Page 25 of Goalie Secrets

Sanity to Vanya: Jeremy Lopez did not flirt smile at you during a hockey game.

What a ridiculous thought. That smile wasn’t meant for me at all. Standing this close to the ice is making me hallucinate.

I should refocus on why I’m here. At the end of this period, I’ll be joining the commotion of postgame recovery. This is an opportunity to enhance my understanding of pain management for prime athletes. Great research material.

The word jolts me to attention. Jeremy is myresearchsubject. Mypatient.

Whatever this bizarre reaction to him is, there’s no room or reason for it. Yet I cannot deny the way he makes me feel when I watch him from the sidelines: awed and alert. Hungry for his attention. The need is so powerful and unexpected, my imagination fooled me into thinking that I captured his attention, too. I shake my head to clear the silly sentiment.

And yet, the moment the game ends, my body shivers with something like excitement. I’m harboring an uncanny impulse to run and find Jeremy. To confirm, with my own eyes, the human shape of the goaltender who lorded over that rink. What the hell is wrong with me tonight?

By the time I get to the recovery room, I’m a bundle of nerves.

Then, he enters. Jeremy’s head swivels, stopping only when he sees me. Butterflies in my stomach—more like wild geese late for migration—take flight.

I need to get it together. This is a medical setting with clear boundaries dictated by propriety and professionalism. A patient is someone I work on, not someone who takes my breath away.

My brain needs to rein in my body’s unreasonable reactions. Unfortunately, my body doesn’t listen to reason. I feel choked and giddy and breathless.

Jeremy walks toward me like I’m the only one in the room. Heat floods my face before it rushes to my center. The closer he gets, the more aware I am of my body’s feverish state. If this stomach-churning, mind-blanking, body-aching need is any indication, being around Jeremy Lopez cannot be healthy. But the thought of staying away from him makes me sick.

I am a doctor with no cure for myself.

I wasn’t ready to see her at the sidelines, even though I expected her to meet with Lionel tonight. Not sure how, but in a sea of faces, hers simply stands out.

I’ve had Vanya in the same room with me, working on my body, focusing on my injuries. We’ve talked about musicals and shared a cookie. Even in friendly settings, Vanya assesses me with the detachment of a doctor evaluating her patient.

I’ve never seen her stare at me as intently as she did at the hockey game. That wasn’t detachment. Leaning forward with her hands on the plexiglass and her face flushed, she looked hungry. Fucking ravenous. When our gazes had locked, the arena was silenced and the world slowed down. The graze of her tongue over her lower lip and the lift of her chest when she held her breath happened in slow, sensual motion.

Then, idiot Blake put his jacket over her shoulders. The force of jealousy nearly knocked me on my ass.

Shit, are my teammates right? Do I have a crush on my doctor?

Speaking of teammates, they don’t hesitate to introduce themselves to my doctor while they use the stationary bikes or stretch with a trainer after the game. I rush tomydoctor’s side to prevent the swarming of these horny-ass jerks.

“Hi, great game!” Vanya says.

“Thanks. I thought you’d be at the visitor box.”

“We kept her down here longer than expected,” Lionel states. “Should we get started?”

I lie down and let Lionel work on me while Vanya barelysays three words to either of us. Maybe she’s distracted by the shirtless athletes all over the room. I sneak a glance to find that she’s not looking at anyone else. Vanya is staring at a bruise spreading over my left thigh. It’s the shape of the hockey blade that was slashed against it.

“Hey, doc, can you do that hip stretch for me? The one where you climb on the table,” I say to get her attention.

“Did it help last time?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“I can walk Lionel through it,” Vanya offers.

“Sean needs him.” I lift my chin in the direction of my teammate waiting by a massage table. Lionel looks at me with one raised brow before muttering something about coming right back.

“Let me make sure you’re loosened up,” she says, running her hands over my legs and kneading the knots into submission. Her grip isn’t as forceful as the other guys. What she lacks in strength, she compensates with precision.

“Turn against the wall, please,” she says while wiping her forehead’s sheen with a clean towel. It’s warm here and stinky as usual. She’s a trooper for sticking around and not complaining. I do as I’m told and feel the table shift while Vanya guides my legs into place.

I’m enveloped in her fragrance, her confidence, her care.