Page 11 of Off Limits: The Firsts

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

His remark 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 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. But at least he listened and is asking me instead of snooping around for answers.

“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 do 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 leagues 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 all 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?”

He fights back a bark of a laugh, but eventually lets it escape as he just shakes his head. “Touché,” he repeats my word back to me.

“If you’re going to bust my chops, Wylder, you should know that I can give as good as I get.”

“Point taken. But since you’re the one singlehandedly charged with busting my balls in rehab over the next three months, you’ve gotta admit, it was a valid question.”

“It was,” I concede, “but it’s your job to talk to me, tell me how it feels, where it hurts, and when it feels good, so I can make it better.” An unexpectedly shy smile slides onto his lips when he gets the correlation between my question about how to please a woman and my answer.

“Just like sex.”

“Perhaps.” I smile; it’s all I can do as heat flushes my cheeks and the room around us becomes too small for him and this innuendo-laced conversation. “Some men have all the tools in the world, but if they don’t know how to use them, they’re useless. It’s the same with my job. You’ve gotta know how to use your skills, and I assure you, I do. So, if the I-don’t-trust-you-because-you-have-a-vagina-card has been exhausted, can we get started, please?” I lift my chin toward the table behind him while I adjust the settings on the machine.

“You drive a hard bargain, Kitty.” He chuckles as he sits down and pulls off his shirt.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Nothing more is said between us as I apply the ultrasound gel and then the wand to his shoulder, despite being all too aware that he’s still staring at me.

I welcome the silence, using it to concentrate on the task at hand as I move the wand over the joint of his shoulder, across the angry red seam there and back, several times over. Players enter the locker room beyond where we are. I can hear their chatter—the low whistles, the suggestive laughs, the one-off comments—but know better than to give them attention. It may be a different clubhouse, but it’s basically the same reaction I typically get.

I knew I’d have a tough crowd to win over when I followed in my father’s footsteps. I knew being a woman in this male-dominated world wouldn’t be a walk in the proverbial ballpark. And so I ignore the comments like I always have and choose to consider them compliments, while letting the more suggestive ones go. In a practiced move, I keep my eyes focused on the player I’m working on and my back to the lockers to avoid any pecker peep-shows, which I learned long ago are inevitable.

It saves me embarrassment and preserves the respect I have to command to be taken seriously.

“Relax,” I murmur as I run the ultrasonic waves back and forth to reduce inflammation. For some reason, he keeps tensing up, and it’s counteracting the therapy I’m providing.

There’s another comment behind my back. Something good-humored about another wand in his jock I could put to better use.

If the guy’s going to be a chauvinist, at least he’s witty about it.

I stifle a laugh. It’s all I can do. But it’s Easton who visibly tenses in reaction.

Apparently, he can dish it out, but doesn’t want anyone else to.