"Dr. Rose, please tell the board that this is someone's idea of a joke!"

Dylan winced beneath her supervisor's words and wished she could take it back. Any show of weakness and these people would eat her alive. At least Charlie appeared to be feeling some sympathy for her. He sat further forward in his chair than she had ever seen him before, and he looked ready to leap up and come to her defense at any moment.

As well he should! This whole debacle was entirely his fault. When would it be his turn to stand up and get grilled?

"Tell me they're rentals," the hospital head interrupted Dylan's direct supervisor. "At least tell me that much."

"Nope!" A pair of glasses from the financial department quickly put up his hand. "The flat screens and gaming systems were all purchased using the donation intended for Sports Medicine."

All eyes turned to look at her accusingly, while Dylan's eyes burned into the closed-lipped Austin celebrity staring at the far wall. What was that about wanting to do the 'responsible' thing, Charlie?

She could murder the quarterback. Well, maybe not in a fair fight, but she was willing to sink to inconceivable lows at this point. A drop of arsenic in his protein powder, maybe, or…

God, how often does the thought of murder cross my mind in this room? Dylan thought as she glanced around herself. Out loud, she said, "Pardon me, but I need a moment to process…"

"There's nothing more to process." Charlie rose from his chair. His immediate command of the room was obvious, and Dylan would have felt instant relief at having him stand now if she didn't so desperately want him six feet under in an unmarked grave. "Dr. Rose had nothing to do with this, and I think we all know that. And she won't be the scapegoat for my mistakes. She didn't whisper in my ear and convince me to do this, if that's what you're thinking. I spoke to the other Teamsters, and we all decided as a team to reroute the donation to Critical Care to pay for the TVs."

"But why, Charlie?" Smitty demanded. "We already told the public that money was going to the Sports Medicine Department!"

"What? The optics suddenly don't look good enough for you, Smitty?" Charlie demanded. "You think a bunch of smiling sick kids won't play well? Think showing the reality of that underfunded Critical Care ward is going to make people uncomfortable?"

"We'll fundraise," Dylan blurted. All eyes turned back toward her, and she soldiered on valiantly. "We'll hold a fundraiser for the hospital—sooner rather than later, while Charlie's stunt is still fresh. We'll aim to take in the missing money for Sports Med, and any additional donations we get will go directly to Critical Care now that awareness has been raised."

"That's not a bad plan," the hospital head said. "I'll get our event planners working on it immediately. Mr. Smith," she said to Smitty, "expect our communications and PR staff to be in touch with your team in the next few hours. I want to get out ahead of this and spin it to our best advantage. So long as Mr. Wild agrees to make a personal appearance and be our main spokesperson on this, I don't see how we can't split resources and all come away happy."

"You pissed at me?" Charlie asked her as the rest of the boardroom disbanded. Dylan tried to escape into the hallway so she could lock herself in her office and tear paper to vent her frustration, but he snagged her arm before she could so much as make it a foot from the door.

"I'm not pissed." She lied through her teeth, but whether or not she was angry at him wasn't the point right now. She strained, closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath. When she opened them again, Charlie was gazing down at her in amusement. "Charlie," she began again, "I agree with the hospital head. This can be a good thing. Not just for Lockhart General and all the kids in the Critical Care ward, but for you. Have you ever thought about devoting your time to more projects like this?"

"Not a bad idea," he allowed as he gazed off down the hallway. "I mean, I get why some of the guys on my team might do this sort of thing more than they hit the club scene. I didn't always follow that line of thinking, but now…yeah, I might make the time."

Dylan shook her head and rotated him back toward her. "No…I mean, that's great. It's really wonderful you feel this way. But that's not what I meant." His brow furrowed, perplexed. "As your doctor…" she continued, "As your friend…I think it's important that you start considering what the next step is going to be."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Now it was Dylan's turn to feel confused. "Exactly what I said. I've seen plenty of career-ending injuries in my life, Charlie, and not all of them are obvious at the start. In fact, it's the ones that aren't obvious that are often the hardest on people, because they expect to be back on the field again in no time. When that doesn't happen…" She shook her head. She never enjoyed giving this talk, and it was even harder than usual giving it to Charlie.

"It's important that you have other pursuits off the field, is all I'm saying. Whether your career ends today or tomorrow or five years from now, you have to have something to look forward to."

She just wished she could read the look on his face better. His usual smile had deflated, but she wasn't sure at what point in their conversation all the air had gone out of it.

"You see what I'm saying now? Right now, your life revolves around football. If—when—your football career ends, I don't want your emotional life to end with it. I'm your doctor, Charlie, and that means I concern myself with all aspects of your health. I'm saying that I think you'd be a really great ambassador to children like Nicholas."

Charlie stood frozen in front of her. As the silent seconds ticked past, Dylan found herself wanting to reach up and rap her knuckles on his forehead to check that he was home. Had anything she said gotten through to him?

"Right," he finally answered her. "Emotional life. Got it. If you don't mind, I'd like to get back to football now, Doc."

Evidently not.

"Come on." Charlie grabbed her hand and towed her toward the gym. "I don't think you fully appreciate yet what that encompasses. Let me prove to you how ready I am to get back out there on the field."

"You don't have to prove anything to me," she protested as they entered the rehab facility. "Unless you want to start proving that you're going to follow my advice."

