Crossing the Line Read online

  2

  * * *

  Balancing Act

  Bailey

  Balance and I have always had a rocky relationship.

  Figuratively, I am the queen of balance. Being in med school is one giant balancing act. I always have a thousand things to get done at once, which has made me the master of the to-do list and a goddess when it comes to prioritizing.

  But literal balance, as it turns out? I’m not so great at that. A little fact that must have slipped my mind the other night when, between handfuls of truffle fries, I agreed to join Aubree for yoga this morning.

  As I dig my toes into my mat, trying to “center my breath” as our instructor calmly recommends, I watch Aubree out of the corner of my eye. She’s bending and stretching like a rubber band in her light pink sports bra and matching leggings. She makes it look so easy, like someone pulled her straight off a fitness influencer’s Instagram account. When I try to match her stance, bringing one foot to the inside of the other thigh, I wobble like I’ve had one too many shots of tequila, and eventually fall.

  This is so not my definition of self-care. In fact, after four years of med school, that term has pretty much been struck from my vocabulary. But when I do relax, my version of taking care of myself looks a lot more like last night, wearing comfy clothes and enjoying some comfort food while doing absolutely nothing, definitely not any form of exercise. But Aubree insisted yoga would help relieve some of my med-school tension, and would do a few favors for the back pain and bad posture I’ve developed from four years of being hunched over books and my laptop.

  “Half-moon pose, open up your heart chakra.”

  Our teeny blond-haired instructor has a voice like honey, making her instructions sound more like polite suggestions. Which is a good thing, because my half moon looks more like a quarter moon, and I’m fairly certain there is no medical proof of a chakra, heart or otherwise.

  At the end of our final flow, when everyone closes their eyes and bows to the front of the studio, I take the opportunity to adjust my leggings and fix my current wedgie situation.

  Yeah, like I said. Not much of a yogi. But I made it through my first-ever yoga class without sustaining any permanent injuries, so I’ll count it as a victory.

  “So, what did you think?” Aubree asks, her tone optimistic as she grabs a spray bottle of sanitizer and starts spritzing down her mat.

  “I think I need to work on my balance before I come back,” I say with a laugh. Understatement of the year. “But it felt good to stretch. I’ve been dealing with some serious strain in my supraspinatus.”

  Aubree rolls her big honey-colored eyes while simultaneously rolling her yoga mat into a compact purple burrito. “English, please.”

  “Sorry. Some pain in my rotator cuff.”

  Shoving her mat under her arm, Aubree hops to her feet and extends one hand to me. “Hi, Bailey. Have we met? I’m Aubree. I work in the nonprofit world. You’re going to have to come out of science land for a second here and speak in normal people language, not doctor language.”

  I laugh as I readjust the hair that’s slipped out of my ponytail. “My shoulder hurts, and I’m glad we did yoga to stretch it out. Better?”

  Her mouth quirks into a smile. “Much better. Now, come on. Let’s grab lattes to go before you have to launch back into science land again at your meeting with the team doctor.”

  A bubble of nervousness builds in my gut. Is a stomach chakra a thing? Because if so, mine is definitely out of whack.

  I still can’t believe I volunteered to go on this trip with Asher and his family. I should have kept my mouth shut—I can see that now. But to be fair, keeping my mouth shut was never a strength of mine. Small talk. Bold promises. Gossip. Those are all things I excel at. Being docile and silent isn’t a strength I’ve ever possessed. My mouth has gotten me in and out of trouble plenty of times over the years. Heck, it’s what landed me in this yoga class this morning. And now, it has volunteered me to serve as Asher’s personal nurse in San Diego for a week.

  One more slipup, and I’m investing in a muzzle for myself.

  Our favorite coffee shop is just around the block from the yoga studio. The second Aubree and I walk in, a familiar barista nods my way and starts prepping my usual order, a large vanilla latte.

  “I guess you’re officially a regular,” Aubree says over her shoulder as she steps up to the counter, ordering herself a cold brew.

  By the time I’m up, the barista already has my latte waiting for me, steam billowing from the lid. Extra hot, just how I like it.

