Jack hisses in pain, but manages to stand and hobble all the way to my office at the back of the large, warehouse-sized training room.
“Lie facedown,” I direct as I pull out the ice packs and grab some towels.
By the time I get what I need and stand next to the exam table, Jack is halfway through a story, which, of course, I didn’t hear. I roll my eyes since Jack can’t see me.
“Jack, I didn’t catch any of that. Is it about your injury?” I suspect I know what he’s getting around to, but I ask to be sure I’m not missing something important. As the sports therapist for these men, I need to pay special attention to each fighter. It’s not Jack’s fault I didn’t hear him. I don’t tell anyone about my hearing loss, not wanting to explain what happened to me ten years ago or be treated as a weak, fragile flower. I despise that.
“No, not my injury,” he mumbles into the table, almost sounding embarrassed. “I was asking what you were doing later.”
I sigh and grab the ice packs, laying them across the base of Jack’s spine. Sometimes I wonder how many of his injuries are merely excuses to get me alone and ask me out.
“Jack, I don’t date fighters. You know this,” I repeat for the millionth time since I started working here two years ago, and it’s not only Jack. With the amount of testosterone flying around here, and me being one of only a handful of women who work at the gym, I end up repeating the same line to all of the guys at some point.
Honestly, I should date one of them. It would keep me from having panic attacks every night, alone in my little apartment. If I did, I would have someone big and strong to hold me, protecting me from the evils of the world.
Sometimes, it seems as if everyone here is hooking up except me. Lucky me, I get to listen to my coworkers gush about their weekend flings every Monday morning. I’ve been asked out by almost every single fighter to file through these doors. None as persistent as Jack Wolfe.
Jack attempts to roll on his side to face me. I place a hand on his shoulder, holding him still. “Don’t move. You could make your back worse, especially if it’s a tear.”
I already know it’s not a tear.
If anything, he has a minor strain. Most likely, Jack made it up or has a tiny twinge and is playing up the symptoms to corral me in my office. Despite his irritating behavior and his tendency to be a spoiled brat, I find it kind of sweet this big, intimidating guy would go so far as to fake an injury just to ask me out on a date.
“Yeah, yeah,” he gripes. “I’m not moving.”
I remove the ice and gently press on different muscle groups across his broad back. “Tell me if it hurts, Jack.” After poking and prodding for several minutes with no reaction, I move away from the table. “You’re fine. I’ll put some rub on it and you can train tomorrow, but keep it light.”
Jack leaves after I spread a thick layer of nasty smelling but highly effective ointment on his lower back with instructions to take it easy for the rest of the day.
By the time I clean up after my last patient, wiping down the table and countertops with disinfectant, it’s late. I’m rummaging under the sink for more gauze wraps when someone taps my shoulder.
“Oh my god!” I jerk at the unexpected touch, smashing my head on the underside of the cabinet. Stars burst behind my eyes.
“Britt, I’m so sorry!”
“Max,” I groan, rubbing my head where a knot is already forming.
“Shit, I didn’t mean to scare you, Britt.” Max moves to inspect my injury.
“I’m not bleeding, am I?” I won’t tell him I’m more worried about triggering a seizure or a migraine than a small lump or cut. He’ll feel bad. Then I’ll feel bad for making him feel bad. Plus, I’m not discussing my condition. I refuse to be treated like a broken little bird… like my mom treats me.
Usually, I’m not easily freaked out at work. It’s one of the only places I know I’m safe. Surrounded by huge, powerful men who I know would never hurt me, who would protect me using physical force if necessary. It’s the main reason I took this job. But sneaking up behind me? I’m going to be jumpy, plus, I’m the most ungraceful person I know.
Max sifts through my hair and I stiffen, afraid he’ll find the ten-year knot of scar tissue behind my left ear. His fingers graze the new lump.
“Ow!”
“Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. No, you’re not bleeding. It’s going to be sore though.”
Annoyed, I grab an ice pack from the freezer and place the cold bag on top of my head. “I look ridiculous.”
Max smiles, but it’s stilted. “Yeah, you do.”
Laughing, I shove his shoulder to lighten the mood. “Shut up. What did you need?”
He stares at me blankly.
“Max! You came in here for something. Don’t tell me you scared me to death and possibly gave me a concussion and you don’t remember why?”
“Oh, right.” His cheeks turn pink. “I ummmm, well, a new fighter is coming in tomorrow. Gabriel requested a full workup.”