Hawke (Cold Fury Hockey, #5)(10)

Vale keeps her back to me until my ass is on the therapy table and the towel is covering my lap. I take a moment to watch her as she lays out her supplies on the table beside us, her slender fingers using a pair of scissors to open a new package of tape. She then cuts off uniform lengths of tape and attaches them to the table.

Fuck, but she’s still gorgeous. Even in her “uniform” of khaki pants and her tidy, black Cold Fury shirt, she still rocks sexy. Her face is devoid of makeup, but she was never the type that needed it. Oh, she wore it, back in her days of frenzied punk style. Thick, dark eyeliner that made her eyes pop and dark red lipstick that left streaks on my dick. Her hair is conservatively pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Not a single piercing to be seen, not even in her ears. So different, yet so damn hot still.

Her body is different though, I notice that. Her arms seem more toned…defined. Her stomach flatter and her hips flared more. It’s like she filled out and shrunk down in certain places, but not those tits. Nope, they are still spectacularly big and full and were my favorite part of her body before.

I shake my head and chase away those thoughts before I get a boner. Vale still may be one spectacular knockout of a woman, but there’s no extinguishing that tiny flame of anger that continues to burn over the way she ended things with me. While it’s true I haven’t thought much about her over the years, it’s not from antipathy. No, I forced myself to let her go and block what we had, otherwise my anger would be burning deeper and hotter, and I don’t have time in my life to get sucked into that shit. What’s done is done and all that.

Vale turns to face me and asks, “Left knee?”

“Yeah,” I say with surprise.

“I looked up your medical chart while you were getting undressed,” she says by way of answer to an unasked curiosity. “Arthroscopic medial meniscus repair two years ago.”

“Yeah. Sometimes it feels a little loose. A good taping is all it needs.”

She nods and steps up in between my legs that dangle over the table. She’s not wearing perfume, but a subtle floral scent hits me…must be her shampoo. I look down at her as her fingers go to the inside of my knee, pushing in firmly.

“Any soreness?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“Clicking or popping?”

“Nope.”

“Locking?” she inquires as she lifts her face to mine.

Clear, green eyes on a perfectly polite and professional face.

“Nah,” I tell her, suddenly wanting her to step back and away from me. “Just feels a little loose.”

“Okay,” she says, laying a soft pat on my thigh. It’s nothing but a move of reassurance, but I feel it all the way through to my gut.

What the f*ck?

Vale grabs her supplies and gets to work taping my knee. I watch her with narrowed eyes, wondering how she got to be here. How did she go from supremely fun party girl with absolutely no aspirations all the way to the athletic training department of the Cold Fury…my new team?

Why in the hell have our lives collided again?

“So how are you?” I find myself asking without the foggiest clue why. I mean, do I really care?

Apparently, I do, because when she doesn’t answer right away, I almost bring my fingers under her chin to make her lift those eyes to me. But she clears her throat and says, “Fine. Happy to be here and all that.”

She starts an elastic bandage, holding it deftly to the inside of my knee with the thumb of one hand and starts a practiced, tight wrap. I wait for more but she stays silent.

So I prod. Because…well, f*ck if I know why.

“What made you decide to go into athletic training?” I ask.

She gives a nonchalant shrug. “Just thought I’d follow in my dad’s footsteps, you know?”

I don’t buy her blasé tone for a minute. “You never wanted to do that before.”

Vale finally lifts her face and looks at me intently. “Well, things change, don’t they?”

“Yeah, sure they do. But why?”

Why the new career path? Why did you dump me all those years ago? Why did you refuse to tell me why?

Why, why, why?

She finishes the wrap, holding the end while taping it with the precut pieces. “There you go,” she says, stepping back.

Clearly, she’s not in a sharing mood, and while I need to get back on the ice, I still press her in a roundabout way. “How’s your dad?”

She wasn’t expecting that question, and for some reason, I can see it clearly on her face, she doesn’t want to answer me. But then just as quickly, she schools her features to bland perfection and even gives me a tiny smile. “He’s good. I’ll tell him you asked.”

“Bet he’s still running the training room with an iron first,” I muse, thinking of the paces that hard-ass used to put me through when I played for the Oilers.

Vale doesn’t respond, instead turning to pick up the scraps of tape and empty wrappers. Something about her stubborn silence piques me.

“Well?” I push at her as I hop off the table. My towel falls to the floor but I ignore it, instead reaching down to pick up my shin pads. My knee feels good. Damn good, actually.

She clears her throat, back still to me, and says quietly, “He retired actually. At the end of this past season.”