Page 44

Shit.
“Eight and a half minutes on the clock,” someone says.
I push back my shoulders and, clenching my eyes, let out a “fuck!”
“He’s off. Get Carson out there,” the coach says, giving me a nod.
“Let’s get him out back and on the table.” Natalie tells Kaylee, who saysgot itand does this cute attempt at helping me stand, keeping her hand on the side of my back as we walk down to the club rooms.
“Have I dislocated it?” I moan loudly as I sit on the table.
“Cut his shirt off.” Natalie says and Kaylee grabs the scissors. “I need these shoulder pads out of the way so we can see what we’re dealing with.”
All the possibilities run through my head.
If I’ve torn a rotator cuff, I’ll be out the rest of the season. A clavicle fracture, which is very possible given the way Donovan from the Tigers drove me into the field.
Two minutes and a ton of pain later, Natalie takes a step back, reaches for some pain medicine, and props her hands on her hips.
“AC joint. You’re lucky, Montgomery.”
“Thank god,” Kaylee says, knowing as we all do that it should heal in a couple of weeks.
As in, not a serious injury.
If it had been dislocated, I’d be out for the rest of the season.
“Get him an ice pack and back out on the benches so the media doesn’t lose their mind,” Nat says, then adds. “After the game, I want a sling on that arm.”
I climb off the bench and my ankle tweaks.
“Jesus, I’m falling apart.” I toss down the drugs.
Kaylee laughs. “Come on. I’ll work your ankle while you watch the rest of the game.”
She hands me the ice pack, then we head back out to bench. I get comfortable as a few of the team check on how I am.
By the time the coach glances over, with just five minutes left on the clock, Kaylee is crouched in front of me, my boot off, and rubbing some muscle cream into the ankle.
Goddamn, the images running through my head right now. I drown out the crowd and go back to that moment in the shower as her surprisingly powerful little fingers glide over my muscles.
Shit.
I open my eyes. Christ, I do not want a boner while all these cameras are on me.
Kaylee glances up at me and I groan. “Sore?”
“Something like that.” I smirk and grimace at the same time, adjusting the ice.
“You good, Montgomery?” Coach asks.
“AC joint,” I reply. “I’ll be back in action in a couple of games if not next week.”
With a nod, he turns back to the game. Around fifty percent of professional quarterbacks suffer from these during their career, so no one is surprised, I guess.
We’re two points behind. The tension is thick as I lean forward, watching Carson catch and pass the ball. There are ten seconds on the clock.
Kaylee’s hand tightens around my ankle. Her head turns to the game.