The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(51)

It was nearing ninety minutes.

I was hot as hell.

Starved.

And losing by one.

“Concede,” Gabi shouted. “She’s got you!”

“Never!” I jabbed a finger at Blake. “What if I let you win?”

“I’ll know.”

“Hmm.”

“Besides”—she batted those damn eyelashes—“you’re too competitive to lose that way.”

Damn it. I took my stance and waited. So far, all of her serves had been brutal. Come morning, I would probably look like J. J. Watt had bitch-slapped me in the face—repeatedly.

The ball came flying over the net toward my left. I tried to move, but my knee caught, and the aching I’d been feeling for the past few weeks turned into full-blown bone-splitting agony. With a cry, I fell to the ground, my face slamming into the dirt and grass as the throbbing intensified.

It hurt too badly for embarrassment to be a factor. Shit.

“Oh shit.” Lex called, and then he was at my side. “You okay?”

Damn, it hurt. Why did it have to hurt so much? Oh, right. Because I was missing some key tendons and ligaments, and a few metal rods were the only thing keeping my bones in place.

“Ian!” Blake stumbled to my side, her eyes wild with panic. “What happened? Do we need to go to the hospital?”

“No, no, no.” I winced as I tried to sit up and stretch my leg out. Normally it was the only thing that helped. Well, that and pain pills, but I refused to take anything I could possibly get addicted to. “I’m fine.”

Blake pulled up my jeans and started running her hands up and down the side of my left knee.

“But”—I cleared my throat—“that makes it feel so much better.”

“Yeah, he’s okay.” Gabi rolled her eyes. “Come on Lex, let’s go get an ice pack.”

“Yeah, Lex.” A smile spread across my face. “Run along.”

He didn’t argue. Probably because he knew I hated it when anyone hovered over me, or fussed, or just extended their concern or pity. It reminded me too much of that day; hell, it reminded me of that week, that month. Thirty days of hospital visits, surgeries, teammates with sad eyes that basically conveyed the truth I already knew, despite the doctors’ optimism. I was done.

I would never play again.

“Here.” Blake pulled her hand away from my knee and stood, then helped me to my feet. “Think you can limp over to the chair?”

I bit out a curse as I tried to put weight on the leg. It was still as sore as an abscessed tooth, but not so much that I was going to have to get it checked out. I’d experienced this type of pain before, when I tweaked my knee during box jumps. I knew it would go away, after an ungodly amount of anti-inflammatories and beer.

Body slick with sweat, I hobbled over to the plastic lawn chair and sagged into it with a sick thud, my legs sticking to my jeans, my jeans sticking to the chair, and sweat still dripping down my back.

Blake kneeled in front of me and frowned. “You need to take your pants off.”

“I’m naked underneath.”

“I’ll close my eyes.”

“I’m not taking my pants off and making a sweaty ass-mark on the plastic. I’m fine. I swear.”

She didn’t look convinced as she felt my knee from outside my jeans, her fingers lightly touching the swollen spot on the outer left, the spot where bone tended to still rub on bone. Some days, I could swear I still felt it.

Working out probably wasn’t the wisest course of action, but my doctor had said I couldn’t hurt myself worse. That was the good news. Hey, kid, I know you’ve known only football your entire life, and I might have to amputate, but the good news is, you aren’t dead!

Might as well have been.

“It’s starting to swell.” Blake pressed a little too hard, sending renewed pulses of hot agony up my leg.

A hiss of pain escaped from between my lips.

She winced. “Sorry.”

“Ice pack.” Gabi opened the screen door and tossed a gel-filled blue blob at Blake. She caught it midair and placed it on my knee.

“I’m going to reheat the food,” Gabi said. “Lex ran to the store to get some ibuprofen, since we’re out.”

“Thanks, Gabs,” I called back, the cool pack already easing my searing torture.

“Yup.” The door slammed behind her.

Blake didn’t move from her position in front of me. Her eyes held worry. “What happened to your knee?”

“Easy.” I leaned my sticky back against the chair and glanced up into her pretty wide eyes. “Some cocky topless chick tried to kill me.”

“I’m not topless.” She crossed her arms.

A groan escaped through my lips as my gaze zeroed in on her chest. “I stand corrected.” I reached out and grazed my hand against her bare stomach. “Semitopless.”

“I didn’t mean, what happened just right now, where I literally handed you your own ass.” She sat on the deck in front of me and hugged her knees. “I stopped following football after”—she shrugged—“after my brother. It was too hard.”

“I get that.” I exhaled loudly. “Believe me, I do.”

“So?”