“He’s got a torn rectus abdominus,” the team doctor is saying. “And his ribs are subluxated and misaligned. There’s also a contusion from the tear, which will complicate therapy simply from a pain management perspective.”

“So, this looks like at least six weeks to me,” I say as I review the notes on this injured player. “Maybe eight.”

“In an ideal world, he’d have eight weeks, but we really need to speed him up if we can,” Coach Brown says. “I can put him on IR for pre-season, but I need him on second string once the season starts.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say.

“I need you to do more than your best,” Coach says. “On any player you treat. I don’t want them out there on fresh injuries, but they also need to fight through the last of it sometimes. You know what I mean? The longer they’re off the ice, the longer it takes to get them back up to fighting weight.”

I nod. “I do understand. I’ll start him on electronic stimulation right away. We’ll alternate heat and cold, and work in a strong anti-inflammatory. Once he’s comfortable enough to handle it, we’ll do some manipulation on the ribs. I suspect the malalignment may have played into the severity of the tear, so getting the ribs back in place will probably promote faster healing.”

“Great. Keep me posted on his progress,” Coach says.

I nod as he heads out. The doctor says, “Welcome to pro sports.”

“College sports are just like this,” I say. “Lots of pressure to perform, even when the athlete is not ready. It’s not a great situation.”

“Yes, and they make a lot of money within a limited pro timeframe. They pressure themselves as much as anyone else pressures them. It’s a really thin line to walk. Let me know if I can be helpful as you get started,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say.

From there, I head to find Dale, the personal trainer I saw on the first day of work. His office is down closer to the team gym. And, of course, he’d have to be training with Georg. I think about walking back out but just as I’m about to sneak right back out the way I came in, Dale turns and says, “Hey there, I was hoping I’d see you today.”

I raise a hand in a kind of lame little wave. “I can come back when you’re not busy.”

Georg is craning his neck to get a look at me from his position on one of the machines. Dale tells him to go jump on the treadmill and do a five-minute walk. He does as he’s told, but not before staring at me for a good thirty seconds. The look is intense. I might even call it smoldering. Yes. Okay. I would definitely call it smoldering, since I can feel it right between my legs. Oh boy.

“So, what’s up, pretty lady?” Dale asks jovially. He looks nice in his polo and khaki shorts. His biceps bulge attractively. His calf muscles are well-defined.

“I came in to talk about the plan for this player with the torn rectus abdominus,” I say. “I don’t want him getting soft in the six to ten weeks he’ll be on the IR list.”

“He’s not going to make it ten weeks,” Dale says. “You know that, right? He’ll be lucky to get six before he’s back on the ice, and I’m betting on three.”

“Three?” I ask, in credulous. “He would in no way be ready.”

“I’m not saying he’ll be ready. I’m saying he’ll want to get back on the ice.”

“Well, my goal is to hold him off as long as possible,” I say. “But in the time we do have, can you work up a plan that will allow him to work arms and legs with minimal core engagement?”

“I sure can,” Dale says. “Anything else I can do for you? Take you to lunch? Drinks? Dinner?”

“Well, it’s nine in the morning, so don’t get ahead of yourself,” I say, grinning.

“Pfft. Fine then. I’ll ask again later.”

Georg nearly falls off the treadmill, he’s trying so hard to listen to our conversation. The scene grabs both my and Dale’s attention, and Dale jogs over and asks, “Are you okay, buddy?”

“Kusok der’ma,” Georg spits in Russian.

“No speakie Russkie,” Dale says. “English please, big guy.”

“Trakhat’ tebya,” is Georg’s response.

I let out a little giggle and Dale turns his attention to me. “What did he say?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, but he usually saves his Russian for swears and insults, so…”

Georg chuckles.

“Alright, well, I guess I’d better get back to kicking this guy’s ass, then,” Dale says.

“Okay, well, don’t kick it too hard. I don’t need to see him on my PT table later,” I answer.

I leave, knowing both sets of eyes are on me as I walk out.

When I get home later that evening, I decide to just take a walk around my neighborhood. It’s incredibly hot outside, so I wear just a tank top and short shorts with my tennis shoes as I wander around. I don’t really exercise, per se…not like Holly anyway. I mean, I do Zumba and yoga every once in a while, and I’ll hit the gym periodically, usually just to scout guys.

