Reese

 

The Mayans had gotten it wrong. The world hadn’t ended on December 21, 2012. Obviously. It seemed, though, they had just been a little premature with their prediction. The day they should have marked as the end of the world was November 6, 2017.

Unfortunately, that day was today.

Doomsday. Bom, bom, bom.

Of course, it would happen before the final season of Game of Thrones aired. Typical. 

Today, I was going to start my new job as the student trainer for the North Calhoun University men’s basketball team. Technically, it was an internship since I was still a graduate student in the physical therapy program at NCU. Not that the title changed anything. I still had to be present at most practices and attend all games, even the away games, to monitor the athletes’ health and tend to any injuries.

Shoot me now.

The basketball part didn’t bother me. In fact, I loved basketball. I’d even played all four years on my high school varsity team. I wanted to specialize in sports physical therapy, so being a trainer was the perfect situation. But I had specifically applied for an internship as trainer for the women’s basketball team.

Not. The. Men’s.

For two reasons. One, guys were obnoxious and annoying and had a tendency to make suggestive remarks about a female trainer, while snickering and giggling like a bunch of school girls. In my experience, female athletes were much easier to work with, and they don’t usually try to grope you. Usually.

Two, my father, Eric Bradley, was the coach of the men’s team. And we weren’t exactly on the best of terms.

Maybe it was because he and my mom had divorced when I was fourteen, and I hadn’t seen a whole lot of him since because of his coaching jobs. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t made a whole lot of effort to stay in touch with me over the years. Or maybe it was because I could count on one hand how many times we’d had any kind of special father-daughter moments since the divorce.

Today marked the first day I would see him in almost six months. I had a sneaky suspicion that he’d had something to do with me ending up on the men’s team instead of the women’s. Though I wasn’t sure why he would have cared either way. For the aforementioned reasons, it didn’t make any sense why he would have instigated something that would lead to us spending more time together.

All day, I’d been preparing myself for the moment when the sky fell black, and the ground disappeared beneath my feet. Because the world was most certainly about to end.

I just hoped I’d have time to eat one final Snickers bar before the fire and brimstone.

I flashed my new personnel badge to the security guard posted at the front entrance of the locker room tunnel inside the NCU stadium complex, and pushed through the heavy metal door. Walking down the dark tunnel, I steeled my shoulders and took deep breaths. I had to be ready for this new world I was about to step into and become a part of. One that included my distant father and a whole bunch of brawny, cocky jock-types.

I approached the team’s locker room and was grateful to find it empty. Of course, it’s empty. You showed up late to practice for a reason. Okay, yeah, so maybe I had taken a few extra turns on my way here. And skirted through a Starbucks drive-through. And sat in my car in the parking lot for about half an hour. Perhaps I had been avoiding facing what was about to happen.

But I was no coward.

At least, not as of this moment.

Taking in the scene around me, I quickly familiarized myself with the large room. Open lockers lined each wall, duffel bags were scattered across the floor, random clothing items were haphazardly strewn on stools and benches, and… Oh, thank God.

There was no overpowering, funky man smell.

I mean, there was a bit of a musty odor to the air. But it wasn’t nose hair-burning horrible.

I heard some shuffling noises coming from a side room to my left. I followed the sounds, dodging shoes and water bottles and towels as I went. Thankfully, it was the training room, and I immediately recognized the back of the older gentleman standing at an open supply cabinet.

“They haven’t retired your number yet?” I asked, unable to stop a grin from forming.

Dr. Gus Iglehart, the long-time NCU men’s team trainer, spun around, a smile instantly lighting up his face. “Well, as I live and breathe. Reese Bradley.” He pulled me in for a hug. “How long did you contemplate turning this gig down before you finally realized that would have been stupid and sucked it up instead?”

“About the time it took me to drink three bottles of wine,” I deadpanned.

He lifted an eyebrow. “So, about two hours?”

“You know me so well, Gus.”

Gus had been a fixture in the physical therapy department for decades, so every PT student knew who he was. He had taught some anatomy classes for years, but had spent his last fifteen with the university as the men’s basketball team trainer. Quite frankly, you didn’t go through any of the medical programs at NCU without encountering Gus at least once.

For many of us, he had become a great mentor and even better friend. The fact that he was in his mid-sixties and often bullshitted around with us like he was still in his twenties only made me love him more. He and I had developed a special bond over the years. I had come to view him as sort of a grandfatherly figure.

It was one of the only reasons why I’d taken this job.

That, and because Gus was right. It would have been stupid to turn it down.

The men’s NCU basketball team was an institution in the state of North Carolina. Hell, in the entire country. Being connected to one of the most prestigious PT programs in the nation, plus having legitimate PT experience with one of the most successful and well-known teams in all of sports, plus having a glowing recommendation from Gus Iglehart, was going to put quite a few job opportunities at my fingertips.

“You ready for this, kid?” he asked with an inquiring eye.

With our many conversations, he had gotten to know me better than most, so he knew about the contentious relationship I had with my father. He understood how difficult and awkward this was most surely going to be for me. Regardless of my growing nausea, I raised the veil and faked confidence. If I had one area of expertise in life, it was that. Masking my uncertainty and self-doubt, usually with sarcasm and smart assery.