  “Your usual blueberry muffin, Bailey?” he asks, already reaching into the pastry case.

  Jeez, am I really that predictable? I guess I have been spending a lot of time studying here lately.

  I suck in a deep breath, realizing that, yes, apparently, I am that predictable. Do I need a snack? Maybe not. But do I want one? Most definitely. It takes about five seconds for me to cave.

  “Yeah, why not?” I shrug. “I deserve it.”

  “So, this meeting,” Aubree says, working on the perfect balance of sweetener in her cold brew. “Is there a non-sciencey way for you to tell me what it’s going to be like?”

  I shrug, testing the first sip of my latte. It’s just barely cool enough to avoid burning my tongue. Perfection.

  “I don’t totally know,” I say with a shrug. “But I’m sure they’ll give me the lowdown on what kind of treatment Asher has been receiving, anything I need to look out for, or medications he needs to take. All the good stuff.”

  Aubree nods along, her ponytail bobbing enthusiastically with her head. “Sounds simple enough.”

  Yes, it probably would be if my patient weren’t our super-hot friend Asher.

  “Let’s hope it is.”

  Aubree’s brows knit together as she takes a long, thoughtful sip of cold brew. “Which are you most excited about? Playing doctor, or the unbelievable free vacay-in-the-sun part? Or the extended-time-with-Asher part?”

  “Is it wrong if I say all of the above?”

  My response surprises Aubree as much as it does me.

  Yes, I’m pumped about the doctor stuff and the vitamin D I’ll be soaking up. But in all the daydreaming about lying on the beach and being trusted to serve as a real medical professional, I almost forgot about the part where I’ll be one-on-one with Asher Reed for a week. The guy is hot as sin, there’s no denying that.

  “It’s not like anything will happen,” I assure her as we head for our respective cars. “I mean, he’s injured. And . . .”

  “And?” Aubree asks. “Is there an ‘and’?”

  I pop a bite of muffin into my mouth to avoid admitting that no, there isn’t an “and.” In my dream scenario I’d be all over him before our plane was cleared for takeoff. Not that I think he thinks of me like that. But, hey, a girl can dream.

  “I wouldn’t be going on this trip as his friend who just so happens to think he’s drool-worthy,” I remind her. “I would be going as his nurse.”

  It’s a reminder for me too. The team would be trusting me with the health of one of their star centers. There’s no way I could let them down. If this crazy idea is approved, that is.

  Once Aubree and I say our good-byes, I head home and change into something a bit more professional. Then it’s a quick drive to the Ice Hawks’ training facility.

  Inside, I’m greeted by security and asked for my ID. Then I’m directed down the hall to the third door on the right. The hallways are polished gleaming concrete, and on the walls are murals of players, both those on the current roster and legends of the past, along with sayings in block letters like NEVER STOP PUSHING and FAILURE ISN’T AN OPTION.

  When I walk into the training room, a man who must be the team’s athletic trainer is reviewing paperwork on a clipboard while Asher sits nearby on an exercise ball, one leg bouncing and fidgeting impatiently. He’s dressed in a pair of black athletic shorts and a worn-looking green Ice Hawks T-shirt, his ash-blond hair
barely poking out from beneath a backward Ice Hawks cap.

  I take another step forward and the trainer spots me from over his clipboard and extends his hand to me.

  “You must be Bailey Erickson.”

  I take a few steps forward and extend one hand. “And you must be the guy I’m here to see.” I shake his hand firmly and return his smile.

  “Trey Donovan, MS, ATC.” He returns my handshake with a firm grip while rattling off those letters behind his name.

  I’m actually pleased with myself that I know what they stand for. He’s not a doctor but has a master’s degree in science and is a certified athletic trainer. I’m sure he studied sports medicine in grad school. He’s wearing khakis and a green polo imprinted with the team’s logo and bright red tennis shoes, and he looks friendly enough, gazing at me from over the clipboard he’s still holding.

  “I understand you’ve completed your clinical rotations and are waiting for your residency to begin,” he says.

