Savage: A Pro Football Romance Page 5

  Brady looks me up and down. “So what are you saying?”

  “I'm saying we should figure out what's actually wrong with you, then I should give you the shot where it's actually going to work.”

  He breaks into a hungry smile. “Right. I get it. But you know, if you want to touch my body, all you have to do is ask. You don't need to pretend to be giving me an exam.”

  I hold the syringe up and glare at Brady, trying to hide the fact that my heart did start beating just a little bit faster at the thought of touching his body. “Well, if you're worried about me being unprofessional, I could always call Dr. Larson.”

  He shudders at the mention of my boss' name. “Fuck no, trust me, you don't want him knowing about this.”

  Taking a step back to put him at a professional distance, I gesture over to the exam table. “Great! Then I suggest you go sit over there and take off your pants.”

  Brady raises his eyebrows. “Take off my pants?”

  “Don't be gross,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I'm not going to give you a shot through your pants, so you have to take them off. There's nothing dirty about it.”

  Brady takes a small step towards me. “After what we did last weekend? I'd say it's pretty fucking dirty, Cassie.”

  I take a big, deep, breath, trying to push the memory of the was his perfect body felt on mine out of my head now that it's inches away from me again. “Well, then I recommend you see a different type of doctor about why your mind is in the gutter all the time, and until then, let's just get this over with.”

  “Alright,” Brady says, putting a huge hand on my side and grinning down at me as he walks past me towards the exam table, “No pants it is.”

  Turning my back on Brady as he jumps onto the edge of the table, I check the syringe, making sure it's the right drug and the right amount. I also take a couple more of those deep breaths that were so helpful in getting me through medical school, hoping that they can snuff the tiny little fire Brady just started between my legs. This is the first time I've been alone in a room with him since...well, technically, ever, and I definitely haven't put him into patient mode yet.

  And that's a huge problem.

  I turn around and see Brady sitting on the foam edge of the exam table, peeling his silvery-blue football pants down his hips, revealing only a deeply cut V of tattooed skin underneath them, getting lower and lower until the waistline is right above the top of his...

  “Wait!” I shout, definitely a little louder than I wanted to, “Are you wearing underwear?”

  Brady looks down at his bare skin, then looks back up at me. “Fuck no. That shit just slows me down. But that shouldn't be a problem, right? After all, it's just a shot, so it's not sexual.”

  He tugs his pants down another half inch, and I look away, disturbed at how long it takes me to do it. “Stop!” I look back over at Brady, trying to figure out any way I can give him this shot without seeing him totally naked, my eyes finally falling on the little white towel wedged into his waistband. “Uh...use that towel to cover yourself up.”

  My face is hot and flushed, and I can tell that it's a humiliating shade of pink, exposing all my claims of being a detached medical professional as a big, fat lie.

  Brady raises his eyebrows at me, feigning ignorance. “Cover myself up? Why would I need to do that?”

  My face turns even pinker as I make eye contact with Brady.

  “We both know why,” I whisper.

  “Alright, fine. After all, it’d be a shame to show you how fucking hard you’re making me when we don’t have the time to do anything about it.” With a smirk, Brady grabs his towel, stuffing it down the front of his pants as he peels them down his hips with his other hand, revealing the intricate, expensive-looking tattoos that snake down from his massive, perfectly-muscled thighs to his sculpted calves. He spreads his legs open, pushing the incredibly flimsy white towel between them like he's posing for a dirty photo shoot.

  And, unfortunately for me, my imagination does have some ideas about what he looks like under that towel.

  “So...where does it hurt?” I ask, trying not to get completely lost in the maze of inky black tattoos and muscles sitting on the exam table in front of me.

  Brady flexes one of his massive legs, wincing as he fully extends it. “Here,” he says, bringing two fingers right up to the edge of the towel.

  I look down at the syringe in my hand. “So it's less of a leg injury and more of a...groin injury?”

  Brady grits his teeth and flexes his leg a couple more times. “Shit, maybe. Every time I do this, it shoots all the way up the inside of my thigh into my fucking hips.”

