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Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jordan

Friday used to be my favorite day of the week.

Even though I love work and being in the city, and dread going home, it’s nice being able to do nothing all weekend.

I can hide away in my house and not be bothered by anyone.

Maggie works most weekends, and so she doesn’t bother me either.

Austen and I used to hang out, and we still do sometimes, but he’s got his own life going on with Savannah and working for his dad.

Same as the other guys, who all have their own busy lives.

But as much as I used to love Fridays, I hate them now.

Mondays and Wednesdays, too.

I should tell Brett that I can’t work with Alex for… reasons , but I keep thinking about his comment. Becoming a manager. Working my way up the ladder. Becoming more . That’s the only thing that has me sucking it up and working with Alex. Also, maybe I like torturing him a little.

Sure, it sucks he’s in pain. I’ve never had an injury like that, so I can’t imagine how badly it hurts.

I don’t hate him so much that I want him to be in pain, but I also don’t like him enough to go out of my way to make sure he’s fine.

Giving him shit is fun. Like payback for all the times he’s annoyed the fuck out of me and laughed about it.

I’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and he’s going to be sorry.

And that’s just the icing on the cake, because I don’t even want to think about all the other issues I’m having. Like the memories of those nights with him. The ones I thought I had buried.

For a while, they were gone. Even when I saw him here and there over the years, I was able to shove them away, but being so close to him now, having to touch him, talk to him, fucking smell him? It’s annoying. What’s more annoying is that my dick is not on the same page as me.

Though, when has it ever been?

I grab a large iced coffee and two donuts as a gift to myself to get through the day. Maybe scarfing down the extra sugar and carbs will make me feel better about having to see Alex this afternoon. Or maybe it’ll make me feel shittier.

I dread the afternoon, and therefore my morning goes by faster than ever .

I force myself to eat lunch, even though I don’t want any part of it. Just knowing I have to deal with Alex soon makes me sick. Before leaving the break room, I make myself a coffee and take it with me to my office. Maybe I should start sneaking alcohol in to help me cope.

I scoff as I walk into my room, pissed that I’m thinking of such ridiculous things. Drinking at work just to deal with Alex? It would make more sense to tell Brett I can’t do this.

Dropping into my chair, I put my coffee down and grab my iPad to pull up Alex’s plan. It’s slow starting, and I already know this is going to be an issue.

Though you can tell he’s in pain, he’s pushing himself harder than he should. If he doesn’t do as I say, he’s going to fuck up his knee worse than it already is. It’s bad enough that he may never get back to the ice in the first place.

I’m not sure if anyone has had that conversation with him yet.

If they have, I doubt he’d take them seriously.

We won’t know what his future will look like until he gets through therapy and sees his doctor.

Even then, his team may not want him anymore.

Though he may be healed, he may not be the same.

I’m not sure what’ll happen to him if he can’t play anymore.

As much as I act like I don’t know shit about Alex, it’s bullshit.

I’ve kept up with his career all these years.

Enough to know he’s doing well. I mean, I’m watching sports all the time,anyway.

It’s my life, in all aspects. Personal and work.

Stories about him would come up, and maybe I’d dig to find out a little bit more.

And yeah, I’ve been to a game or two when he’s played here, even though I never told anyone. Not even Austen.

I’ve seen Alex out on the ice with his team.

I’ve seen the way he is with those guys.

He’s always a cocky asshole, but when he plays the game, alongside his teammates, he’s aggressive.

Much more than he is off the ice. It’s different from how I know him.

He will not be okay if he can’t get that back.

The way his eyes shine while he’s on the ice is something I’d never seen on him before.

Hockey is his life. It always has been. If he loses that, what else does he have?

“Knock, knock.”

There he is, looking way too good for therapy. Fitted T-shirt, athletic shorts that look a size too small, messy hair but neat facial hair. He’s doing this shit on purpose. I know it. Fucking asshole.

“Come on,” I say with a jerk of my head.

I get up from my chair and head over to the table with him right behind me.

“Lie down,” I tell him, and he gives me a cocky smirk.

I ignore it, knowing if I acknowledge it in any way, even negatively, it’ll make it worse.