Now I’m a curvy girl. Always have been. Big on top, small at the waist, thicker on the bottom. This is a figure that can be hard to dress. Fitted clothes make me look like a porn star and attract the wrong kind of attention. Baggier clothes make me look overweight. But I wore mostly baggy clothes through high school. Especially after my mom’s husband number three decided he was going to come into my room every time my mom was out. The first time, I woke up to his hand rooting around in my pants. He made all kinds of bribes to keep me quiet about it, and I thought it was done. A couple of months later, he was back in my bed, naked and hard. He grabbed at my breasts and told me how gorgeous my body was before humping my leg, spraying his gross orgasm all over my bare leg.

I was fifteen. Very developed compared to other girls my age. I thought it was my fault, so I started wearing sweat pants and baggy t-shirts to school nearly every day. It didn’t stop my stepfather, who came in to sweat on me and grab at me and come on me about once a month for nearly two years.

My ex-stepfather is due for parole pretty soon, but I try not to dwell on that too much.

I need a distraction. I’ve been through all kinds of therapy and usually I’m pretty good about managing my feelings about what happened, but sometimes it rears its head and I end up feeling the pit of anxiety in my stomach.

Flirting helps. Feeling in control of my sexuality helps.

There’s a hot guy washing his car about two streets away from my condo. He looks up as I pass, his eyes moving along my curves as I give him a subtle smile. He gives a lopsided grin back before our flirtation is interrupted by not one but two small children, who run out yelling “Daddy!” He turns a smile on his kids, running a hand through his hair. And yep, there’s the glint of sun on metal against the wedding ring on his finger.

I keep walking, ashamed of myself. Annoyed with him.

When I get back home, I’m sweaty and anxiety-stricken. Thinking about the past always gets me worked up. It makes me want to control my sexual situation to the nth degree. And what really gets me worked up is thinking about how poorly I’ve managed my sexual life these past years. I just turned twenty-five. I have a master’s degree. I have a great job. I usually feel pretty good about myself.

And I’m still a virgin.

Yep. Inquiring minds want to know: How does a sexy, flirty lady like Pamela Jenson stay a virgin? Well, she panics every single time she tries to have sex, that’s how. She has a literal panic attack whenever it comes time to “do the deed” and so she sucks the guys off and sends them packing, her embarrassment too intense to ever see them again.

Yes, I just spoke about myself in the third person. Sue me.

The fact is that even after multiple years of therapy, I’m still a hot mess when it comes to sex. And while I’ve certainly gotten close, I’ve never actually had intercourse.

I jump in the shower, ready to find some pajamas, order a pizza, and curl up with a little Netflix. I’m too hyped up. I need to relax.

The water is hot, not scalding but close, and it feels good to wash the day away, wash the thoughts away. I force myself to breathe, force myself to think about good things, fun things. How I love my new job. What a great stepping stone it is. How happy I am for Holly and Evan, who will be parents soon.

And Georg. Silly, messed-up, vodka-drinking Georg. Beautiful Russian bad boy, Georg.

In the warm water, I find my own hands traveling to the sensitive places between my legs. I wash, but my fingers linger there. Georg’s face comes to mind. A nose slightly crooked from a break or two. Blue-green eyes, vibrant like the tropics. Long hair, usually messy. Wide shoulders. Sharp cheek bones. The small scar above his right eyebrow.

Memories of dancing with him, kissing him, come at me like a flood and I’m swept away. I switch the shower control to the massage setting, letting the hard spray of water hit my clit while my fingers spread my pussy lips wide. I push my hips forward, flexing my muscles, pushing myself toward pleasure as I think about Georg Kolochev.

It doesn’t take much to push me over the edge. I think of his goofy smile. His hands on my waist. The way his breath felt, hot on my neck.

An orgasm pounds through me, leaving me sagging against the shower wall. I have to catch my breath before I turn that stream of water on my hard nipples, the pressure of the water causing pain, feeling like little bites. I imagine it’s Georg’s teeth there and it makes me come again.

I say a quiet “thank you” to Georg for helping me orgasm, for helping me get past the icky memories of the past. For helping me conquer the anxiety that had filled my belly with dread, replacing it with the endorphin rush that comes from a good orgasm.

Did I mention I’m the only person who’s ever made me come?

I get back to my plan, finding my soft, blue silk PJ’s and crawling into bed with my cheese pizza, a beer on the night stand, and a binge-worthy show cued up on the television.

I know that Georg Kolochev is off limits. Our work policies, alone, prevent me from dating him. I know Evan and Holly got around the no-fraternization policy, but I don’t think I could. I think, just by virtue of having my hands on these guys during PT, I need to stay professional. And I know how it would end. We’d have a good time. I’d think I was ready. I’d freak out and end it. And then what? I’d have put my career in jeopardy for nothing. For a fling.

No, it’s not worth it.

No matter how much I want it.