  I nod, not the least bit surprised that they had me checked out. “Yes. I’ll be an internist at William Simmons starting in July.”

  “And you know Mr. Reed already, I understand.”

  Trey nods toward Asher, who stops fidgeting for a moment to shoot me one of his famous smiles. The nerves in my stomach take flight, and I’m left feeling a little jittery.

  “What’s up, Bailey?” Asher lifts his chin at me, then flashes me another smile that makes my heart pound a little faster.

  I give him a cautious smile back, trying not to get lost in those gorgeous blue eyes.

  “Hop on up here,” Trey says to Asher, patting a black padded table, then turns back to me. “We’re dealing with a pretty standard-issue concussion, so—”

  “No contact sports, and lots of water and rest,” I say, finishing his sentence.

  An impressed smile twitches across Trey’s lips. “Exactly right. His balance is another thing we’re keeping an eye on. It may have been compromised.”

  I nod, watching him. “I’ll monitor that.”

  Trey hands me the results of Asher’s recent CT scan to look over, but I admit this isn’t my area of expertise, and he walks me through it. I’m relieved to hear it’s not too serious, but they’re treating it cautiously with plenty of rest, and he won’t be cleared to play again until all the symptoms subside, like the headaches and dizziness. Makes sense.

  Asher takes a seat on the table, but Trey pats it again. “Lay back, would ya?”

  Inhaling slowly through his nostrils like he’s slightly frustrated, Asher lies back, extending his legs in front of him. It’s a little strange to be standing beside an exam table with Asher laid out before me, but I keep my focus on Trey.

  “There’s one other injury we need to keep an eye on,” Trey says, motioning to Asher’s medical charts on the clipboard. “Mr. Reed sustained a grade-two groin strain when he fell. So he should avoid vigorous activity at all costs.”

  My gaze involuntarily flicks down to Asher, who is wearing a smug grin on his face. I pray to God that Trey doesn’t notice that I’m starting to blush. Of course, it has to be a groin injury. Of all things. Which means my attention will have to be focused on this freakishly handsome man’s junk. I’m so screwed.

  “Right,” I mutter, collecting myself. “So, plenty of rest and ice on his adductor. Right leg?”

  “Correct. I’ll show you what to look out for. Asher, would you prop your leg up on the table, please?”

  Asher does as he’s told, and Trey gestures for me to see for myself. Cue me gulping down the enormous lump in my throat.

  Sure. No problem. I’m just going to grope Asher Reed’s crotch for a second. For medical purposes. And I’m not going to have any dirty thoughts in the process.

  I approach Asher hesitantly, looking for any signs that this is as inappropriate as it feels, but he gives me none. Duh. Because this is a medical exam, not a come-on. I need to keep my mind out of the gutter.

  Leaning over him, and with the gentlest touch I can manage, I push the leg of Asher’s basketball shorts up his thigh. The fabric is loose-fitting, so it slides out of the way easily. He’s wearing black boxer briefs, and from beneath the edge of them, I can see the start of a bruise.

  “May I?” I ask, my voice a little shaky.

  He nods, and I carefully move the fabric aside, trying to ignore how much I like the feeling of my fingers on his skin. But that feeling is quickly chased away when I see the swelling and deep purple bruising high up on his inner thigh. Ouch times ten.

  “Jeez, Ashe,” I murmur softly, my fingers absently stroking the tender spot.

  “Yeah, trust me, I know,” he says, his voice deep and husky.

  My attention is pulled away when I realize Trey is talking again.

  “I see a lot of injuries like this. It’s just the nature of playing hockey—lots of groin and hip injuries. They use their glutes when they skate, and when those muscles tire, the hip flexors and groin muscles get overused.”

  I can’t let my mind wander to Asher’s glutes, because sweet baby Jesus . . . the ass on this man. Hockey butt—it’s a thing and it’s glorious. Google it.

  “I’ll show you how I like to tape it before you leave,” Trey says, “and I printed out a sheet of stretches and strengthening exercises you can make sure he does every day.”

