Page 14 of Irresistibly Risky

“My apologies, Doctor. I meant no disrespect.” I reach behind and pull my white Boston Rebels Dri-FIT shirt over my head without removing my eyes from her face for more than a millisecond. Look, sweetheart, I dare you. We both know you want to.

She does too. She totally twitched, and her eyes jerked in my direction when I did that. Plus, her cheeks flush ever so slightly. It’s so fucking cute. I forgot about the secret innocence she radiates. Like beneath all this smart, powerful exterior lies a vulnerability that begs not to be jerked around.

Until she says…

“Mr. Reyes, are you aware that you have a severe—and I’m not saying that word lightly—AC joint separation and labrum tear?” Her fingers play with the sizing on the screen, scrolling this way and that, looking over the smallest detail of my MRI.

“I’m not entirely sure—”

Her lips purse and then twist. “This will require extensive surgical intervention. It’s ligament repairs, definitely for both the AC and CC joints at least.” She stops. Squints. Hisses between her teeth. “Jesus, you’ve ripped apart your shoulder, and some of this is not new. There’s a lot scarring in there.”

My heart starts to pound a merciless rhythm, and my skin grows cold and clammy.

“It doesn’t feel that bad. How can I have that level of damage when it doesn’t feel that bad?” It doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, I know I’ve been hit, and I know I’ve sustained some injuries over the years to that shoulder but…

“The MRI doesn’t lie. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

I drag my hand across my face. “Can it be repaired?” I ask, losing all pretenses and bravado. It’s not for money, fame, or glory. I have all of those. I was part of the world’s biggest rock band for four years. I’ve turned all the odds in my favor and won a Super Bowl. I have nothing to prove. But that doesn’t mean I want my game to be done.

Not by a long shot.

She shakes her head, her eyes still on the screen. “I… I don’t know.” She glances up at me. “I don’t know,” she repeats. “There is a ton of damage in this shoulder.”

“Wynter, this is exactly why I brought you here.”

She glares vitriol over her shoulder at Coach. “In this room, I am Dr. Hathaway. And though you may have brought me in here specifically to wave my magic wand and fix this, that’s not how the human body works.”

I squint, wondering what exactly her relationship with Coach is. They clearly know each other. But how?

“What’s my recovery time like if you do surgery and it’s successful?” I swallow my fear, wishing I had at least Callan with me so he’d understand this better than I would.

She turns back to me. “Typically, a full recovery takes a minimum of four to six months. If the surgery is successful and you do well with physical therapy. You’re at least out for this entire season. I can’t guarantee you’ll regain full range of motion or strength either. I also can’t guarantee I can repair everything or fix what’s already scarred over.”

Fuck. Just… fuck!

“How soon can you operate?”

“Next week,” she answers. “I’ll have my nurse review the OR schedule and let you know for sure.”

I glance over her shoulder at Joe. He gives me a firm nod, but I don’t know him all that well. My last coach had been here since I came to the team right out of college and won the Super Bowl with me. We had trust. We had a rapport. I’ve known this guy for less than a month, and from guys I loosely know who played with him in LA, he’s a love-the-one-you’re-with sort of man.

We have a backup QB. A kid who was drafted in the first round this year. A kid who is itching to replace me. But he doesn’t hold this city in the palm of his hand the way I do. But how long does that level of devotion last when you’re unable to perform?

Or play since now it looks as though I’ll be out for the entire season.

For the first time in my life, I’m scared and questioning everything.

“Okay.” I swallow. Hard. “Tell me the truth. Do you feel you can do this successfully?”

The tablet falls to her side, and her green eyes—the prettiest fucking eyes I’ve ever seen—meet mine. “I think I’m your best shot at ever playing again and being the type of player you want to continue to be.”

“Then put your hands on me, Doctor, and let’s get this started.”

And she does. The tablet gets set on the table, and then she’s standing before me. Her hands fall to my shoulder, and she manipulates me this way and that. Testing my range of motion and my strength—even limits of my pain—as she said she would.

Despite my worry over my shoulder and how generally what she’s doing isn’t the most pleasant, the feel of her hands on my skin isn’t lost on me. Neither is her proximity, or the way she smells like heaven—if heaven were sexy and smelled sinfully delicious. She’s focused on my shoulder, but I can’t drag myself away from looking at her. At how her bottom lip is slightly plumper than her top one and how she has a freckle just to the left of her mouth. Her skin is so creamy white, and I can’t get enough of how it almost glows in contrast with her dark hair.

She rakes her teeth along her bottom lip as she presses in on a particular tender spot, making me wince ever so slightly. My pretty minx presses again, just to the side of the spot, and gauges my reaction.

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