Whatever Charlie wanted her to see, it evidently required him to be shirtless. The quarterback shucked his jacket—no easy feat considering it was already tight across his massive shoulders—and pulled his T-shirt up over his head. He pulled an elastic band off his wrist and used it to secure his hair, then he made his way out to the exercise mat.

He dropped easily into a set of pushups, as Dylan seated herself on the nearby bench. She crossed one leg over the other and tried to arrange herself into a position that best conveyed her disapproval with this display.

"Come on!" Charlie lifted one arm off the mat to gesture her over. She just chuckled and rolled her eyes in response.

"Mr. Wild, I'm not going to sit on your back." Did he really think he was the first to make the offer?

"Only on my front?" Charlie asked innocently.

Dylan had no ready response. She scowled and settled for watching the show he insisted on putting on for her. When it became apparent she wouldn't budge from the bench, Charlie fisted his free hand and tucked it behind his back. He continued his push-ups one-handed.

Dylan's gaze traveled over the heaving mountains of his shoulder blades, the tectonic shifts of his back muscles. He really was in breathtaking physical shape, built unlike any of her previous patients. Anyone who got paid what he did could spend their time bulking up in various areas and packing on the muscle, but Charlie's incredible height made him something unique to behold.

She watched the way he trained himself close to the mat, clenching his jaw with the effort. His progress on one arm slowed, but he still kept up a steady pace despite his immense effort. The sweat practically boiled off him, sliding down into the valley of his back and trickling from his temple.

She was transported, suddenly, into a reckless fantasy—one that overtook her before she could throw up any defense against it. She imagined herself beneath Charlie, naked, her legs wrapped around his surging waist. Her dark hair was free and fanned about her on the mat; the facility lights were off, and there was no one in the gym except for Charlie and her—no one to hear her cries of ecstasy as he took her, thrusting that unbelievable cock of his into her tight passage, stretching and filling and stretching her again to the brink of her absolute endurance…

"Pistol?" Charlie asked her.

Dylan blinked. "I'm sorry. What?"

"Pistol squats," Charlie repeated. He was back on his feet now; sweat ran down his face. "I was asking if you thought I could do fifty of them."

"Fifty is a lot," she mentioned. She flipped forward a page on her clipboard to check the schedule. Mainly she was looking for an excuse to take her eyes off him. She cleared her throat and fidgeted with her collar. When had she gotten so sweaty? She had barely moved since she had sat down. "I don't have you up to fifty until next week."

"I'll make a bet with you." His voice boomed on the word “bet,” and several other patients using the gym turned their heads in interest. Dylan didn't like where this was going. If Charlie Wild was anything, he was a man who knew how to attract spectators and get them on his side.

"A bet," she repeated.

"Right." Charlie jutted his finger toward the mat. "I do thirty right here, right now, and you're my date to the fundraiser. And I get to choose the dress you wear."

"Do you promise to back off from them if you feel any strain?" she asked him.

"Cross my heart." Charlie grinned. A small crowd gathered around the mat. Dylan sighed in exasperation and set her clipboard aside. Trust Charlie Wild to turn his own physical therapy session into a spectacle.

"Halfway down," she instructed. "If I see you go any further, the bet's off."

"Done."

"And if I win?" she challenged him.

Charlie snorted as he dropped into his first pistol. "Not going to happen," he grunted as he hopped up again. "Might as well save your breath."

Dylan scoffed at his arrogance, and the crowd of patients emitted a collective “Oooh.”

"Need directions to the burn center, Dr. Rose?" one of the younger men called over to her. She couldn't help laughing with the rest of them—and holding her forehead in disbelief as Charlie continued his reps. She had already lost count. Thankfully, he had a crowd there to count aloud for him.

Eighteen…nineteen…twenty…

"I'm thinking green," Charlie said between exerted pants. "It would go with your eyes."

"I look terrible in green."

"You look terrible in nothing," he countered as he dipped down again.

Twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…

"Red," Dylan said.

"Done," Charlie replied as the crowd's count hit thirty. A muted cheer went up as the quarterback hopped to his feet and turned to the spectators, waving and bowing in the wake of their adulation. There were exactly six of them.

Dylan dropped her face into her hand, mainly to hide the breadth of her smile. When Charlie came over to the bench to collect his sweat towel, she held her other hand out. He dropped her a low-five. Whatever the nature of the competition, they were still on the same team—and his achievement was nothing short of extraordinary.

"Guess I'm going to have to come up with a new regimen for you," she said. The bench sagged beneath his weight as he sat down beside her.

"Guess so." He nudged her with his shoulder. "I bet you look sexy as hell in red."

"I wouldn't go that far." Dylan reached up to fiddle with the pen behind her ear. She picked up the clipboard, set it back down.

"It's what I do," Charlie reminded her. "Although, you know…I could still go further."

"I think we've done enough for today," Dylan said firmly. He wanted to have a parallel conversation, but she was determined to stay rooted in discussion of his physical therapy. She picked the clipboard up a second time and made several sweeping checkmarks with her pen. "Considering the…additional aggravations you've had this past week, I'd say we're doing pretty good. More than good. You've really exceeded my expectations, Mr. Wild."

"Right back at you, Doc."

Their gazes met over the clipboard. Dylan's pen stilled. The angular symmetry of Charlie's face was still for once. Expectant. His eyes locked with hers, until he appeared to see something in her expression that pleased him. He grinned and stood up. He pulled his topknot out and shook his hair loose, tossed his towel over his shoulder, and swaggered off toward the showers.

I'm in so much trouble, she thought.