  I nod. “Any pain medication I should be aware of?” I ask while Asher sits up. I’m assuming the answer is yes. With this amount of swelling, I imagine that even walking must be incredibly painful for him.

  Trey snorts. “Good luck. He has a prescription, but he’s adamant about not using it.”

  “That’s because I don’t need it.” Asher scoffs, tugging his shorts back into place to cover his bruises. “I’m not a pussy.”

  I roll my eyes and rise back to my feet. “No, but you are an injured player. And what I say goes, Asher. So if I think you need the meds, you’re going to take them.”

  Asher snickers as he adjusts his Ice Hawks cap and goes back to bouncing his leg. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “By ma’am, I’m assuming you mean MD,” I snap, planting one hand on my hip. “And stop fidgeting your injured leg. That looks like vigorous activity to me.”

  Trey chuckles, interrupting our little spat. “It seems like you’ve got a good handle on Mr. Reed’s condition. Just don’t let him give you too much of a hard time this week, Bailey.”

  “Not a chance,” I say, giving him a half smile and another firm handshake. “Rest assured that Asher is in good hands.”

  Good hands that, frankly, I’m going to have a hard time keeping off of my patient.

  3

  * * *

  It’s Go Time

  Asher

  “This is it. No turning back now,” I say, shifting to look at Bailey, who’s seated next to me. The flight attendant has just made an announcement, the one about the cabin doors now being secured. “You’re stuck with me for a week.”

  Bailey lifts one well-shaped dark eyebrow and smiles wryly at me. “I think I can handle it.”

  “I don’t know . . . rumor has it I’m a bit of a handful.”

  At this, Bailey chuckles, her full lips parting to reveal straight white teeth. Then she bites her lower lip and looks at me with a challenging expression. “Are you going to be a difficult patient?”

  “Not planning on it.” I shrug. “But if the mood strikes me . . . I make no promises.”

  When the flight attendant swings by to offer us a cocktail and a ceramic dish of warm nuts, Bailey makes a pleased sound and pops a cashew into her mouth.

  “Sorry,” she says as she chews. “I’ve never been in first class before. This is freaking awesome.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

  She looks at me like she’s studying me while she chews. “This is probably all you’re used to, isn’t it?”

  I nod, smirking. “Watching me fold myself into a seat back in coach would have probably been entertaining for you, but not so fu
n for me.”

  “I could see that.” She nods, her gaze tracking down the length of me. “How tall are you these days?”

  These days. Like it’s changed recently. “Six-four.”

  She makes a low sound. “Sheesh. I’m five-one.”

  “Believe me, I noticed. Your sort of fun-sized.” I chuckle, and Bailey does the same, but not before elbowing me in the ribs.

  Bailey’s glass of champagne is delivered along with a sparkling water for me. Although I wasn’t specifically instructed not to drink, I’m thinking head injuries and alcohol probably don’t mix well, and it’s safer to abstain for the time being.

  The plane lurches forward and begins taxiing toward the runway. After a few minutes, we’re cleared for takeoff and sailing smoothly en route to California. I fly every week for work, but I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t been home to visit my family in over two years.

  “So, how are you feeling, really?” Bailey asks, sipping her champagne and eyeing me from her side of the large center console between us.

  “A little dizziness that comes and goes. Some fatigue. Nothing major.”

  She hesitates, fiddling with her cocktail napkin before meeting my eyes again. “And with your, um, groin?”

  I can’t help but smirk. “Don’t worry. I know it looked scary, but all systems still function perfectly.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “Fine. Well, it’s sore as fuck, if you want to know the truth.”

  “I always want the truth,” she says earnestly.

  I study her then, really look at her, and my heart rate slowly begins to climb. “Thanks for doing this, Bailey,” I say softly. Maybe going home for a week and relaxing on the beach is exactly what I need.

  “You’re welcome, Ashe.”

  I’m a big fan of the way my nickname sounds rolling off her gorgeous full lips. Apparently, so is my body, because my heart kicks into high gear, my blood thrumming steadily through my veins.