“Do you agree with the pain management plan?”
“What?” She must have been talking while I was planning how to get her uptight ass into my bed.
“Do you have someone you want to bring in for this? Someone who is going to help you at home?”
I laughed. “I don’t need any help at home, Doc.”
“Aren’t you right-handed?”
“Yeah,” I scoffed.
“Then you haven’t really thought through what it’s going to be like not being able to use your hand for eight weeks.”
“Eight weeks!” I almost jumped out of the bed.
“You have a fracture and I had to surgically realign two of your bones. This is easily an eight-week recovery.”
I shook my head, feeling the fire behind my eyes. Now she’d pissed me off. “That’s not happening. The playoffs will be over.”
She closed her eyes. “Playoffs, games, that’s all anyone talks about since you were wheeled into my OR.” She pursed her lips. “This is your hand we’re talking about. If you reinjure it, you could do permanent damage.”
“Give me some HGH. I know you’ve got something that will speed up the recovery process.”
“I don’t. I have pain meds to help you get through the first week, and I have an excellent physical therapist if the team isn’t able to handle your recovery. But that’s it. There’s no magic cure. No special injection that’s going to work. You have to heal.”
I chuckled. Of course there was. We all knew about the recovery drugs players used to get back on the field. I wasn’t going to be any different. I’d find a way to get my hands on some. The Super Bowl was on the line. The Wranglers would be behind me one hundred percent.
“When am I getting out of here?” The quicker the hospital released me, the quicker I could talk to the trainers about super meds. Eight weeks to recover was not an option.
“You need to be fitted for a brace and a sling.” She looked down at her watch. “We could have you out of here in a few hours. I’ll get started on the paperwork.”
It was instinct. I reached out to touch her wrist, but my right hand was still bound to the mold. I winced at the reminder of my injury.
“Thanks.”
She tucked a pen into her pocket. “You’re welcome, Mr. Blakefield.”
“You know you can call me Wes.”
She had thrown up a professional wall so high I didn’t know if I was strong enough to break it down, but I sure as hell was going to try. I was used to getting what I wanted, and I wanted this woman.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Her blue eyes softened. “I’ll see you back here in two weeks to check on your progress.”
I could have argued and said the trainers would take care of me. The team doctors would oversee the rest of my recovery and wouldn’t want any interference with the treatment, but I didn’t disagree.
“I’ll see you in two weeks, Doc.” I grinned as she closed the door.
6
Lennon
I handed Wes Blakefield’s chart to the nurse to input into the system. I walked away from the station, ready to check on my next patient. I didn’t want to think about whether it was intentional that I had checked on him first. I tried to tell myself it was so I could escape if I needed to. I would have an excuse if those smoldering eyes of his got under my skin again. I pulled my shoulders back, knowing I kept things professional in there. I didn’t cross any doctor-patient lines.
But I had heard his heart beat. I heard it pick up as I moved across his body. My fingers lingered on his skin, tracing the lines on the tattoo running up his forearm. He might be a notorious playboy, but I had made his heart race. I smiled before walking into Ms. Parish’s room.
“Good morning. And how is that elbow today?” My seventy-five year old patient needed all my attention, and I had to stop thinking about the Wranglers’ quarterback.
“Dr. Ashworth?”