Page 1 of Pucked Mountain Man
ONE
STEVIE
“I still don’t know why you asked me to do this,” I grumble, fussing with the strap of my carry-on. “I’m not a babysitter.”
“You’re not babysitting.” Thatcher smirks. “Though, considering how big of a baby Grady’s being, maybe that’s not far off.”
Brothers.
“Wow.” I stare at him unblinking. “That’s how you talk about your best friend?”
“He may be my best friend and the toughest enforcer in the league,” Thatcher says. “Doesn’t mean he’s not acting like a baby right now.”
“The man tore his ACL. Again,” I remind him. “It’s a season-ending injury.”
He shrugs. “All I know is he gets to hole up in a cabin in Alaska while the rest of us get our teeth knocked out.”
“I’m pretty sure post-surgery rehab isn’t a vacation.”
“Have you seen that place?” Thatcher pulls up a photo on his phone. “‘Cabin’ my ass. The place is quaint as fuck.”
I don’t bother looking. I saw the listing. I already know you could probably fit five of my apartments in it.
That’s what being a pro athlete gets you. Money, glory, and a recovery chalet.
What do I get? CNA paychecks and a reminder that my dream career is a just that. A dream.
“You know he doesn’t need me,” I say. “He has trainers, therapists, chefs?—”
“He doesn’t want an entourage,” Thatcher says. “He wants to recover in Alaska. Where he can nurse his bum knee without having everyone and their mom asking how it’s going.”
“He wants anonymity,” I say. “So naturally, you thought of me.”
“I thought of someone stubborn enough to keep him in line. The fact that you work in the medical field is a perk.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I’m hardly a physical therapist.”
“You have a good head on your shoulders. And the ability to keep him in line.” Thatcher grins. “You should do that thing you do.”
“What thing?”
“You know. The humming.” He chuckles. “You’ll drive him nuts before the snow does.”
“Wow, thanks for that vote of confidence, Big Brother.”
“I know you can handle this.” He sobers. “But there are a few rules you need to keep in mind.”
“Oh, great. I can’t wait to hear.”
Thatcher pulls up a note on his phone.
“One: he’s cleared for PT only. If he starts pumping iron or chopping wood, tell him to fuck off.”
I bite off a laugh. “I’m sure that would go over well.”
“Two: ice and elevation.”
I roll my eyes. “I know about that.”
