Page 42 of Hat Trick
Maven
Count me in!
Me
I’m free, but I’m coming from the arena. I also can’t stay out late. I’m grabbing a nightcap with a comedian whose show finishes around eleven.
Piper
A comedian? That’s new.
Me
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m horny, and I’ve hooked up with him before. I know he can deliver.
Emmy
I support it. Everyone deserves the chance to get off.
Me
I knew you were my girl, Hartwell.
* * *
“Happy six weeks of injury rehabilitation,”I say when Riley stalks into the athletic trainer’s room for our afternoon session with hunched shoulders. “I brought you something to celebrate the occasion.”
His eyes drop to the doughnut I’m offering him, and he scowls. “No thanks.”
“Are you sure? You mentioned how much you love desserts, and I thought it might be a nice pick-me-up.”
“Positive.”
“Wow. I hope you don’t have a costume picked out for Halloween. You’d make a great Oscar the Grouch.” I take a bite of the glazed doughnut. I didn’t have time to grab a bite to eat after the lunchtime Pilates class I taught downtown, and I sigh around the pastry. “That’s fine. More for me.”
“Can we skip the small talk? I got my ass handed to me in the weight room, and the last place I want to be is here.”
I pull back at his sharp words and try to tell myself they’re not directed at me, but rather the situation. I plaster on a smile and pat the table, relieved when he sits on the edge of the leather and unties his shoes.
He might have an attitude, but I’m glad to see him after he no-showed our last three sessions. I had to come up with excuses to explain his absence to Coach, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to pull another justification out of my ass if he skipped again.
“We’re going to do static gluteals and side hip flexions today,” I say. “Then we’ll finish with hip extensions on your stomach. You made good progress with that exercise the last time we were together, and I want to see if you’ve increased your range of motion.”
Riley grunts, and I’m not going to let that mean anything except reluctant acceptance. He pops off his prosthetic leg and passes it over to me, a routine starting to settle into place after weeks of working together.
“Are you experiencing any pain today?” I ask, filling the silence in the room.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to massage your residual limb?”
“No. I don’t care.”
“Clearly. Can you lie on your back, please?”
I get another grunt in response, and if he keeps this up, he’ll have his own irritable asshole language soon. He positions himself flat on the table, arms folded across his chest with his eyes closed, and I consider it a small win.
“What do I do?” he grumbles.
