“Probably in a couple of days.”

“You should stretch and massage the areas around the injury site that aren’t too tender to keep the muscles from seizing.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” I don’t get why she’s suddenly on a worried-mom-style inquisition. It’s frustrating that I can’t escape the questions, because I’m trapped in this vehicle with her.

“You’ll be back on the ice sooner if you start taking care of it right away.”

She said she was a professional, but I never asked what kind. “What is it you do?”

“I’m a physiotherapist. I work in sports rehab.”

“Guess that makes sense, with Bowman being your brother and all.”

“My brother has nothing to do with the reason I’m a physiotherapist. I like sports, both playing and watching, and I like the challenge of helping athletes who need rehabilitation.”

I should not find that trait appealing at all. Nor should I be scanning her body or noting how toned and defined her shoulders and arms are. She also smells good. Like cake and berries or something. I crack a window so I don’t start huffing her. “What kind of sports do you play?”

“All kinds. I played hockey when I was a kid. In high school if there was a team, I was on it, and in college I played soccer. I was on scholarship, but I pulled my groin in third year. I ended up with a tear and a hernia and had to have surgery. I probably could’ve kept playing, but that was sort of the deciding factor for me. Rehab was hard, but I had a great physiotherapist, and it made me want to help athletes recover from injuries.”

“That’s what you do now, then? Rehab athletes?”

“Sort of. Yeah. I finished grad school in the spring. I’m working at a clinic affiliated with the university campus, so our client base is primarily the athletes on school teams and the professors and their families. Sometimes they come in for conditioning and strengthening, sometimes for rehab. Being new means I don’t get to work with the kind of cases I really want to, but hopefully with time that will change.”

“Cases like what?”

“Like yours.” We’re stopped at a red light. She squeezes the steering wheel and looks at me. Her tongue darts out, sweeping across her bottom lip. She’s not wearing any makeup. Her lips are full and pink, and they look soft. “I could help you,” she says.

I drag my eyes away from her mouth. “Help me?”

A horn blares behind us, and we both startle. The light has turned green, so Stevie focuses on the road again, but apparently she’s not moving fast enough because the car behind us honks a second time. I roll my window down and flip them the bird at the same time she does.

“With rehab for your injury. I know exactly what it’s like to recover from a bad groin injury and how much work it takes.” She signals right and pulls into the underground parking lot.

“Why would you want to help me?” I’ve been nothing but a dick to her, apart from my lame attempt at an apology tonight. And it’s not like it wasn’t steeped in ulterior motives, since it came with my asking a favor.

“Because it’s the only way I’ll get to work with an actual professional athlete. All I’m getting right now are freaking cheerleaders and older women with neck and shoulder strains from typing too much.”

“I’m sure your brother can pull some strings and get you into a clinic with professional athletes.”

“He’s already offered to do that, but I’d like to get the experience without using his fame—you know, doing it on my own merit, the way most people have to.” She backs my SUV into the designated spot, which is impressive, and shifts into park. “So, is it a deal? You let me help you with rehab, you get back on the ice sooner, and I get experience with a professional athlete without nepotism?”

Is it a good idea to have my team captain’s hot younger sister help me with rehab? The answer to that is probably no. But she makes a good point, for both of us. The sooner I’m back on the ice, the better it will be for me and the easier it’ll be to gel with my teammates. My social skills aren’t the best, so I have to rely on my ability to pull my weight on the ice to show my worth. “And we keep it between us?”

“Yup. But if I actually help your progress, I want a letter of reference. Do we have a deal?” This has the potential to backfire, but it also has the potential to get me back where I need to be. Will Coach like that I’m doubling up on rehab? Probably not. But what are my alternatives? Is it ideal that it’s Rook’s little sister doing the rehab? Not really, but she’s offering, and it’s convenient since she’s my neighbor. In the end, the longer I’m off the ice, the less opportunity I have to show the team my value as a player, which ultimately tips the balance in Stevie’s favor.

She holds out her hand, and I take it in mine, noting how soft and warm her skin is. “Yeah, we have a deal.”

CHAPTER 12

PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

Bishop

Apparently Stevie is super serious about starting PT right away. As soon as we get in the elevator, she’s on me. “The first thing we’ll do when we get upstairs is go through some range-of-motion tests. Then you’ll soak in a hot bath, and depending on how you’re feeling after that, we’ll follow it up with a few more range-of-motion tests and a cold compress. Sound good?”

“Uh, sure?”

“Great.” She taps her bottom lip. “What did they give you to manage the pain and swelling?”

“An anti-inflammatory-based painkiller.”

“Okay, that’s what I figured. Obviously it’s nonsteroidal. When was the last time you took it?”

“Around lunch.”

She frowns. “That was seven hours ago. How’s your pain right now?”

“High.”

“On a scale of one to ten, what would you rate it?”

“Like, an eleven.”

She makes a disapproving face. “You have to take the medication.”

“I don’t know how bad the injury is if I can’t feel it.”

“You also can’t control the swelling, or heal or function, if you’re not taking the medication. New plan. Gentle heat therapy before anything else.” The elevator doors slide open, and she motions for me to go ahead of her. “Your place or mine?”

My doorknob isn’t decorated with a sock tonight. “Mine, I guess?”

“Lead the way.”

She’s oddly all business, like some professional switch has been flipped. She holds the door open, allowing me to go first. Design- and layout-wise, my place is the same as hers—the kitchen is modern, with dark wood cabinets and black granite countertops—but that’s where the similarities end. My place looks like two guys live in it. A black leather couch, dual leather recliners, and a seventy-inch flat-screen TV take up the majority of the living room. A large table that never actually gets used is set up close to the kitchen in what’s supposed to be the formal dining space.

I haven’t bothered with art yet, aware that I’ll only be here for a year, and then my brother and I will likely need to find a new place, unless we decide to take over the lease or buy the place outright, which is an option.