both of your shoulders before you go.”
“Not necessary,” he hissed and started for the door.
“Lucas,” I called, “I saw your file.”
He whirled around, like he was ready to strike. “And?”
“It states you dislocated your shoulder twice in college.”
“So what?”
“The Bears’ doctors spotted it during the pre-mini-camp physical.”
His glare was ruthless. “It wasn’t like I was trying to hide it.”
I closed my eyes for a second to recall what it said and then I reopened them. “I understand that, but it was noted.” I glanced down at the chart. “In fact, it reads,”
“This 23-year old right-hand dominant quarterback from Notre Dame has a history of dislocating his right shoulder. He is currently asymptomatic. This patient was examined and no waiver is required at this time.”
His bottom lip pushed out, as if he was pouting, but he said nothing in response.
“If you don’t let me do this,” I continued, “I will be forced to voice my concern to Dallas. In turn, he will bring it to my father’s attention. And then he will, more than likely, make you sign a waiver. And then your file will read,”
“This 23-year old right-hand dominant quarterback from Notre Dame has a history of right shoulder issues. He is currently symptomatic. This patient was examined and appears to have range of motion debilitation. A waiver is required at this time.”
His entire body went taut.
This was hard. I didn’t want to do that. I wished none of this had happened. But it had. And I needed to make certain he was okay. So I took a breath and then spoke. “I don’t want to be put in a position to have to do something that very well could permanently alter your record. It might not matter to you right now, but if you ever get traded or want to play for a different team, it will matter. So please come over here.”
The hard stare wasn’t unexpected, but his question was. “Why do you care?”
Turning around, I adjusted the weight on the machine, and then glanced over my shoulder. “Because you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my carelessness, and because I genuinely want to help you.”
Begrudgingly, he strode toward me and took a seat. With only a slight hesitation, he reached for the bar above his head. I saw it immediately, the lack of follow through in his right shoulder compared to his left—in his throwing arm—and I knew he felt it as he pushed the weighted bars out to the side.
“Do it again with a lighter weight this time,” I instructed, watching for the aftermath and muscle recovery.
He did so without a word.
While he performed this movement, my fingers probed the spot on the back of his neck that was still slightly swollen. It was right between the third and fourth vertebrae, and the inflammation was definitely causing him some discomfort in his shoulder.
This time he didn’t remain quiet. In fact, his voice turned a little husky when he said, “Feel free to move your fingers around the front and then a little lower.”
It’s hard to explain the mix of fury and desire I felt in that moment. Part of me wanted to do just that, but the smarter part of me felt disrespected, and luckily I was always more analytical than emotional.
I put my mouth right near his ear. “Stop being a colossal dick,” I whispered.
His laugh was stealthy, hearty, and so full of himself. “I’ve been called worse.”
“I don’t care what you’ve been called. Talk to me like that again, and I’ll be the one walking. And Lucas, trust me when I say, I’m on your side and you don’t want that.”
For a few short moments the tension between us was off the charts. He stood as if he was about to leave, he even took a step, but then he whirled around with a cocky grin on his face. “Sorry.”
That was not an apology.
That attempt at a charming smile more than likely got him what he wanted whenever he used it. And it probably worked on every female, but I wasn’t just any female. And I wasn’t charmed, not really, well, maybe a little bit. Still, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing what his charm did to me. “Does that really work for you?”
He furrowed his brow, and even that was charming. “Does what work?”
I fought the urge to laugh. To scream. To run over and kiss him. “That wide-eyed innocent smile,” I said.
There was no point in denying it any further, so instead he grinned. “Yes, usually, it does.”
With the frown that I had to force on my face intact, I placed my hands on my hips. “Don’t use it on me again. I don’t like it.”
This set him back a step, both literally and figuratively, but not for long. A moment later, he lurched forward and then frowned right back me. The look he gave me was fierce and hard.
“I mean it,” I added, squaring my shoulders.
In his head I knew he was calling me a bitch and telling me to fuck-off, but I had to set boundaries between us. “I’ll try to remember what you like and don’t like,” he muttered, and I could tell by his tone that he’d started to soften toward me.
Blowing out a breath, I sat where he had been seated not that long ago. “Look, Lucas, you have a range of motion impairment in your right shoulder, more than likely a result of old scar tissue that is now inflamed. With some minor rehab and no further impairment, the inflammation should go down and it should be fine in a week or so. Should, being the key word. You could wait and see, or we could be proactive about it.”
His smile was slow and deliciously arrogant, but at least it wasn’t cocky. “What exactly are you offering?”
Just the way he asked sent a shiver down my spine. I chose to ignore his innuendo, otherwise we would get nowhere. “My help, and you should take it.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very bossy?” he asked, and it was his roundabout way of answering, I supposed.
I snorted soft laughter and nodded my head, giving him an amused glance. “Yes, as a matter of fact, all the time. And?”
“No and,” he said. “Just an observation.”
This time I smiled. “So are you in or out?”
Okay, that sounded really dirty.
With the sexiest raised brow I’d ever seen, he said, “In. I’m always in.”
I let it pass. I’d started that one. “Great, I’ll let Dallas know there’s nothing to worry about, just a minor shoulder issue and we’re working on it.”
I hoped that was the case, but I wasn’t one hundred percent certain.
“Are we?” he asked.
Still thinking about possible complications, my face went blank.
“Working on it,” he grinned.
I nodded and pulled my braid back over my shoulder. “Same time tomorrow. I’ll meet you here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I made a face. “Don’t call me that.”
“Okay, Strawberry Fields, whatever you say,” he quipped instead, and then turned on his heel before I could say anything else.
After he was gone, I lingered for a long while remembering my hands on his back and how good he felt under my touch.
Shaking off what could never be, I went back into the training room. There I stared at the bottles and jars of nutritional supplements that cluttered the shelf. Green fuel, protein shakes, vitamins, and antioxidants—all things to help players get stronger, faster, better.
Too bad they would be of no help for what I’d done to my father’s star player.