  Wow, great. Out of all the muscles in Brady's ridiculously muscle-filled body, he injured the one that's right next to his dick. But hey, if he's flexing it like that, it's probably not that bad. Once I give him the shot, he should be right back to his usual annoying self.

  My eyes dart up to the screen over Brady's shoulder just in time to watch the other team celebrating in the end zone. Brady's gaze follows mine, and he smacks the exam table hard when he sees the score. “Fuck! I need to get back out there.”

  Okay, Cassie. He's distracted. Get in now, pretend he's some kind of oversized training dummy, give him the shot, and he'll be out of your hair. Three, two, one, go!

  Okay, let's try that again.

  Three, two, one...

  I step up in between Brady's legs, trying not to think about how easily they could close around my hips and pull me up onto the table with him. Reaching down to his thigh, I find the place where he put his fingers, and press two of mine into his skin.

  “Fuck!” I feel his muscles clench beneath the skin as his thigh moves inward, pressing the back of my gloved hand hard up against the white fabric of the towel above his thigh.

  I pull my hand away, and Brady brings his full attention back towards me, pressing the muscles of his injured thigh against the side of my hips. “That fucking hurt.”

  Okay, I've got the shot in my hand, I know where he's hurt, what’s the hold up? Why am I just standing here, leaning on Brady's thigh like I'm about to hop up and sit on his lap?

  “Could you...” Ugh, this is bad. My voice is somehow squeaky and breathy at the same time. “Uh, could you scoot back a little? I don't really have a good angle like this.”

  With a smirk, Brady pulls back, and my hips, which now apparently have a mind of their own, move right up to fill the empty space, pressing against the side of Brady's knee.

  Flipping the syringe around in my hand, I lean over, steadying Brady's thigh with my other hand and trying not to let my graze drift even a little bit farther up than it needs to.

  “Okay, we're almost good, let me just...get the right angle...”

  Using Brady's thigh for support, I bend over his lap, steady my hands, and give him the shot. Thankfully, Brady sits completely still the entire time. Apparently, he actually is capable of being a normal person for at least a couple seconds.

  But after I'm done, before the syringe is even out of my hand, Brady's massive, super-strong hand is on my chin, lifting it until I'm looking right at his striking blue eyes. “I could do it, you know. I could pull this towel off my cock, sit you up on my lap, and finish what we started last weekend. And you can deny it all you want...but I know you want me to.”

  Caught completely off guard, I stutter as my breath fills my lungs faster and faster. “Brady, we can't just—”

  “Fuck yeah we can,” he says, peeling off the latex glove on my free hand and holding it up to the bare, tattooed skin of his thigh, turning the easy-to-ignore little fire down below into a raging inferno. “And don't try to tell me you haven't been thinking about it all fucking week.”

  Brady's hands move down to the small of my back, and before I can tell my lower body not to do what it's about to do, it happily hops up into Brady's lap, straddling his inked, naked thighs.

  “That's what I thought,” Brady says, pulling me into his body until I can feel
the towel covering his cock pressing up between my legs.

  This is bad. I'm already breaking half the rules in the contract I signed just by sitting on Brady's lap. And judging by the hungry look in his eyes, he's about to try and break the rest.

  “Brady,” I lift up my hands to the hard plastic padding covering his massive chest and try to summon the strength to push him away, “This is so dangerous. We can't do this here.”

  Brady flashes his little I'm-about-to-score-a-touchdown grin. “Pretty strong words for someone who's one towel away from riding my cock on her own exam table.”

  I gasp as he forcefully grabs my ass with both hands and pulls me harder into him, pressing my breasts up against his football pads. I know I should be squirming out of his arms and back to safety, but the feeling of Brady's massive arms pawing at my body, rocking me back and forth on his bulge is completely overpowering my common sense. So instead, I stare into Brady's eyes like a puppy getting its first ever bellyrub as he touches me.

