As soon as he was gone she sank into her chair, not even bothering to move the stack of papers before she did so. This wasn’t anything new. In fact, being overlooked for someone else was typical. By now, she should be immune to the hurt that came with it. What was that phrase? Old hat. Yes, that’s it. By now, this should be old hat, and it wasn’t even the first time a guy she liked was interested in her friend. But it still hurt. A lot.
There was no fooling herself any longer. She would never be the object of the doctor’s desire. And though the realist in her said it didn’t matter—that all she needed was compatibility and companionship with someone else—as her future came into sharp focus, the dreamer in her allowed herself to shed the tears that blurred the world in front of her.
Chapter Two
“Can you point me in the direction of the physical therapy department?” Where some arrogant ass will give me exercises fit for a toddler, essentially castrating me in the process…
To say Reid Andrews was in a foul mood was a total understatement, but that didn’t mean the hospital receptionist deserved his wrath. He listened as she gave him directions and thanked her as he set off.
The closer he got to his destination, the more his muscles bunched in irritation. He shouldn’t be here. He should be back in Vegas, working his injury out with his coach and team doc. Not Sparks, Nevada—which was practically Reno and way too close for comfort to his hometown of Sun Valley to the north. Now he would be working with someone who had no concept of his sport or how important it was for him to get back in the cage as soon as possible to prep for his rematch.
For as long as he could remember, he’d been fighting. Fighting in the sport he loved above all else—Mixed Martial Arts, or MMA—to get to the top, and then fighting his ass off to stay there. Fifteen years later, he was one of the richest light-heavyweight fighters in the UFC, with a record of 34-3 and a fanbase of millions. Of course none of that mattered now because if he couldn’t get healthy in time for the rematch, his career was over.
A doctor talking on his cell and checking his pager crowded Reid around a corner and bumped into him. The guy didn’t even look back to apologize as he continued to clip down the hallway. Reid clenched his jaw and held his right shoulder as he waited for the pain to subside. Even from an impact so small it hurt like a bitch.
He had one of the most aggravating injuries a fighter could have: a torn rotator cuff. To literally add insult to injury, it hadn’t even happened in a fight. He’d gotten the damn thing while training for his title fight. Thirty-four was almost ancient for a fighter, especially one who’d been at it for as long as he had, and his body was starting to reflect that, injury by godforsaken injury.
Sidestepping an old lady traveling at the speed of a land snail, Reid cursed his trainer, Butch, for sending him here.
Shortly after Reid had had the surgery to repair his right shoulder, the camp’s sports medicine doc needed to return home to take care of his ailing father. Scotty wasn’t expected to be back for a couple of months, and since Reid was the only injured one in the camp, Butch set him up with a local PT for the interim. But if Reid kept working with that guy he wouldn’t be ready to fight until he was fifty, so he’d taken his therapy into his own hands.
Unfortunately, Butch got hip to what he was doing and balled him out for not listening to Scotty’s replacement and taking it easy. But Reid didn’t know the meaning of taking it easy. His mottos were more than just your average motivational fodder. He lived by things like “give more than your everything or you’ll amount to nothing” and “if you didn’t come to win, you should’ve stayed the fuck home.” Shit like that had been drilled into him since he was old enough to throw a punch at his old man’s command.
He refused to accept the possibility of not completely healing in the next two months, thereby losing his shot at ever reclaiming his title. Every year the sport produced younger and better fighters, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for the older fighters to compete. That’s why Reid trained as hard as he did. There would always be some guy who wanted his belt and was working his ass off for a chance to take it, so he had to train and prepare that much harder to keep it. He was pissed as hell Butch had given him an ultimatum: leave camp and do PT the right way or he was pulling the fight.
Fuck. That.
Fine, whatever. He’d make his coach happy and go to this lame PT shit. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to treat it any differently than he did his regular training. He didn’t have time to dick around. He needed to get back to Vegas a.s.a.p. so he could reclaim what was rightfully his.