Page 52 of Game Misconduct

“Get checked out,” he orders.

“Yes, Coach.”

Dutifully, I follow Amelia into the medical room. She’ll have to do a quick exam, but nothing feels broken. I don’t need an X-ray or anything more robust. I’ll be back out there in a few minutes.

At the physical therapist’s prompting, I hop on the table and peel off my jersey and pads, and she pokes and prods at me. Her gloved fingers dig into the bruise over my ribs, and I gasp at the stark burst of pain, but I can finally breathe again. They aren’t broken. It just hurts like a bitch.

It takes a few moments, and she’s muttering under her breath as she examines me, but she doesn’t find anything wrong. Not that I expected her to.

What I also don’t expect? Bex to charge into the small cubicle, thunder on her face.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

Her eyes narrow, and a shiver runs down my spine. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“No broken bones,” Amelia reports. “As long as you clear him, he’s good to go back out there.”

“I’ll let you know,” Bex says.

Normally, the PT or athletic trainer stays for the evaluation, but when Amelia leaves us alone, I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

Bex could lie. She could say I’m concussed when I’m clearly not, just to pull me from the game. She could make up anything.

To me, she isn’t Dr. Whitney. She’s the woman I’ve been fantasizing about for the last three years. She’s the woman I had dinner with last week, my rival’s sister, the one I’m supposed to watch over. I can’t treat her as my neurological evaluator.

Even though I need to.

“I’m fine,” I say again.

She rolls her eyes, then picks up her tablet. Running through a list of questions, she tests my orientation, concentration, memory, and balance. I’ve had enough concussions to recognize the symptoms, and I don’t have any of them.

It is sweltering in here, though. Even with my shirt off, I’m sweating, and this time, it has nothing to do with exertion from the game. I’m burning up, and it’s all her.

Bex shines a penlight into my eyes, then tests my balance. Standing and walking on skates is almost as natural as barefoot, and I pass the exam with flying colors. She holds up flashcards and I recite the pictures, then read the words.

But then—she steps close, so close, and I inhale that orange-blossom scent clinging to her skin. My heart beats so fast I grow dizzy. Her hands come up to cradle my head, and my eyes flutter closed. My entire body hums at her nearness.

Her fingers slide into my sweaty hair, and I try to pretend she’s doing this because she wants to hold me, like she cares about me, and not simply looking for a contusion or a skull fracture. That this means more than it does.

And to my horror, my cock reacts. The cup I’m wearing doesn’t restrict blood flow, but it is pretty damn uncomfortable. As much as I want to pretend it’s game-time adrenaline rushing through me, I know it’s her. It’s all because of her.

Minty-sweet breath puffs over my forehead as she palpates my skull. I bow my head, my gaze trained on the floor so I don’t stare at the tantalizing swell of her breasts. Her fingers brush over my nape, then lower to cup the base of my neck, and my skin erupts with goose bumps as a shiver runs down my spine, heat coiling deep in my gut. I can’t stop the rumbling groan that vibrates through me.

She freezes.

My heart stops.

Time stands still.

Finally, she backs away. “I think that’s enough,” she pronounces. But her hand is still on the nape of my neck. After a second, she moves to pull back.

My hand darts out to hold her to me, my fingers closing around her wrist. I force my eyes to meet hers, the professional mask I expect to find discarded. In its place, her expression is clear, open. Vulnerable. Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Though her chest rises and falls with a shaky inhalation.

“Bex…”

“Dr. Whitney.”

I shake my head. “You’re Bex to me.”