In with the New Baby

Haven’t they seen a fighter before? Hell, when we get weighed, we sometimes are butt naked.

Fuck these people. They don’t know what I’ve been through.

I reach the parking lot and pull up my pants at least and hop into the truck. I throw my t-shirt on the passenger seat and slam the steering wheel.

“Fuck!” I exclaim, really loud.

I look around and see a stray dog crossing the street and almost getting hit. I jump out of the truck.

“Come here, boy!” I whistle.

He jumps into the cab and sits on the passenger seat, shivering with fear.

I feel like shit. I pat his head and tell him, “Good boy, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

He lowers his head, pants, and wags his tail.

“I’ll take care of you,” I repeat.

Unlike the way I treated Amanda Nelson.

Now I feel like complete shit.

Chapter 3

Amanda

I’m happy today.

Or at least I was, before Lincoln Drake came in as my newest client and ruined my mood. So now I’m telling my version of events because it’s probably hard for people to believe that I could like this guy or have the hots for him. I know it’s weird, but I can’t help it.

Like I was saying, though, I’m happy today.

These new purple scrubs I bought at Walmart smell clean and fresh. I love my job and feel that the transition from being a nurse to a sports therapist was an easy one. I liked nursing, but the hours were tough. Going in for twelve hour shifts four days a week, over all kinds of different hours, just messed with me.

Most of the time I didn’t know if it even was morning, noon, or night. Now I can work eight to four, or ten to six, or even nine to five like normal people.

I glance down at the chart. Lincoln Drake, I read. Ex SEAL, current MMA fighter who has been advised to quit but doesn’t want to, knee problems, no cartilage, in constant pain, no meds but in dire need of physical therapy, which he was also initially resistant to.

Sounds like a piece of cake, I think. After all, who ruined the curve in her Anatomy and Physiology course in college? This girl.

Still, there’s a stereotype that pops into my head when I read a medical chart such as this. I’ve dealt with these kinds of guys before. Arrogant, sexist, coming on to you and thinking they are just the shit. Just because you’re a hot guy doesn’t mean every “chick” will fall for you.

Certainly not me, anyway. I’d rather be with my gymnast girls, training for the Olympics. Now there’s a group worth working for. Respectful, sweet, eager, and grateful, I’d rather have dozens of them over one MMA fighter any day.

I enter the examination room. Anne is there, and she smiles at me.

“Hi, Amanda,” he says. “This is Lincoln.”

I look over and see him. He’s cute. Very cute, in fact. Dark Italian good looks, scruffy beard, steely blue eyes and that slicked hair. I bet he’s hairy underneath his t-shirt and I’m one of those weird girls who likes a hairy guy.

But more than that, I’m a professional. I know to never mix business with pleasure.

“Hello,” I say. “How are you?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says.

We shake hands. I can feel his calloused palm and thick fingers. He could really use a manicure.

I look over my chart and call up his record on the computer.

“So, knee injury, tendon previously replaced, possible surgery.”

“No,” he says. “No surgery.”

“Let me start with your vitals.”

Or at least this is the way I remember our conversation going. It all got fuzzy for me as soon as he turned into pure rage and stormed out of my office.

“Why?” he asks. “You need to fix my knee.”

“I will,” I say. “But as a nurse I like to start from scratch. It’s all connected.”

He sighs.

“Take off your shirt,” I order him.

I definitely remember that part, even though I told myself to act as if I didn’t even notice, and I think I did a pretty convincing job.

His face brightens, and he takes off his shirt and throws it on the floor.

I glance at him then away.

He is a stud. His broad shoulders, bulging biceps, juicy pecs, and hairy chest just do it for me.

But he’s also cocky and arrogant. I can tell he’s just waiting for me to drool or to complement him or something. I’m not going to give him that satisfaction.

I remove the blood pressure cuff, wrap it around his biceps, and inflate it.

“Ow!” he says. “That’s too tight!”

“I’m sure you can handle it,” I say, without looking at him.

I place the stethoscope at the crook of his elbow where the cuff meets and listen.

“Do you think that I…”

“Shhh,” I say. “I’m trying to listen.”

He says nothing and scratches his chest hair, which I find incredibly erotic.