“Hold on.” I hopped up from the couch and returned with a pair of boxers and one of my jerseys. I held it toward her .
“This?”
I nodded. “Try it on .”
She grabbed the ensemble and walked into the bedroom. A few minutes later, she returned, wearing my jersey and a pair of boxers with the Wranglers logo on them. My heart almost beat out of my chest. The skimpy black dress had nothing on this. She was fucking hot as hell in my clothes .
She sat next to me. “This looks ridiculous .”
I stared at her, trying to keep my cool. Trying to remind myself who the fuck I was. “It’s hot, Lennon. You’re the sexiest woman I think I’ve ever laid eyes on.” The lines kept rolling off my tongue like I was some damn love-struck teenager .
“There’s nothing ridiculous about how you look right now .”
“Really?”
She tucked her feet under her and curled up next to me. “Really.” I nodded .
“All right. Teach me .”
“What?” I had forgotten everything. Her breasts peeked through the deep cut in the jersey, and I could see the pink little buds I had sucked so hard last night. My cock was aching .
“The game.” She pointed at the TV screen. “You said you were going to teach me. I know absolutely nothing, so start from the beginning .”
“Right. Football.” I swallowed, tearing my eyes away from her tits. “All right. The game is divided into two halves, and those are split into two quarters each .”
She was a surgeon. She was brilliant. Explaining football to her seemed insane, but she listened intently as I went through the rules of the game, the numbers of players, how the defensive and offensive teams were set up. By the end, she was starting to get into it. There was a new kind of light in her eye. The one of a fan .
“How about a beer? You can’t watch football without beer.” I made my way to the kitchen .
“What? No, you can’t drink on your pain medication.” Her tone was instantly sharp .
I grabbed two bottles from the fridge. “Do you ever turn off being a doctor?” I twisted the cap off one and took a swig .
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you ever turn off being a football player ?”
I chuckled, handing her the other bottle. “You don’t have to worry. I haven’t had one of those pain pills in days. I don’t like the stuff. I don’t like how they make me feel .”
She looked doubtful. “But how is your hand feeling? Let me take a look at it .”
Before I could protest, she had the sling off my shoulder and was examining my fingers. She leaned closely to my wrist and I could feel the warmth of her breath rolling over my skin. It was instinct as my left hand twirled a strand of her hair between my fingers .
She looked up. “I think we need to get you back in for an earlier appointment .”
“Why do you say that ?”
“You haven’t been taking care of this like you should, Wes. Your hand is still swollen. I’m going to get ice.” She pushed off the couch and headed for the freezer, where she began to put together a makeshift icepack .
“I wouldn’t usually recommend ice this late after surgery, but you need it.” She touched the ice—wrapped in a towel—to my hand as I winced. “It still hurts, doesn’t it ?”
“That means it’s healing, right?” I searched her eyes for false hope. I needed these bones healed yesterday .
“Not necessarily.” She reattached the sling across my shoulder and cupped the ice on my wrist. “Twenty minutes of ice and then we’ll give you a break. No arguing.” She eyed me .
“Yes, ma’am.” I grinned, reaching for the beer .
“I feel bad about this, Wes .”
“Why would you say that ?”