Rookie (Seattle Sharks 4)

“Yes,” I said as he headed toward the door of my exam room.

It was two down from the Coach’s office in the rink, with my own tiny office connected to it. Two doors, one on each end of the room—one led to the office, the other led to the locker room for easy access.

“Gage?” I asked, and he paused at the door to the locker room. “Please do tell me if the shoulder gives you any extra pain. Anything at all.”

“I will.”

I eyed him.

He raised his hand, laughing. “I will, I will,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “Would you mind sending in Jackson?”

“No problem.” He turned out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

I took a few minutes to glance over Rory Jackson’s file before he sauntered into the room. No major injuries but more than enough fights—on and off the ice it would seem. He was lucky he’d never damaged that near perfect face of his.

“Where and how do you want me?” he asked, his voice full of confident bravado.

I’d gotten a taste of that at Gage’s house when I’d spoken to him and his wife. Paige had teased him throughout the party, calling him on the cocky attitude he couldn’t seem to withhold.

“Shirt and pants off, please,” I said, and motioned to my table.

He smirked, discarding his clothes in a motion so smooth I was shocked the muscular man could manage it. The end of his chin tipped up as he set his hands on his hips, something like a superhero pose—clearly proud of all that carved muscle and smooth skin.

“Couldn’t wait to see me with my clothes off, huh? Don’t worry. It’s natural,” he teased.

I rolled my eyes at him, knowing full well from the party he was madly in love with his wife. He only had eyes for her and his daughter, Daphne—hell, it had looked like he breathed for them—but I sensed Rory would never shed his over-confident personality, and really, it suited him.

I’d worked with hockey players for almost a decade. The shock at so many cut bodies had worn off years ago.

“What’s this from?” I asked, eyeing a small scar near the left side of his abdomen. It was barely two inches long, the skin long since puckered and healed.

“Non-hockey injury,” he said, his tone switching from playful to serious in seconds.

I circled him in front of the table as he stood, scanning.

There were a variety of scars across his chest, up near his collarbone, and down his back.

None of them looked ice-related. And my heart ached for him, for a story I didn’t understand.

Like Gage had tried to hide his pain from me, so often others did as well. I had to look beneath the surface and listen to their bodies more than their mouths. Hockey players were usually incredibly strong and incredibly stubborn. They’d rather pretend pain didn’t exist than tell me about it.

Rory hopped onto the table when I patted it, and I worked my hands over his thighs and knees, testing the flexibility, making sure there weren’t any pain-flashes when I moved his legs forward and back. Knees were super vulnerable from so much time on the ice, so I always kept a close watch on those.

“Anything giving you trouble?”

“Not a thing,” he said, that smirk back on his lips. “I’m pretty much as perfect as they come.”

I chuckled softly. “So, I’ve heard.”

His eyes widened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shifted my weight, nerves flaring. We hadn’t established a back and forth yet—I had to be sure not to cross any lines—but he seemed inviting enough.

“It means,” I said, “that I spent half of Gage’s party chatting with your wife.”

And it had been the most fun I’ve had in such a long time.

The women were incredible, and despite their close-knit trio, they’d included me into the group effortlessly.

Taking pity on a stranger in Shark-infested waters.

“Damn,” Rory said, a laugh in his tone. “I thought it would at least be a couple months before they got to you. Now you’ll know everything, and I won’t be able to joke around.”

“Oh, I don’t know everything,” I said. “Not yet. Joke away.”

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Is that the joke?”

“No.” He shook his head. “How are you holding up? After working with a shit team like Ontario all this—” His words died when I raised an eyebrow at him. “What? You’re a Shark now, right? You’re kind of expected to hate them on principal.”

My stomach twisted.

There was one Ontario player in particular I hated.

“Whoa,” he said, eyeing me. “Didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”

“You didn’t,” I said too quickly. “And I’m adjusting, thank you. It’ll take time, but I meant what I said on that first day. I’m honored to be a Shark now.”

Even if it was Bentley’s team.

Especially because it was his team.

Even if my heart skipped simply thinking about his upcoming examination.

“You’re all right,” he said, hopping off the table when I gave him the nod.

“Thanks.” It was a step in the right direction. “Send Kinley in here for me, please.”

“You want me to bust him up a bit first?”

I gaped at him.

“So you have something to fix?” he teased.

“In one piece, please.

“And here I thought you were going to be fun.” He tsked at me playfully before turning out of the room, leaving me gaping at the closed door.

Maybe this job wouldn’t be all about the paycheck.

Maybe I’ll make some friends.

I wouldn’t mind hanging with Paige, Jeannine, and Bailey again. Women strong and sassy enough to check these guys were the real superheroes.

I buried my hopes while looking at Kinley’s file—I knew him from the training at the Olympics, but it had been months and I wanted to refresh.

I tried not to think of the player I’d saved for last—because I knew seeing him, feeling him again, even in the most innocent way, would wreck me.

Warren popped his head in my office, walking in with a timid glare.

“Hi, Kinley,” I said. “Good to see you again.”

He gave me one nod, shutting the door behind him.

Still the silent broody type, though Jeannine had softened the beast up a bit since the last time I’d seen him.

He was still confident and calm, like a simmering storm that could burst any second. Only Jeannine brought out the mega-watt smile and easy charm that lay beneath all that . . . brute. It had been nice to witness at Gage’s house.

Warren gathered his shirt at his shoulders, pulling it over his head without me having to tell him. Then went for his pants.

“If yo

u could just step over—”

My gasp cut me off, my eyes popping out of my head as he dropped his briefs to his ankles.

“What are you doing?” I flew around, my back to him and my eyes clenched shut.

There was no way to unsee what I just saw.

Holy hell.

I’d had plenty of players “accidentally” drop their towels around me or shift just enough to show off their goods during an exam—trials of being a woman in a male dominated field. Nine times out of ten it wasn’t threatening, more like a monkey who wanted to show off.

But this—a routine welcome exam—caught me entirely off guard.

“Rory said you needed me to be naked. Something about a prostate exam?”

“Oh fucking hell, Jackson!” I hollered loud enough that I hoped he heard me. No doubt he was standing outside the door to hear his joke play out. “I’m not that kind of doctor, Warren.”

“Fucking dead man,” Warren growled.

“Are your briefs back on?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” The man actually sounded chagrined.

“Okay.” I let out a slow breath and turned around. “No worries. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” I chuckled awkwardly.

He cocked an eyebrow like he wanted to argue.

But he couldn’t.

He was . . . formidable.

Damn near faint worthy.

But Bentley . . .

I blinked out of my gaze and secured my professional face. “I didn’t notice any injuries in your file,” I said, circling him like I had the others. My eyes scanning, searching, trailing over all the muscle. “And I know you were in top-shape the last time I saw you.”

Warren was a beast.

Tall and wide and thick.

I was shocked he had less fights in his record than Rory. Jackson was big and cut, too, but he was leaner, graceful.

Shouldn’t assume who has the anger issues, I suppose.

But I couldn’t help it. Anger was a trigger for me, something I had a sixth sense for after . . .

Well, hockey was a naturally aggressive sport. I knew that, and I would not allow my history to taint the image of my new players.

“None,” he said. “You remember I’m careful.”

“Yes,” I said but eyed him as I asked him to sit on the table, preforming the same flexibility tests as I had the others.