My body was fluttering with an incredible orgasm, but I looked down, horrified at what I had just said. I wasn’t supposed to tell him I loved him before he walked out the door for the Super Bowl. Shit. Double double shit.

He kissed the inside of my thigh and sat up.

“I-I—” I scampered to a seated position, trying to think of how to take it back. “It was a heat of the moment thing. God, it just came out.”

“You love me?” His eyes hardened.

I nodded. “I do.” I held up my palms. “But it doesn’t change anything. You don’t have to say it.”

He reached behind me, drawing me into his lap, and kissed me. I could taste myself on his lips, and it was more of a turn on knowing what he had just done to my body.

“I love you, Doc.”

I pushed off of him. “What?”

“I’ve never said it before. But hell. Yeah, I love you. Every part of you. I love this. What we have.”

“Oh my God. I do too. All of it.”

His phone started ringing. “Shit, that’s the car for me.”

“Now you have to leave? After that?” My body and my heart were singing with heat and desire for him like I’d never felt. I wanted to wrap myself up in his arms. I wanted him to fuck me until we couldn’t breathe. I wanted mind-blowing emotional sex that we’d never forget. Wes Blakefield just said the L word.

“Yeah.” He smiled devilishly. “Gotta go. But I’ll see you Friday?”

“Completely unfair.” I pouted. It was as if he had planned it all along. Drop this huge emotional bomb on me and then walk out the door.

He leaned down to kiss me. “But think how awesome Friday will be.” He waggled his eyebrows.

He left me naked on his bed as he headed off to become a Super Bowl champion.

* * *

All week I kept the TV on the sports channel. I couldn’t get enough coverage about Wes or the predictions for the Wranglers. He was everywhere. In every commercial. On every talk show. He was the Super Bowl’s golden boy.

We texted when we could. I sent messages in between surgeries, and he sent me dirty promises of what to expect when I arrived Friday night.

I shoved my phone in my pocket when I saw Dr. Evans walk around the corner.

“Dr. Ashworth, ready for your trip?”

By now the entire hospital knew I was dating Wes. The press hounded us every time we left the apartment. I still didn’t know the names of the people I worked with, but they all knew mine.

“Leaving tomorrow.” I smiled. “My first Super Bowl.”

“Tell Wes we’re all pulling for him.”

“Of course.”

“Before you go, I wanted to ask you something.” He spoke softly.

We were close to the doctors’ lounge. “Let’s go in here,” I suggested.

Luckily, it was empty, and I walked to the coffee pot to refill my thermos. “Is it a patient consult?” I asked.

“No. No. Just curious if you’ve gotten a call from a reporter. I believe her name is Jenny Nichols.”

“A reporter? Is it a piece on the new equipment we’re using on ankle reconstruction? Because I still have my doubts if we should continue the funding.”

He pulled his glasses down. “She’s not from the Med Journal. She’s a sports reporter.”

“Huh.”

“I guess you haven’t heard from her?”

I shook my head. “No, what did she want to talk to you about?”

“I’ve avoided her calls. But I’m sure it has to do with Wes’s hand.”

I stopped stirring my coffee and looked at my older colleague. “What would she want to know about his hand?”

Dr. Evans eyed me. “I don’t think we should discuss it. It’s better for both of us if we don’t.”

“You brought it up, Dr. Evans. And really, I’m in the dark. What does Jenny Nichols want?”

“Let’s just say that someone might have tipped off the press as to the seriousness of Wes’s injuries and that his recovery was lightning fast.” His bushy mustache twitched.

I peered at him, trying to piece it all together. “We didn’t release any information on his medical status.”

“No, but you and I are not the only ones who knew he had surgery. The team said it was a severe sprain.”

“Oh, God.” I covered my mouth. Was there someone in our hospital who had leaked Wes’s medical information?

Dr. Evans tapped my wrist for comfort. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. It’s only my curiosity. The team doesn’t distribute illegal substances. Neither do you or I. So, his recovery is truly a testament to what an amazing surgeon you are and his capacity to heal. Nothing more. We followed and upheld our medical ethics.”

But I knew there was more. I had known for weeks. Wes didn’t heal on his own.

“Thanks for letting me know.” I smiled weakly, feeling the nausea hit me in a gigantic wave.

“I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”

I looked down at my coffee as he walked out of the room. The nausea rolled again in my stomach and I ran for the trashcan. This couldn’t be happening. There was a reporter digging into Wes’s recovery. I didn’t know whether to tell him or keep it to myself.

Would it keep him out of the Super Bowl? Would he be so distracted he’d screw up? Would she actually uncover something I didn’t want to know?

I sat on the bench, clutching my thermos. I had almost forgotten this part of Wes existed. These past few weeks, I had seen the sweet and sexy side. The side that had turned into a one-woman man. The side that told me he loved me.

I had forgotten that before me, he drank and gambled and slept with a different woman every night. Winning was his everything. He told me. He told me he crossed a line to repair his hand. God, why didn’t I find out more? Why didn’t I try to stop him?

The pit in my stomach grew. What if he still was that man?