Love in Overtime

Asher:

I see it. I want it. I take it.

Hockey career. Fancy apartment in Seattle. Women. It doesn’t matter what, it’s just how I’ve always operated. Unapologetically and without shame.

Only not now. Because right now, everything is totally screwed.

“Are you okay?” Owen asks, peering over the rim of his pint glass at me. He’s our team’s goalie and one of my best friends.

With a sigh, I give him a noncommittal shrug. I’m getting really tired of everyone asking me that.

I’m nursing a pretty serious injury. A concussion that will keep me sidelined for the rest of the season, and a pulled groin that makes everything painful—walking, sitting, never mind something more vigorous like sex. That’s completely off the table.

I’m sitting in a dimly lit bar around the corner from my apartment with two of my teammates while an ice water sweats in front of me. It feels like a metaphor for my life right now. We spent the day getting fitted for tuxedos for Owen’s upcoming wedding, where we’ll all be groomsmen. Then we grabbed a bite to eat and lingered after our plates had been cleared away for one more beer for them—and water for me.

Leaning back in my chair, I push one hand through my hair. “Who the hell knows? Maybe this was meant to happen. Maybe it was the universe telling me I’ve been going too hard for too long, and I needed a break before I burned myself out completely.”

Even as I say the words, I doubt there’s any truth to them. I just don’t think my teammates want to hear how fucking depressing it is that I won’t be playing with them.

“Damn, Asher. That’s some poetic shit right there,” Teddy says. Like me, he’s one of the team’s starting centers.

“Eh.” I tilt my head. “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while.”

The guys chuckle.

“Speaking of nuts . . .” Owen gives his eyebrows a wiggle, and we all fall into easy laughter.

There’s the Owen we know and love. You never know what’s going to come flying out of his mouth. Like the time we were detained at the airport by security after the TSA agent asked him, “Sir, do you have any weapons or explosives on you?”

“You mean other than this bomb-ass dick in my pants?” Owen said with a smirk.

That little comment cost us over an hour in a special interview room.

Good times.

He's a little unpredictable. A little wild. That’s not to say he hasn’t chilled out some since becoming engaged earlier this year. He has. But he’s still very much Owen, which means providing regular comic relief to our group of friends, often in the way of dirty jokes and clever one-liners.

Teddy is a little older, a little more levelheaded of the two, and can generally be relied on for providing solid advice. Only right now, I don’t want to hear anyone’s advice about what I should be doing with my unexpected and unwanted time off.

Before the guys can probe any further, we spot a couple of our female friends across the bar—and my stomach tightens. Bailey is petite and gorgeous and as smart as a whip. She’s about to graduate from medical school, and though I’ve never admitted it before, I have a major thing for her. She’s with her friend Aubree, who’s dark-haired and a little quieter and more serious. I’ve been friends with both of them for the past few years after meeting them through mutual friends.

Even if I wanted to, I can’t help the way my gaze skims over Bailey’s curves as I watch her approach. A fitted pair of blue jeans artfully torn at both knees encase her legs, a black T-shirt hugs her chest, and white tennis shoes complete her casual yet sexy-as-fuck look. Her blonde wavy hair skims the tops of her shoulders, accentuating the long, delicate column of her neck as her inquisitive brown eyes lock with mine.

I grab my water and take a long drink, trying to douse the strange tightness in my chest as she and Aubree stop beside our table.

“Hi Asher,” Bailey says, meeting my eyes with a soft smile.

“Hey,” I rasp out, suddenly feeling a little dizzy.

“What are you two ladies up to tonight?” Teddy asks with a grin.

Bailey tucks a strand of honey-colored hair behind her ear, meeting my gaze briefly again before looking away. “Just picking up a takeout order. We’re staying in tonight, but had a sudden craving for truffle fries and stuffed mushrooms.”

I nod. It’s what I’d wanted to do too—stay in, that is. “Sounds like fun.”

“How are you feeling, Ashe?” Bailey asks, looking at me with concern.

Who knows, maybe it’s her medical training taking over, but something feels different about her expression. I look fine from the outside—no black eyes, bandages, or bruises. But she’s smart enough to know that the deepest wounds are sometimes the ones you can’t see.

