Page 18 of Irresistibly Risky

“Hell of a game you’ve got here, Joe,” I deadpan as he comes over to stand beside me. “Looks like the running of the bulls, only instead of chasing terrified tourists stupid enough to wear red, they’re chasing a ball like a dog chases a frisbee. I can see why it held you so captive that nothing and no one else mattered.”

He ignores my sarcasm as he says, “He needs surgery,” in that stern, self-important voice he likes to use to prove he’s in charge when all it does is make him sound like an asshole.

“Isn’t that why I’m here? To cut into your top bull and try not to turn him into ground chuck?”

“You’re here so that he has a chance to come back next season. With any hope, we can finish on top even without him.”

“I’m not a coach, nor do I care about whether or not you finish on top. I’m here for his injury and nothing more.”

“Fix him up then, Wynter, so I can get him off my roster. I want to trade him at the end of the season, and if he keeps throwing the ball like that, he’s useless to me.”

I grit my teeth. I might not like the player, but I hate the coach. “Does he know this is your plan?”

“If he’s healthy and can prove himself, I’ll let him fight for his spot. Maybe. Depends on what he’s worth for a trade before that. Right now, I want to see what the kid can do. This is a football team, not a charity. Winning is all that matters.”

I keep my focus on the field even though I’m no longer watching. His words stick to that cursed soft spot that still hides in the hollows of my chest. “As it’s always been for you.”

“I’m not as evil as you think I am.”

I scoff at that. Hard. “I don’t think you’re evil, Joe. I think you’re morally and emotionally apathetic. Possibly sociopathic, but psychiatry isn’t my field of expertise. I’m about 99.8 percent positive you don’t have a heart, and I’m not exaggerating with that assessment.” I force myself to turn and look at him, only to find his gaze on the field and not on me. That should be no surprise, and it shouldn’t hurt, but I still feel the twinge. “I don’t know why I’m here. I sent the films to Limbick last night, and he agreed with me. It can be done, but it'll be tough and without any guarantees of outcome given how bad things look. He’d do the surgery. He told me he would.”

“He’s not who I want.”

I roll my eyes. “Why? Because having a newbie attending operating on your star quarterback is in his best interest? Or is this some misplaced nostalgia you got from a Hallmark film where you think this will somehow reunite father and daughter? Because I can tell you, that won’t happen. I’ve gone twenty-six years without you, and I sure as hell don’t want you in my life now.”

Or in my son’s life.

“I could explain—”

“Don’t make me throat punch you in front of your players,” I sharply interject. “The idiotic notion that you could try and explain away abandoning your five-year-old child makes me go postal. There is no excuse for you, Joe. None. I don’t know why I’m here or what made you reach out now, but I’m not interested. I owe you nothing.”

He releases a heavy breath. “Did it ever occur to you, Wyn, that I’m doing this because I’m the one who owes you?”

With that, he walks off, back onto the field, blowing his whistle and yelling at two of the players who missed a route or something inconsequential.

“Dickface.”

“Tough morning?”

I groan. Asher’s short, reddish-brown hair is wet, sticking up all over the place. His face is flushed, and his body is covered in sweat. Sweat that’s rolling down his sculpted arms. He smiles, and something hits me. Something… strange. A memory almost, but it’s fuzzy, and I can’t make sense of it.

“You men are like cockroaches. Just when you get rid of one, another shows up.” I spin to Asher. “If women ruled this world instead of men, everything would be efficient, clean, and smell good. There would be no sexual assault or wars. We’d handle everything over cocktails and dinner and actually talk things out instead of blowing shit up because that’s how we get things done. You men are the bane of our existence. Once we learn how to synthetically engineer your sperm, we can render you obsolete.”

“You know I’m a lover, not a fighter, right?” He quips, smirking at me in a way that should be infuriating but somehow flips the tables on me and reluctantly makes me laugh. “Ah, there it is. That smile. That sound.” He’s way too pleased with himself. “I can die a happy man now. But don’t get any ideas when I’m on your table. Euthanizing me won’t save you because I’ll come back and haunt you for eternity.”

“You are going to be on my table,” I tell him, growing serious.

“I know,” he says simply, wiping at the back of his neck with a towel. “I just don’t like it, and I work better with denial and humor as my defense mechanisms. Want to go get a sports drink with me so we can talk a bit more?”

“A sports drink?” I snort. “That’s a hell of an invitation.”

“I’d invite you to dinner if I thought you’d accept.”

“You’re my patient, and I don’t—”

“Date football players. I know. I just want you to get to know me away from the field, so you realize I’m not the monster of your preconceived notions.”

He looks so earnest when he says that, and I realize I have been rough on him. I mean, he’s pushed boundaries and done things he shouldn’t, but I’m not sure I ever gave him a fair shot before that.

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