Page 5 of Love Her

Chapter 3

Connor

“Ten seconds.”

Fuck him and his ten seconds. I know for a fact it is more like thirty by the gleam in his eyes. Brian is a bastard and as much as I curse him while I am at his mercy, I know I will praise him when I roll out of bed with less pain than I’ve had in years. Taylor told me he was the best, and as much as I wanted to call bullshit since none of my prior physical therapists have been able to help me find relief from the pain, I have to admit he was right.

“Damn, man this is the longest ten seconds of my life.”

“Three . . . two . . . one.”

Standing, I return the weights to the rack before grabbing my water bottle and emptying it in one long drink. Huffing and puffing, I side-eye Brian as he taps away on his tablet.

“How’re you feeling? Any discomfort?”

Shaking my head, I take long cleansing breaths, attempting to bring my heartrate down. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s working me this hard. He’s never taken it easy on me. Not the first session with him months ago and certainly not now. Brian is a wizard when it comes to injuries that appear to heal but in reality, are always there in hibernation, waiting for you to wake them up.

That’s why when I skipped that last few weeks of sessions and shuffled my way in here last week, he gave me a lecture that left me kicking myself. If I don’t make seeing him a priority, I’ll be eating pain killers like breath mints and that means my ability to get it up may be an issue. Not fucking is out of the question.

“Once you’re done praying or whatever the fuck it is you’re doing, I’ll meet you in the treatment room. We’ll stretch you—” He’s cut off when the shrill of the phone breaks through the music playing and he groans.

“You need to get a receptionist in here, man.”

“You’re telling me. I had an ad running and every person who came in either wanted a position as a therapist or a date. I told them my wife would frown on the dating and if I can’t find a receptionist, I was in no place to hire another therapist.”

Shaking my head, I retreat to the treatment room and settle on the bed, closing my eyes. Truth be told, this is my favorite part of therapy. My body feels alive, the adrenaline of the exercises leaving every nerve and muscle activated. My mind is clear and it’s a solid ten minutes with no dark shadows threatening to appear in my head.

“Maybe you’re good luck,” Brian says, smacking his hands together and breaking my moment of tranquility.

“How’s that?”

Lifting my leg, he begins stretching my hamstrings as he says, “That was a placement agency confirming a few interviews. That’s a good sign.”

Grunting in response, I concentrate on breathing as he stretches my muscles. Brian continues to ramble on about the upcoming baseball season. He’s a huge fan of the defending World Series champs and I can’t help but give him grief for his choice. Of course, I don’t have much room to talk. My home team has had less than stellar seasons the last few years.

When I was growing up, baseball was my life. I dreamed of going all the way and standing behind the mound in every major stadium in the country. I put everything I had into the sport and for a while, I thought my childhood dream might come true. Then, one stupid decision and it was all over. What is it they say? Never bring a knife to a gunfight. Yeah, well, don’t come empty-handed to a knife fight either. Your dream of the major leagues will be slashed along with the tendons in your shoulder.

Slipping behind the wheel of my truck, I turn the ignition and give the engine a few minutes to warm up, letting the cool air keep me from slipping into memories of the past. That injury may have crushed the plans I was making but it also forced me to take a hard look at my life and accept the lifeline offered me. I never thought I’d join the military. The day I took my oath to protect my country, I not only made a commitment, but I saved my life.

I’ve caught the beautiful brunette staring more than once tonight. Sitting with her girlfriends, she’s been nursing that bottle of beer for close to an hour. By the look in her eye, I don’t think she’s as interested in the lager as she is in the man who served it to her. I’m sure if I was closer, I could smell the desire on her. Just thinking about it makes me hard. I’m not sure why I ever thought of doing anything else in my life after bartending. Okay, life as a major league baseball player may have been the ideal career choice but this gig is a close second. My sister says I have the bad boy image women fantasize about down to a science and that not only makes me embarrassing to her, but a disservice to women everywhere.

I disagree. I think I service the women in the area just fine.

“Connor, my man,” a voice calls, pulling my attention from the brunette as she turns to face her friend. Landon and Owen lift their chins in greeting.

“What’s up guys? Beer?”

Both nod and I slide the bottles their way before asking, “Not used to seeing you guys in here lately.”

“It’s been a while, that’s for sure,” Landon says as he lifts the bottle to his mouth.

“I can’t believe we used to be here four to five nights a week. Seems like a lifetime ago. Everyone looks so young now.”

“That’s what happens when you get old, Owen,” I tease, and he flips me off in return.

When a group of customers approach the bar, I leave the two of them on their own and go about doing my job. Four blow job shots and six cans of spiked seltzer later, and I’m offering my friends another beer when Owen surprises me.

“I hear you were a pretty good ballplayer once upon a time.”

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