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“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.

  PUNT

  Lucas

  I HAD NEVER been one to shy away from contact.

  In fact, sometimes I might have even initiated it by lowering my shoulder and barreling into oncoming tacklers, which very well could have been how my shoulder ended up dislocated two years ago, twice.

  Hey, I didn’t become a football player to act like a pussy and run out of bounds.

  Nerves have never been anything I had to worry about. Or at least that had always been the case. I wasn’t so sure anymore. I tried to focus on the positive as I pushed open the glass door.

  This injury wasn’t that bad.

  I still had a lot of time to get my arm in top shape before the season.

  And yet staying positive didn’t help as I walked down the gray hallway of Chapman Hall feeling like I was headed to the gallows.

  Then again, I had to remember that I was in better shape than most of the guys. My locker neighbor needed three Tylenol PM capsules to close his eyes last night. I only needed two. Another player lost ten pounds yesterday from stress, exhaustion, and loss of appetite. I only lost five.

  See the trend.

  Better.

  Stronger.

  Faster.

  Then again, yesterday had been chaotic, and not only for the players. The trainers had a rough time of it as well. Even with their belts on, they couldn’t keep track of their scissors and kept running out of athletic tape. When Dallas wasn’t glued to his notepad, he was giving us all rehab tips, taping pointers, and injury prevention suggestions.

  It didn’t help that the coaches were blowing their whistles on top of one another and the players were confused as fuck.

  Everything was out of control.

  The bottom line was we were all trying to perform at our highest level and doing the best we could to make sure of it.

  I wasn’t the only one with a slight injury. Problem, I mean.

  Sure we all trained during the offseason, but it took being here for it to become glaringly clear we hadn’t trained enough.

  Yesterday there were countless muscle strains and sprains—hamstrings, ankles, hips, glutes, calves, knees.

  So it seemed, it sucked for everyone, not just me.

  My sneakers thumped noisily on the linoleum as I took the stairs and practically raced up them. When I reached the fourth floor, I paused for a moment.

  A feeling of déjà vu washed over me. I’d done this once before, but that was when I didn’t have my head on straight. Now that I did, it didn’t seem fair for it all to be taken away.

  Because of my actions yesterday, this mandated meeting with Coach could change my entire life. And now that I’d had a taste, I wanted to stay and wear an official NFL jersey . . . for the Bears.

  The Bears.

  Things had changed over the past few months, and I’d grown to realize how much I really did want to be here.

  The dorm room that served as Jack’s office was closed. I stood there for a minute or two before I nervously knocked on it. “Come on in,” he bellowed from inside, his voice already intimidating as fuck.

  Slowly, I opened the door and looked around.

  The room was so different from that at Soldier Field. It was empty except for a desk and a few chairs. The college-sized furniture looked dwarfed with Jack behind it. He had an iPad in front of him and he was eating. “Sit down,” he said through a mouthful of food.

  I did as instructed. “Those look good.” I pointed to the plate on his desk. ‘What are they?”

  “Fish tacos,” he answered, pushing his food aside.

  “For breakfast?” I was trying to ease into whatever this was about.

  He nodded briskly. “I eat them whenever,” he paused. I didn’t say anything because he looked as if his mind had wandered far away, then he blinked and went on. “Whenever I . . . need to remember that day.”

  “What’s that day?” I asked curiously, now just putting off the inevitable.

  He shook his head, dismissing my question, and got up from behind his desk. “Look, Lucas, as you already know, I’m the sort of m
an who doesn’t like to bullshit around, so I’m going to get to the point.”

  Like father like daughter, I thought, but kept that little ditty to myself. “I appreciate that.”

  Coach Whitney sat in the empty seat beside me. “I asked to see you for a reason, and it’s because I have a few important questions to ask you.”

  I swallowed hard. “Okay, shoot.” I tried to sound calm, but I was anything but.

  His face darkened and he looked between his desk and me as if trying to figure something out. “Are you stupid?”

  My fists clenched at my sides. “No!”

  “Do you not understand English, then?”

  “I do!”

  “Then, you should comprehend, that when I said you needed an attitude adjustment, I meant it. You. Need. An. Attitude. Adjustment.”

  “Coach, I—” I tried to explain I had changed. Saw the light. Found God. However the fuck he wanted to say it.

  He cut me off. “Did I make a mistake taking a chance on you?”

  My eyebrows popped up. “No,” I said immediately. “Why do you think that?” The confusion was evident in my voice because not only was I in top shape, but also I was throwing like a seasoned pro.

  He cut a hand up in the air and glared at me. “I’m asking the questions!”

  I nodded, keeping my mouth shut.

  Reaching across the desk, he grabbed his iPad, which he had paused at one of my interviews from Notre Dame. It was the one where I told the sportscaster that if it weren’t for football, I’d probably have ended up in prison.

  Coach played that snippet for me. It’s not like he had to. I knew it well. Knew the facial expressions I made and the mood I was in when I gave the interview. Remembered the look on my brother’s face and the regret I immediately felt afterwards, too.

  When the video ended, I looked over to Coach and flat out told him, “What I should have said was that if it wasn’t for my brother, Nick, I would have ended up in prison. Nick is the one who taught me how to channel my aggression, to use football as my outlet.”

  This confession caught him off guard, and it took him a moment to speak. “Look, son, football is supposed to give your life structure and meaning. But you have to want it, I mean really want it.”