  “There we go,” Brady says, squeezing my ass appreciatively, “There's the girl I remember from last weekend. All that's missing is my jersey stretched across those perfect fucking tits. But that can be arranged; let's start by getting you out of those tight little scrubs.”

  Brady's hands grab the bottom of my papery lavender shirt and begin to peel it up my waist.

  So, here it is. The moment that I've been mentally preparing for all week. I've run this scenario in my head twenty or thirty times since my interview with Coach Bradley—actually, in retrospect, maybe that's part of the problem—and every time, I stopped Brady before he took me beyond the point of no return.

  But now, the point of no return is seconds away. If I don't stop Brady now, my shirt is going to be in a ball on the other side of the room before I know it. And then he's going to take off my pants. And then he's going to move that little white towel out of the way. And once he does that?

  We're so fucked.

  So I need to stop this now! Brady's already pushed my shirt up to the bottom of my breasts, and if I hold my tongue any longer, I'm going to stop being his doctor and start being a topless girl on his lap.

  So as Brady starts to pull my shirt over the bottom of my bra, I take a deep breath and try to summon the will to stop this before—

  Wait a second. Those quiet thudding sounds coming from behind me...those aren't footsteps, are they?

  Instantly, I jump off Brady's lap like it's on fire, tugging my shirt back down my waist as Brady leaps up off the table into the legs of his pants and pulls them up in one insanely quick motion. Then, I whip around and come face-to-face with Dr. Larson, standing in the open exam room door with a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “What the hell are you two doing in here?”

  Since I'm not sure of how much of what just happened Dr. Larson saw, I have no idea how to respond to him. But before I can think of anything, Brady steps up alongside me. “Sorry about that, Doc, my, uh...heart was beating kind of fast after that last touchdown, so I snuck back here to get Cassie to check it out.”

  He puts his arm around me, but, watching Dr. Larson cock an eyebrow at how close we’re standing, I take a step away from him. “For the hundredth time, Mr. Mack, call me Dr. Parker.”

  Brady holds back a laugh, and I glare at him, but luckily, Dr. Larson doesn't notice. “Look, I don't care what you call her, why the hell did you leave the field and come all the way back here for a...what was it? Accelerated heartbeat?”

  He looks over at me with suspicion in his eyes, and I press my hands close to my sides to hide the syringe I'm still holding. “Did you find anything wrong with his heart?”

  I shake my head. “Nope! His pulse was, uh, normal!”

  “At least something's normal in this fucking madhouse,” Dr. Larson mumbles under his breath. Then, he turns to Brady. “Well, if you're normal, get your ass back on the field! We're running a play for you in 90 seconds!”

  Brady looks over at the TV in surprise. “Wow, that was fucking quick. But don't worry Doc, I'll make it in time.”

  “You'd better. Because you don't want me explaining this to Coach Bradley.” Dr. Larson glares at Brady as he hustles over to the door.

  Then, over Dr. Larson's shoulder, Brady looks right at me, his eyes burning with the same hungry expression that he gave me when I was on his lap, and I shudder as he sprints out the door and down the hall, rushing back out onto the field.

  “Why the hell did he come all the way back here?” Dr. Larson asks, looking over his shoulder at the place where Brady just was.

  I shrug, nestling the syringe a little tighter in my hand. “He said Coach Bradley told him to come to me for little stuff like that.”

  Dr. Larson shakes his head. “I swear, I'm going to burn that man's spreadsheets. Look, if anything like that happens again, come to me. Do not perform any medical services on Brady, not even checking his pulse. Is that clear?”

  I nod. “Uh, yeah.”

  Dr. Larson sighs. “Good. I'm starting to think we shouldn't have you in an exam room at all. But at least the game’s almost over.”

  He looks back on the field, and my eyes follow his, just in time to see Brady catch a pass over the middle of the field and break two tackles before getting brought to the ground. “The guy can run, I'll give you that. He gets everything he wants out there. The problem is, he also gets whatever he wants out here.”