“I’m out for at least two weeks, maybe the rest of the season.” I can’t help the hint of frustration in my voice.

The details of my injury have been plastered all over the news, the replay shown in slow motion on TV so many times, it felt like I was watching it happen to someone else. But the pain in my crotch and the fuzzy feeling inside my head serve as constant reminders that it was me who was slammed into the boards that game.

Bailey gives me a concerned look. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“That’s awful,” Aubree adds, her mouth turned down.

I don’t like the look of pity on everyone’s faces when I tell them. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t been responding to text messages or phone calls—I don’t want to hear anyone’s disappointment that I’m not playing in the playoffs. It’s only the biggest moment of my life, and now it’s happening without me.

“You guys want to take a seat while you wait?” I make a move from the stool I’m occupying but Bailey shakes her head.

“I’m good,” Aubree adds.

“I’m actually going to visit the ladies room before we go,” Bailey says.

This bar is great—it’s dark, quiet and relaxed, but one weird thing is that the restrooms are located out back, in a separate building beside the parking lot. And since there’s no way I’m going to let Bailey wander out there alone after dark, I rise from my seat. “I have to go too. I’ll walk with you.”

She nods and leads the way toward the back exit.

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself from checking out her ass her she walks. Jesus, Asher. When we reach the door, I hold it open and Bailey slips past me. The scent of her floral shampoo is like a sucker punch to the nervous system. I’m suddenly all keyed-up and I don’t even know why. Since I lied about needing to use the bathroom, I enter the men’s room and wash my hands, then wait for her outside on the dimly lit sidewalk.

I haven't spent much one-one-onetime with Bailey, but I didn't need to in order to know she was good people. A med-school student well on her way to becoming a doctor. Kind eyes. A little sassy. Curves for days. Exactly what I'd look for in a woman. Not that I have to go looking these days. The past few years have been an all you can eat buffet of girls eager for my company. Not that I've complained. Hell no. Far from it. But that doesn't mean I might feel differently if I ever had the chance with a good girl like Bailey. 

Footsteps announce her arrival. “Thanks, Ashe,” she says when she spots me leaning against the concrete wall. Her small smile signals that the jig is up. She knows I only came so she wouldn’t come back here alone.

“Anytime.” Our eyes meet for a second longer than necessary and yet, I can’t make my feet move. “Having a good summer so far?” I ask.

She nods. “It’s been a little busy, but yes.” Bailey shifts, shoving one slender hand in the pocket of her jeans.

Memories of last summer flash through my brain. One long weekend we’d all taken a ferry to Orcas Island to stay in a couple of cabins located right along the rocky shoreline. We’d gone whale watching and had visited a winery. I think Elise and Aubree had planned the whole thing, but I honestly don’t even know. I’d chipped in some money for the cabin and for groceries and packed a rain jacket and my hiking boots. That was the weekend I’d first started noticing things about Bailey that I never had before. Like how smart she was, how fun, and how pretty she was— even without a drop of makeup, or access to a blow-dryer, she had all my attention.

Not that she really noticed me. Hell, if she noticed I was a single dude at all, she didn’t let on. She’d mostly hung out with the girls. She’s close with Sara, Elise, Becca and Aubree. And I mostly hung out with the guys—all the usual suspects from the team were there. But still, Bailey and I crossed paths at the breakfast table and at the nightly bonfires. I secretly loved how she gave zero fucks about wearing sweatpants and cozy fleece sweaters all weekend long. How she cursed when she burnt her hot dog in the fire and made one of the guys switch with her.

With the twitch of smile, Bailey continues past me, leading the way back to the table, and the spell is broken.

When we reach our group, the topic of discussion is summer travel.

“So, you’re going to the big family reunion now?” Owen asks me, bringing me back into the conversation.

“No,” I grumble.

“What family reunion?” Teddy says before taking another sip of his beer.

Clearing my throat, I lean forward, putting my elbows on the table. “It’s my grandma’s eighty-fifth birthday this summer, and she wanted all the family to get together at her house on the beach in San Diego. It’s next weekend, so I assumed I wouldn’t be able to go, that we’d still be in the playoffs. And you guys will,” I say, giving my teammates a stern look, “but I won’t.”