“When have you ever known me to back away from a challenge?” I asked. “I’ve got balls of steel, remember?”

“I thought the phrase was buns of steel.”

I feigned a sigh. “God, how old are you? Buns of steel is so 80s.” I slapped my hand on his shoulder. “And by that, I mean the 1980s. Not the 1880s. You know, the decade you were born.”

He lightly yanked a strand of my hair. “I’m gonna kick your ass right back to the 1980s if you’re not careful, little girl,” he grumbled.

I, in turn, ruffled his soft white hair. “It’s so cute when you try to act all tough.”

He rolled his eyes. “You want a tour now? Or should I just let you and your balls of steel figure everything out for yourselves?”

I innocently batted my eyelashes. “One tour for the lady, please.”

He tried to look stern, but he couldn’t hide the small twitch of his lips. “Well, first things first.” He pointed at another door I hadn’t noticed before. “Please use that door from now on. It leads out to the main hallway. When the adjoining door to the locker room is closed, that means don’t go in. If you need to see a player for any reason, they’ll come to you. Don’t go in the locker room.”

I hummed in sarcasm “Yes. Because I’ve never seen a penis before.”

His stern face was back in place. “The last thing we need is for our female trainer to be flashed by a bunch of dicks.”

I smirked. “Pun intended?”

He ignored that. “I love these boys like they’re my own. But those jackasses would take you going in there as an invitation. So, let’s avoid all the pesky sexual harassment lawsuits, shall we?”

I placed my hand over my chest. “Aw, I knew you cared. But FYI, if you’re trying to protect my virtue—”

He wildly waved his hands about. “Ah, no! No. Good God, girl. I don’t need to hear about that.” He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temple. “Just…” He sighed. “Oh, what the hell. Moving on.”

I bit back my laughter as he continued showing me around the training room, indicating where all the supplies were kept, all the forms I would need, the records on each player, and so on and so on. Not surprising, NCU had the best of everything. And my nerdy side couldn’t wait to get her hands on the brand new cervical support rolls I’d spotted.

The dread from earlier had started to morph into…excitement.

It felt good being here. Like I was important, needed.

“I’m not going to go over all the common injuries we’re going to deal with because you know your stuff,” he said. “But ankles, knees, shoulders, and fingers will be the worst. Nose bleeds are common, of course. We always have to be ready to massage away muscle cramping. And yes, we even have to handle hangover symptoms.”

“You’re kidding,” I said flatly.

That should be something their own dumb asses should take care of.

He shook his head. “Nope. I’ve learned over the years that coaches can’t completely prevent the guys from partying, and they don’t want to deal with their players stumbling around and puking during practice. So, I created a miracle shake that obliterates any hangover in like, five minutes. I’ll give you the recipe. I call it The Cure.”

“Like the band?”

His expression was blank. “What band?”

“Nevermind,” I muttered.

“I’m going to go out to the court and check in with some of the guys,” he said, standing up. “Right now, we’ve got a sprained ankle, a jammed toe, and a few muscle bruises that need to be watched.” He waved down at me. “And I suppose we need to get the introductions out of the way.”

“Don’t act too thrilled about it,” I drawled. “I just need to use the restroom real quick.”

He peeked into the locker room. “Everyone’s on the court now, so you can use one of the toilets in there. But just this once. Any other time, use the one down the hall.”

I saluted him. “Hate to break it to you, Gus, but a girl doesn’t relish being in a men’s bathroom. You lot are filthy pigs.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you out there,” he said and left the room.

As I walked back through the locker room and shut myself into a stall, a wave of self-assuredness swept over me. It wasn’t fake confidence this time, either. I could do this. I’d earned this spot, dammit. I’d spent my entire life working my ass off studying and reading. I had pushed a lot of things to the back burner—like having a social life—in order to focus on school.

And an uncomfortable situation with my father was not going to screw that up.

I stepped out of the stall and washed my hands, lost in my thoughts. I knew I had the goofiest smile imaginable pasted on my face. That was, until I walked back into the locker room and saw it.

An ass.

A naked ass.

On a guy. It was a guy’s naked ass, right in my face.

I briefly glimpsed a tall, tanned body with rippling muscles all down his back before my eyes fell right back to that perfectly sculpted butt. A light smattering of dark blond hair was sprinkled across his hamstrings, which pulled, tightening with every move he made.

God, what a sight.

I unwittingly emitted some sort of throaty sound that was a mix between a sigh and a groan. Which was really unfortunate because, of course, he heard it and whipped around to face me, immediately covering his goods with a white T-shirt. His blue eyes were wide and beautiful but…angry.

Shit, he was pissed.

“Can I help you?” he snapped.

Oh.

My.

God.

I knew who this was. I’d seen his chiseled face a million times, though never in person. I’d watched him dominate the court over the years, I’d heard his deep baritone voice on TV. Hell, the entire country knew who he was.

This was Cam freaking Donovan.

And I’d just seen his ass.

Where was that ending of the world when you needed it?