  Dr. Larson frowns at the screen as one of our offensive linemen collapses to the turf grabbing his ankle. “Well, this was fun, but I've got to get back out there and take care of that. Have fun with the magazines, and remember, no more medical care.”

  And just like that, Dr. Larson heads out into the halls of the stadium and I'm alone in the exam room again.

  Well, not quite. Because guess who's up on the screen?

  Brady, standing on the sidelines, firing up the crowd for what feels like the millionth time this game after another huge catch. Then, when the camera cuts to a close-up of Brady, he stares right into the screen and gives me that same hungry look, instantly flooding me with heat again. He knows I'm watching. I can tell by the look in his eyes. And he's telling me that whatever “unfinished business” we had after Club Royale just got even more unfinished.

  And standing here in the exam room, thinking about how Brady almost got me naked after five minutes alone in a room with him, I'm starting to think Dr. Larson is right.

  Brady Mack gets everything he wants, both on and off the field.

  And he wants me.

  Chapter 7: Cassie

  “Alright,” I say, as I finish tying up the splint holding the lineman’s broken index finger next to his healthy middle one, “You should be good to go! Just don’t jab anyone with it or anything.”

  Rex laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He flexes his hand a couple times. “Damn, this actually feels pretty good. You don’t think I can mudwrestle in this, do you?”

  I furrow my brow. “Uh…well, if you can play football with it, you can probably mudwrestle in it, as long as you’re really careful.”

  Rex’s eyes light up like a little kid’s on Christmas morning. “Hell yeah, thanks, Dr. Parker!”

  “No problem, Rex! Just let me know if you need it adjusted!” The massive football player heaves himself off the exam table and heads back to practice, leaving me alone in the exam room for the first time since early this morning. I take the opportunity to hop up onto the table myself and catch my breath.

  I hate to admit it, but ever since that insanely awkward opening weekend…this has actually been kind of fun. Instead of keeping me cooped up way in the back of the building, they’re actually treating me like a real resident, letting me examine some of the injured players and do some first aid on everyone from the kickers to the huge guys like Rex. They’re actually really interesting patients: they’re tough, some of them know almost as much about their injuries as I do, and a lot of them are actually really sweet and funny. Apparently, all my worries a
bout getting trapped in a room giving Brady daily pelvic exams while he makes jokes that would make a sixth-grader roll their eyes were completely unfounded.

  Honestly, now that I think about it, I haven’t even seen Brady since last week’s game. Apparently, they’ve been having him practice extra because we play the Bulls this Sunday, and the whole team wants revenge after the Bulls knocked them out of the playoffs last year. And I get that, but since they hired me to keep him healthy, it seems kind of weird that they wouldn’t send him back in to see me for a follow-up to our last appointment.

  I mean, it’s not like I want to see him or anything. As far as I’m concerned, the less I have to think about him and his stupid groin, the better. I just hope Dr. Larson didn’t see more than I thought he saw when he walked in on us.

  But there’s no way that’s what’s going on. If he had actually seen me straddling him, I would have been fired on the spot. He wouldn’t even need to subtly keep me away from him.

  I shake my head as the memory of that exam floods back to me. I can’t believe I let him talk me into getting up on his lap in the middle of a medical exam. So insanely unprofessional. That’s definitely the last time that’s going to happen.

  At least, it’d better be. For both of our sakes.

  Over by the sink, my phone buzzes with a text. Probably Kendall, letting me know she’s here and asking me to let her in. I reach over and look at the screen.

  In the lobby! Come get me!!!!!!!!

  That’s her, alright. I check the time, and figure I’m probably good to leave the exam room and head over to the field where the players are practicing.

  Apparently, there’s some kind of special practice going on today, and Coach Bradley wants me observing Brady just to make sure he doesn’t re-aggravate his injury. He also said I could bring a friend, which I thought was a little weird, but since Kendall has been trying to get me to hook her up with football players all week, I went ahead and invited her.

  And after a quick cleanup of the exam room, I head down to the lobby, where Kendall is waiting for me with three jerseys in her hands.