Owen makes a confused expression. “So, why not go? Coach will let you.”

“I’m not going because the team says I have to bring a nurse with me, and that’s fucking ridiculous. I’m a grown-ass man. I’m not going to spend my vacation getting sponge-bathed by some stranger, or being frowned at any time I try to have a beer. I’d rather keep my ass home. At least then I can relax in my own space.”

“A trip to California for a week?” Bailey asks. I find myself nodding as I meet her eyes again. “I’ll do it,” she says, causing all of us to appraise her with varying degrees of confusion.

“Huh?”

“Be your nurse. I’ll do it. I’ll come with you.” Her wide brown eyes meet mine in earnest.

“Why?” I blink at her, still utterly confused.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. A free trip to San Diego?”

“You’re a doctor, not a nurse.”

“True. But I have two weeks off before my residency starts.”

I can barely hear the rest of her words. Suddenly, everyone’s got an opinion, and they’re all encouraging this—loudly.

“Do it, dude,” Owen says, then finishes off his beer with a long swallow. “It’ll be much better than the team assigning you some stranger, and you’ll get to see your family. That has to improve your sour-ass mood, man.”

He’s right, but I kind of wanted to dig my heels in on this one and stay home, holed up like a miserable bastard. I know already that it will be difficult to maintain my sour mood once the California sunshine hits my skin, or when my grandmother dishes out one of her inappropriate stories.

If I stay home, I’ll only be punishing myself. And Bailey looking so excited by the idea of this trip has me a little intrigued.

“Okay. I’ll clear it with the team next week. Our head athletic trainer may want to talk with you first.”

Bailey nods, still smiling. “Sounds good. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” My heart rate kicks up at the possibility of heading to SoCal with Bailey.

After a few more minutes of small talk, the girls excuse themselves to pick up their order, which is ready, and then it’s just us guys again.

“Be careful with Bailey,” Owen says after a tense minute of silence.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He gives me a pointed look. “It means that you’re you, and she’s her, and I’m just trying to keep it real. She’ll be doing you a favor traveling with you, remember that.”

“I’m not following, dude. I understand she’d be doing me a favor.” Even as I grumble out these words, I know what he’s referring to.

For years, I’ve played hard and rested little in my time off. I’ve gone from game to game, play to play, fight to fight, like an addict constantly looking for his next fix. Hockey is the only thing that makes me feel whole, and I’ve pursued it relentlessly. Of course, now that’s all off the table. At least, for the time being.

When my parents first divorced, I was young and hurt, filled with a rage that no amount of hockey could drown out. I would launch myself at opponents, fists flying, without always knowing the reasons why.

It was a behavior that got rewarded. My coaches loved it. But now I see it was a defense mechanism. I never had to think. Never had to feel. I just acted. I did what felt good and what came naturally to me—and that was hockey. Except now I can’t play. At least, not right now, and it feels like some kind of prison sentence.

A lot has changed over the last decade. I’d like to think I’ve matured, calmed down a bit. But my reputation, it seems, hasn’t faded.

The rumors about me are vicious. People say I’m selfish. An asshole. Some of it is true. Maybe more than some of it. But I don’t care to admit that to myself right now, because more than just my ego was bruised.

“Bailey’s a big girl. She can handle herself.” Teddy studies me as if he’s trying to read my intentions.

My only intentions are to visit with my grandmother and try not to focus on the fact I’ve been temporarily sidelined from doing the one thing I love.

“Just wanted to put my two cents in,” Owen says defensively, leaning back with his bulky forearms crossed over his chest.

Even though I’ve played it off, I know exactly what Owen’s saying. My reputation for playing a tough game of hockey is one thing, but there’s also been a lot of women. More than a few.

When Bailey shows up in her bikini at the beach looking like a snack, will I have enough willpower to resist? It’s a question I don’t seem to have an answer to.

I guess time will tell, and I’ll find out when we reach San Diego.

But there’s one thing I already know.

For the first time since my injury, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, and it’s because of the pretty blonde with the gorgeous brown eyes.

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.