Page 10 of Off Limits: The Firsts

They’re one and the same.

Always have been.

Always will be.

Each thump of his stride on the treadmill irritates me more than the last.

Every grunt of exertion adds to it.

And then there’s the beep. The one that tells me his thirty minutes of high intensity running is complete, and now it’s my turn to get hands on and complete the session.

Lucky me.

I’m irritable. Pissed off. And I’m not sure if my current mood stems from exhaustion after spending too many hours last night Googling Easton Wylder, or the fact that it seems he was doing the same about me.

“So are you actually going to touch my arm today, or is the expertise you bragged about yesterday limited to telling me treadmill, thirty minutes, level ten? If you wanted to avoid me, then maybe you should call in sick for the next few months.” Sarcasm drips from his voice. His obvious disdain for me makes that even keel I thought we might have found yesterday seem nonexistent.

I need to turn around, to face him, but I stall. The images from Google are seared in my mind. The charity calendar where the month of April is a picture of him 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 ESPYs with him looking dashing in a three-piece suit. All of them are there, floating around, reminding me how all those hard lines and toned edges look 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 how today when I look at him, after I’ve stared at pictures of him for hours yesterday, 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 asshole. “You know, trophy trainer—someone good for you to look at, but incapable of much else.”

He shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”

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. “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 received last night. The ones from previous clients and personal friends I’d rehabbed informing me I was being vetted. I was thankful for the heads-up, and at the same time, I was pissed that he was questioning my qualifications.

But he did just make a damn good point.

I grab the ultrasound cart and wheel it toward the table, but he’s still standing there like yesterday, still questioning me. Obviously, he doesn’t believe I’m experienced enough to do the job, 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. He’s the one who made the calls last night, so I’m certain he has pieced together that it’s been a while since Doc’s been around. 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,” Easton says.

“Agreed.”

“Should I be worried then?”

“About?” I prompt.