Page 112 of Pucking Around

For all the things I dislike about living in America, I’ll give them this: they have really good bad television. Every show is worse than the last. Already this morning I’ve watched an episode of a children’s cooking show where adults yell at the children, forcing them to make a four-course meal. Then there was a house hunting show where a woman turned down twelve houses because she didn’t like the paint colors.

I’ve settled on watching a show where a man buys storage units and people bid on them, not knowing what’s inside. One of the units had a taxidermied alligator and a vintage Harley motorcycle.

This is rock bottom. I’m benched with a groin pull, icing my crotch every two hours and popping pain relievers like they’re candy.

At least Rachel told a white lie to the coaches. She downplayed the injury for me. Damn it, she’s still trying to protect me, even when I crossed the line. I was so angry. I blamed her because it was easier than blaming myself.

And that kiss…

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about doing it for weeks. She’s beautiful. Smart. Strong. But she’s all wrong for me. I’m wrong for her. I need to apologize. That’s the professional thing to do. I’m not sorry, but that’s beside the point. I need to say the words, then distance myself. I’ll request to work with another PT. I’ll think clearer if my doctor’s exams don’t have me milking my cock in the shower after—

Stop.

I take a deep breath. That happened once. I got it out of my system. It’s done. Rachel Price is not to be touched again. I don’t want her. Ihateher. She’s derailing my career. She’s inserting herself into my business and pretending to care. No one works for the players in this business. It’s all about the team, the game.

Rachel talks a good talk.I care about you.Her sultry voice plays on repeat in my head. The heat of her gaze. The way she kissed me back—

No, she didn’t.

I groan, shifting the ice pack off my crotch. The cold is doing nothing to cool the fire in my blood. I look down. Saatana, I’m getting hard. Why does she keep getting me hard? I have better control than this.

My phone chirps. It’s been going crazy for the last half hour. The group chats I always leave are buzzing with activity. Apparently, all the guys are meeting up at the beach this morning. They’re coordinating food, drinks, and games.

I move to silence my phone when I see the name flashing on my lock screen. I snatch it up.

DR. PRICE (10:14AM): Hey, Mars. A bunch of us are hanging out at the beach today. You should come.

A second message pings. A GPS map with the location.

Absolutely not. The last thing I want to do is spend my morning standing around at the beach watching the guys kick a football. That’s all they do. We play hockey or they stand around in a circle kicking a football.

DR. PRICE (10:16AM): I’m sure you’ve decided you’re not coming, but we really need to talk. I have a plan to get you scans. Come to the beach, and I’ll explain.

With a groan, I tap out a reply.

KINNUNEN (10:17AM): Explain via text

DR. PRICE (10:17AM): No way. This is nonnegotiable. I’m still your doctor, remember? I call the shots, and today I’m prescribing vitamin T. Get over here.

I scrunch my nose as I think through all my years of taking supplements.

KINNUNEN (10:18AM): Vitamin T?

DR. PRICE (10:18AM): Yeah, Vitamin Team. You’re on one, Mars. Act like it. Come to the beach and have fun.

KINNUNEN (10:19AM): The beach is not fun

DR. PRICE (10:19AM): Then come to the beach and have no fun, you crusty ole crab *crab emoji**frown emoji*

I grunt. She can’t make me, can she? I’ll ignore this. My plan still holds. Monday, I’m cutting ties with Rachel Price.

My phone chirps again. It’s already open and in my hand so I check the message. It’s the damn team group chat.

NOVIKOV (10:21AM): Whoa, hot doc spotted!

I sit forward on the sofa, eyes narrowing on my phone as the asshole sends a picture. It’s Rachel, standing in the surf in a sunhat and large sunglasses. She’s wearing a blue bikini. Her perfect breasts are on full display. She’s curvy in all the right places. She has enough to hold, enough to sink between and—

“Saatana,” I mutter, stroking my hand down over my beard.