A Favor for a Favor (All In 2)

The week that follows is a weird form of torture. The daily double PT sessions are definitely helping the healing process. The bruising begins to fade from the horrible black to more of a purple green with some nice yellowing patches at the edges. It’s ugly, but it’s improving, and my team physiotherapist keeps praising me for all the hard work I’m obviously doing outside our sessions to help with recovery.

It’s all Stevie. If I’m in a mood—and let’s face it, I’m perpetually in a mood—she keeps pushing, dishing out the attitude the same way I give it to her.

For the first few days she wore baggy sweats, but it didn’t seem to have an impact on my physical reaction. So she stopped with the oversize clothes and went back to those athletic running shorts and tanks layered over sports bras.

And unless we’re in the private gym specifically for the people who live on the penthouse floor—which means it’s rarely ever used—I stick to my uniform of boxer briefs and sometimes basketball shorts.

Tonight I’m thinking maybe once Stevie gets home, we should order in dinner and get down to the PT. I’m feeling good, and tomorrow I have a checkup with my doctor, so I want to go in all loose and limber. We can work on some stretches, and Stevie can massage my leg, and I’ll finish with heat and ice.

Tomorrow night is the get-together at Alex’s place. I don’t really want to go becauseI don’t love all the social shit;

it means I won’t get in a PT session with Stevie.The season starts in a week, so I need to put some effort in with my teammates, since I won’t be on the ice for at least the first few games, and that’s me being optimistic. I’m hoping that with the extra PT, I won’t miss much more than that.

I’m in my living room, waiting for Stevie and flipping TV channels with the sound off so I can listen for the elevator. Yes, I’m aware it’s borderline creepy. I messaged her more than half an hour ago, but I still haven’t heard back yet.

The sound of the elevator dinging puts me on alert. I grab my crutches and pull myself up, pleased with how much less it’s hurt over the past few days. I hear a knock in the hallway, but it’s not my door. I make it to the peephole in time to see a guy disappear into her apartment.

A fucking guy. Who isn’t me.

I wait with my eye pressed against the peephole for the guy to come back out.

“Have you moved in the past half hour?” Nolan startles me.

“What?”

“I’ve walked through here three times, and you haven’t moved. What the hell are you doing?”

“A guy went into Stevie’s apartment, and he hasn’t come back out.”

Nolan’s eyebrows rise, and he smirks before he schools his expression. “And that’s a problem because . . . ?”

“Because we’re supposed to have a session tonight, that’s why. And she hasn’t answered my texts. I have to see the team doctor tomorrow. I need to go having made progress so I can get back on the ice, and now she’s leaving me hanging!”

“So you’re pissed that she has a life outside of sessions with you, which she doesn’t get paid for, unless you parading around in your underwear has somehow become a form of reimbursement?”

“I’m comfortable like this, and she doesn’t care. Besides, she offered to help me. It benefits her too.”

Nolan leans against the couch, and Dicken jumps up, sauntering along the edge until he can rub himself on Nolan. “Does it, now? And how might this little arrangement you set up benefit her?”

“She gets experience working with me.”

“So she learns how to best deal with assholes?”

Dicken meows, like he’s in agreement. He’s only loyal to the person most willing to feed him.

“Screw you. I’m not always an asshole. She gets to rehab an NHL player. She learns what works and doesn’t, what helps me make progress, how hard to push. It’s good for her, career-wise.”

“Why doesn’t she use the fact that she has an NHL-playing brother to get her into a clinic that works with professionals in the first place?”

“Because she doesn’t like using her brother’s connections to get things.”

“Well, she’s living in that apartment, isn’t she?”

“Only because her dickhead ex-boyfriend cheated on her and she didn’t have anywhere else to stay. It better not be him in her apartment. I will beat his ass.” I don’t care if I have to break his nose with my crutches; I will take that motherfucker down. I pull out my phone and compose a message to Stevie, but I’m agitated, so I have to delete it a bunch of times and start over again.

I finally go with:

You ready for me? Should I come to you?