Page 24 of Hat Trick
I wince and maneuver down the hall with my prosthetic leg and walker. The leg isn’t the final product, only a preparatory prosthesis used to help my residual limb stabilize in volume and shape, and it’s uncomfortable as hell. I’m not used to the weight and the way it alters my gait, so I have to hold out hope it’ll get easier to use.
I don’t have much of a choice.
I knock on the door to the athletic trainer’s office even though I’m the only one in the hall. The boys are enjoying their last week before training camp starts, so they won’t be around. I opened Instagram last night for the first time in months and saw photos of them in different parts of the world.
Ethan and Grant, the youngest guys on the team, rented a yacht and are sailing around the Caribbean. Hudson, Madeline, and Lucy are doing a week down in Florida at the theme parks. Maverick and Emmy are in Michigan to propose a PWHL expansion team.
I stopped scrolling after that. The idea of posting a photo from my couch while everyone else is out living their adventure-filled lives seemed depressing as hell.
“Come in!” Lexi calls out, and I push down on the handle.
“Hey.” I move gingerly into her office. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No worries. I’m finishing breakfast, so you let me have a few more minutes to eat.” She smiles up at me from her desk, the last bite of a bagel in her hand. “Give me two seconds and I’ll be ready.”
“Take your time. That walk kicked my ass, and I could use a second to catch my breath.”
“Wonder why it kicked your ass.” Lexi wipes her hands on a napkin and tosses it in a trash can. She twirls her hair into some sort of updo, pinning it in place with a large clip. “Probably because you haven’t been doing your exercises, right?”
“Is this how working with you is going to go? You’re going to keep calling me out?”
“Yup. Tough love, Mitchy. Do you want me to kiss your ass?”
I blush and dip my chin.
There are a lot of things I’d like Lexi to do to me—with me and for me too—and none of them are appropriate for the workplace.
I’ve had a crush on her for goddamn years, but I guess I need to start getting over my attraction to her.
We’re going to be in close quarters together. She’s going to see me when I’m vulnerable and incapable of performing in certain areas of my training, and I’ve always hated failing.
And failing in front of a beautiful girl?
No fucking thanks.
Plus, from what I’ve overheard from her conversations with friends, she’s not someone who’s interested in relationships.
She likes physical intimacy, not emotional attachment, and I still haven’t figured out how the hell I’d even navigate that with the current state of my body.
Women in the past have used all sorts of phrases to describe me:cute. Sexy,but in a nerdy way.Hot as hellwhen I slide a blindfold over their eyes.The man of their dreamswhen I kiss their wrists, untying them from the ropes I like to use to keep them still while I eat them out.
I wonder what they’d say now.
“No. I don’t need you to kiss my ass.” I shove away every thought I’ve ever had about Lexi and lock them in a box where I won’t be able to find them. Platonic only. I will not dream about the curve of her ass or how much I like her long legs. “But thanks for the offer.”
“Good.” She pops to her feet with more energy than I’d expect from someone at nine in the morning. “Don’t get comfortable. We’re going to the training room.” Her eyes flick to my sweatpants. “I hope you brought shorts.”
“I didn’t. I, ah, didn’t want people to stare at me.”
“I get it, Riley, but it’s just me. I’m not going to stare. This is my job. I’m going to look at you like I’d look at any of the other guys in the locker room. You’re built a little differently now, and it’s no big deal.”
“There are a lot of marks on my body.” I follow her through the door to the brightly lit space full of treatment tables and exercise equipment like bands and stability balls. “And I’m not talking about a bruise on my hamstring you’ve seen after a game.”
“Can’t wait.” She smiles and pats one of the tables. “What are you wearing under your sweatpants?”
“Uh. Briefs?”
“Perfect. Strip, Mitchell.”