No, I have to remain professional and keep my distance if I want us both to come out of this alive.

I can’t afford mistakes. Especially where Alex Brewer is involved. I learned that the first two times.

I work on getting his brace off and checking out his knee.

“So, what happened?” I ask as I gently feel around. His skin is warm, and his pulse is fast and steady beneath my fingertips.

I like to check out my patients' injury area before and after sessions to make sure what we’re doing isn’t causing more swelling. I press lightly and he tenses, but I don’t feel any swelling. His muscles are tense, but that’s to be expected after surgery and one of the reasons he’s here.

“Got checked a little too hard.”

“So I heard,” I comment, running my fingers along the inside area of his knee. “By your own teammate.”

“That’s right,” he says, his voice low and edged with that familiar cockiness that used to piss me off.

Anyone who knows Alex would know he’s talking out of his ass right now.

I know what happened. I saw the video from the practice session, since it made sports news.

Harding is a dick, and he’s gotten into his fair share of fights, but hurting his teammates isn’t a normal thing.

Call it a hunch, but I just know something more is going on there.

He’s too good a player to have fucked up Alex’s knee accidentally.

I don’t believe it. Alex had just shot the puck off before Vance Harding slammed into him, smashing him into the glass, somehow fucking up his knee?

Doesn’t make sense. He hit him too hard for it to have been an accident.

Of course, all the news outlets are saying it was an accident, and they even interviewed Vance about it.

He was fake as fuck with his suspension and bullshit scripted apology and concern for Alex’s well-being and losing him just before the season starts. I don’t fucking like the guy.

“What really happened?” I ask, pinning him with a stare.

Alex holds my gaze, not blinking. His green eyes glaze over and his jaw tightens.

“I just told you,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Uh-huh. Same bullshit story you’ve told everyone else.

” I step back, gesturing for him to sit up.

He does so, running a hand through his hair as he lets out a sigh.

He hides his pain well, but not well enough that I can’t tell he’s holding it in.

I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks he needs to be tough, or if he’s just that much of an asshole, but I would bet it’s the former.

He favors other people’s approval. He favored mine once, but that was a long time ago. We’re different people now.

“If you want me to help you, I need the truth.”

He scoffs once he’s sitting up completely, his hands grasping the edge of the table.

I noticed his brightly painted nails when he came in the other day.

I have no idea if he did that to himself or if he’s found a new girlfriend who wanted to doll him up.

I wish I could say it looked weird, but this is Alex.

I’m fairly certain the man could pull off a pink tutu and still be hot as hell.

“I’m telling you the truth. If you don’t believe me, check my file,” he says.

“Oh, I have. It’s bullshit too.” I cross my arms.

He purses his lips, nodding. “Take it up with the doctor, then.”

My mouth slowly turns up into a grin. “So, this is how it’s going to be?”

With a shrug, he says, “I guess so.”

“Fine. Get up. Over on the mat.”

I walk over, not waiting for him. I hear his groan once he’s on his feet, and it takes him a moment to hobble over.

He stops in front of me, holding my gaze with a challenge. For the briefest moment, he relaxes, but it’s quickly replaced by tension and that familiar need to annoy me. He holds his chin out, like he’s baiting me.

I don’t know what he thinks he has to prove here—with me, of all people.

“On your back,” I say. “Leg raises. Start with five, holding for three seconds.”

I get down on the mat beside him, needing to watch his form. These guys always come in thinking they know everything, and most of the time, they’re doing things wrong. If it isn’t done right, it won’t help a damn thing .

“Tighten the muscle in your thigh,” I instruct. “Lift it from here.” I tap his thigh.

“I know how to do a fucking leg raise,” he grumbles.

I bite my tongue as I watch him do the five raises, and to be honest, he does them pretty well. When he’s done, he looks at me, waiting for what to do next. But I don’t say a word.

“What now, Mr. Teacher?”

I wait a beat before saying, “Do you want to get better?”

“What the fuck kind of question is that? Obviously.”

“Then stop acting like you know more than me. I’m the one with the degree.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Do five more.”

The rest of our session is pretty quiet. I tell him what to do. He does it. It’s only when he leaves that I realize something is wrong… because he was too quiet.