Sweet Rivalry (1001 Dark Nights)(32)

I need to turn around, to face him, but I stall. The images from Google last night are seared in my mind. The charity calendar pictures where he’s wearing nothing but a strategically placed baseball glove. The ESPN body issue where he’s batting—naked—the twist of his legs hiding his package. The three-piece suit at the ESPYs. All of them are there, floating around, reminding me how all those hard lines and toned edges look like in person.

And it would take a dead woman to not be affected by him.

So, I steel myself for the visceral impact of looking at him—hot, sweaty, relaxed—but it doesn’t help when I turn around. I’m not sure anything could. Because even in his sweat-dampened T-shirt, he’s still breathtakingly handsome with his mixture of All-American and rugged outdoorsman. He still exudes that tinge of arrogance. And the odd thing is, today, when I look at him, after I’ve stared at pictures of him for hours last night, somehow the arrogance adds to his appeal.

And then he smirks, and I shake my head and question my own sanity.

“So you actually want me to look at your arm? You mean you’ll trust me with it? And here I was under the impression you thought I was just a trophy trainer.”

“Come again?” he chuckles.

Time to clear the air between us. Being handsome doesn’t override being an *. “You know, trophy trainer—someone good for you to look at, but incapable of much else.”

“If the shoe fits.” He shrugs.

I take a step closer to him, his sarcastic comeback igniting the embers of my temper he lit yesterday. “Don’t be a jerk. If you want to find out if I’m qualified for the job—capable of getting you back in top form—then you ask me for my credentials. You want a resume? You want references? I’d be glad to hand you a list of them, so don’t go snooping around, making phone calls, and questioning everything about me without talking to me first. Got it?”

Our eyes hold as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth to combat the smile he’s fighting as he takes a step toward me. “You want me to take my rehab seriously, right? Then don’t chastise me for making sure the person charged to do it is up to par and has the right experience. I don’t trust my body with just anyone, let alone a rookie trainer still learning the ropes. Got it?”

“Touché,” I murmur as we wage a visual war of defiance and misunderstanding. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get started.”

Maybe if we begin I’ll forget about the phone calls I’d received last night. The ones from previous clients and personal friends I’d rehabbed letting me know I was being vetted. I was glad for the friends letting me know, and pissed at being questioned.

I grab the ultrasound cart and wheel it toward the table, but he’s still standing there like yesterday, still questioning me. Obviously, the point is not moot, but I shrug it off, knowing after my rebuke of him, he was bound to either respect me or test me, and by the current standoff, I’m guessing it will be the latter.

“Yes?” I finally ask when he doesn’t budge.

“You wanna tell me where Doc is?”

“He’s got a packed schedule on the East Coast right now. As you know, injury happens without warning.” I hold his gaze and hope he doesn’t see through the lie.

“Uh-huh.” He just nods, but I can tell he’s not convinced. But there must be something in my eyes he sees—the something I’m trying desperately to keep together—that prevents him from digging deeper. “He’s the best there is.”

“Agreed.”

“Shouldn’t I be worried then?”

“About?” I prompt.

“If he’s the best, then doesn’t that mean you’re second best?”

His remark serves its purpose and hits closer to home than I’d like, but it’s his body, his career, and his right to ask.

“Second best to Doc Dalton isn’t a bad place to be. I learned everything I know from the man. I assure you, he’s the last person I want to let down, and therefore, you’re the beneficiary of that fear . . . so. . .” I quirk my brows. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” he murmurs but still doesn’t move. “The problem is I still don’t know shit about you, and yet you’re standing there ready to work on my arm.”

“What do you want to know?” I’m getting impatient. Another day, another round of bullshit and once again, time is wasting away. But at least he listened and is asking me and not snooping around.

“What were your stats in the Major Leagues?”

“What?”

“I asked your stats. Errors. On base percentage. Batting average. Fielding percentage. You know, statistics.”

“I know what statistics are,” I respond dryly.

“But if you’ve never played in the Majors, how is it you know how my arm’s supposed to feel so that you can get it back to one hundred percent?”

He’s neglecting the fact that no other trainer has played in the Major Leauges either . . . but I have a better way to shut him up. “Have you ever been a woman?”

“What?” It’s his turn to be surprised by an unexpected question. “Of course not. I’ve got plenty of proof that I’m a man?”

I roll my eyes, half-expecting him to grab his crotch and equally relieved that he doesn’t. “Well, if you’ve never been a woman, how is it you know how to please one in bed? How do you know if you’re hitting the right spot? Getting her off?”