“Uh-huh.”

“Well, by the look of things you’re going to be watching the action from the bench for a while. You need to ice this.”

I move in closer, the physiotherapist in me taking over as I brace my hands on his knees and inspect the bruising. I smooth my hand up his hard thigh. The muscles tense under his warm skin as I palpate around the edge of the discoloration with my thumb. This is a really bad injury. The kind I’d love to have a hand in rehabilitating.

“Ow! What the hell are you doing?” Jerkwad growls.

“Don’t worry. I’m a professional.”

CHAPTER 9

MAYBE I WAS A LITTLE WRONG

Bishop

I’m in a lot of pain, the kind that makes bile rise in your throat, gives you the sweats, and puts black-and-white dots in your vision. Partly because I haven’t taken any pain meds since last night, and also because Rook’s sidepiece is on her knees between my legs.

She’s dressed in one of those tanks with straps I can shred with my fingertips and a pair of sleep shorts that rival those running ones she parades around in when she’s getting her paper in the morning. Her nipples are peaked against the thin fabric. And there’s cleavage. So much cleavage.

My body is trying to react to her state of semiundress and how close her face is to my dick. It’s fucking agony. And also a serious moral dilemma. I’m pissed that my body is responding when clearly it should not.

“Puck bunny isn’t a profession, sweetheart,” I grind out.

Her head snaps up, eyes meeting mine. They’re clear and blue like the ocean. I can see the allure. My dick agrees that she’s hot, since I’m still halfway hard even though it’s viciously painful.

“Excuse me?” Her grip on my thighs tightens, which means she’s digging her fingers into my bruises.

It makes me woozy. I grab her wrist, because I need her to stop touching me for a number of reasons, ethical issues and pain being at the forefront.

“You think you can jump from one player to the next, and no one is going to give a fuck? Christ. You might as well be sucking on my balls with how up in my space you are. Where the hell is your moral compass?” Okay, that was extra graphic, but seriously, her nose is almost pressed up against my junk, she’s so close.

She uses my thighs to push to a stand, which feels pretty damn awful. She’s not particularly tall, so her nipples are pointing right at my face. “What the hell are you talking about? Who are you to call me a puck bunny?”

“You’re banging the team captain, who has a fucking wife and kid, and now you’re all over my jock.” I motion to my crotch.

“Banging the . . .” Her brows furrow and her nose scrunches up. She makes a gagging sound and then throws her head back and laughs. It’s a nice laugh, even if it’s full of sarcasm. “Oh my God. Rook is my brother, you asshole!”

“Yeah, right.”

She rolls her eyes and grins widely, pointing to the dimple high on her cheek. “See the resemblance?”

“Not really. No,” I say truthfully, because I haven’t paid enough attention to Rook’s face in the time I’ve been on the team, which hasn’t been long. Also, on the infrequent occasions I do make eye contact with Rook, both of us are usually scowling.

Her hair smacks me in the face as she spins on her heel and stalks out of the bathroom. I loathe admitting I stare at her ass. She returns less than a minute later with a framed photo and a few pieces of paper. She tosses the papers at me—they turn out to be envelopes that read STEVIE BOWMAN.

“Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

“Stevie is my name.” She points at her chest, which draws attention to her cleavage and her pert nipples. Her tank is white, and even though it has one of those built-in bra things so there’s an extra layer of fabric between her nipples and my eyeballs, I can still see the outline of her areolae. They’re small and delicate, and the whole thing would easily fit in my mouth. Why the hell can’t I stop thinking about sex?

I roll my eyes. “Nice try. Stevie is a guy’s name.”

“I’m named after my dad.” She holds the framed picture an inch from my nose.

It’s too close for me to make out the actual faces, so I take it from her, somewhat forcefully. It’s an older photo, based on how young Rook is, but beside him is the woman standing in front of me, hair light blonde instead of pale pink. They’re both smiling, and I see now the resemblance she was talking about.

I look up at her and then back down at the picture. “Shit. You’re Bowman’s baby sister?”

“I’m hardly a baby.” She crosses her arms, pushing her tits up and highlighting her cleavage.

“Yeah, I can see that.” I force my eyes back up to her face. At least I feel slightly less bad about noticing how hot she is.

“I can’t believe you thought I was his, what . . . mistress?” She flips her hair over her shoulder and sneers.

I throw my hands up in the air. “Well, what the hell was I supposed to think when you show up in the middle of the night looking like something the cat dragged in, being all evasive and noisy and shit?”

“I wasn’t being evasive.”

“You could’ve said you were Bowman’s sister from the start, though. It would’ve cleared up a lot of shit.”