Vegas Aces: The Wide Receiver Complete Series

CHAPTER 21 TESSA

I run out onto the field, my heart pounding in my chest after watching him crumple down onto the field. Once the boys realize he went down, they start to form a circle around him, and I fight my way through to get to him. Coach is just behind me.

“Your hamstring?” I ask as soon as I get to him.

“Yeah,” he mutters, clutching the back of his leg as he sits up. He winces. “Back to running,” he barks at the boys. “I’m fine.” He stands, but his words don’t really back up the way he’s holding onto his leg as he limps. I force my way next to him even though he’s resistant, and I wrap his arm around my shoulders to help brace him.

We walk back to the end zone, where I make him sit. “Would you like me to look at it here or up in the weight room?” I ask, giving him exactly those two choices as I keep calm.

“You’re not looking at it anywhere,” he says. “It’s fine. A grade one strain. Happens all the time. I should’ve warmed up with the boys before I came out here instead of talking to Coach.”

“But you didn’t, and I’m a nurse. I can help you if you’ll let me.”

He sighs with more than a touch of frustration. He knows how stubborn I am, and he knows I’m not letting him get away with acting tough. “Fine. Let’s just go home and we can look at it there.”

I nod as I help him stand, and he walks over to Coach, his movements a little slowed as he works hard to act like he’s totally fine. “It’s the same old hammy giving me trouble,” he says, and Coach nods as if he remembers the issues they used to have with it. “I’ll rest it and I’ll be fine, but you make these boys finish up the ladder. After they finish the fifty, have them sprint it back down to forty, then thirty, twenty, and ten. All right?”

“You got it, son,” Coach says. He looks over at me. “You take care of our boy now, you hear me?”

I nod and offer a wry smile as I lean in toward Coach. “If his stubborn butt lets me.”

Coach laughs, and he turns back to his boys. “He’s fine, everyone. Just a hammy giving him issues. Let’s get back to the drill!” We hear his voice yelling and encouraging his team as we head off the field and toward his truck.

“Are you okay to drive?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m not some fucking chump who can’t handle a little hamstring strain.”

I bite my tongue at a retort. He’s lashing out at me because I’m the one who happens to be here. Maybe he’s a little embarrassed, maybe a little scared. After all, keeping his body healthy and in tiptop shape heartily affects his livelihood. If he’s injured and it’s serious, he can’t play.

“Sorry,” he mutters as we arrive at his truck. We both get in, and he stares out the windshield before he starts it up. “I’m guessing it’s a grade two.”

I know a little about hamstring injuries since we’ve been through this before. “You think you tore it?”

“It’s not the grade one strain I sometimes feel in practice. I heard a pop, so…yeah, I think there might be a partial tear. But it doesn’t feel like a grade three.”

“That’s good at least,” I say, trying to look at the bright side. “A little physical therapy and you’ll be good as new.”

“A little,” he mutters. “I just hate PT. I’ve been given the same list of exercises since I went to school here and I still keep reinjuring it. What good does it do?”

“It does good enough to keep you playing, Tristan,” I say softly. “I know the stretches suck. They’re a pain in the ass. But they do help. You’d be in far worse shape without them.”

He nods and raises his brows as he peels out of the parking lot. “Same story, different person,” he says. “I know you’re just trying to help, but it’s the same damn thing that’s been drilled into me for years. It doesn’t matter. I’ll never play without the potential for an even worse injury.”

“Is it worth it, then?” I ask.

His brows dip as he glances at me.

“Playing,” I clarify.

He blows out a breath. “Yeah,” he admits. “Without it…fuck.” He reaches over and grabs my hand in his. “Without football, I would’ve been even more lost these last seven years. There were a lot of days I’m not sure how I would’ve functioned if I didn’t have the game to keep me going.”

I know he means since the day I left.

“There were a lot of days I had a hard time functioning, too,” I admit softly.

I didn’t have football to keep me occupied. I didn’t have a team relying on me to get my ass out of bed. Instead, I finished out my senior year with private tutors, started college online to get my prerequisite classes out of the way, birthed a child, and fell into a depression that I was only able to get out of after I started college in the winter. That was when I met new people, had a new focus with my nursing major, and had a counselor on campus who helped me dig my way out of the darkness.

I didn’t actually tell the counselor about the baby. I only told her about my heartbreak with Tristan, that my father tore us apart…and still, her coping mechanisms seemed to help.

I joined clubs on campus to meet new people. I immersed myself in the college experience as I tried to forget.

But even though meeting new people and making new friends and learning how to take shots and play drinking games were wonderful distractions, they never really allowed me to forget. They masked the pain for a little while, but it was always there, simmering underneath the surface.

But he’s here beside me. We’re in each other’s lives again. I’m not sure what that means or where we take it from here, but when he has to go back to Vegas…that can’t be the end of us.

When I finally tell him I’m pregnant…that can’t be the end, either.

But I’m terrified it will be. Because the longer I put it off, the bigger a thing it becomes between us until it almost feels like a lie.

A lie of omission is still a lie...something proven true by my own father. Stephanie, for example, flashes through my mind, and I start to wonder whether I should give her a chance. Maybe I can give her something of myself since our father couldn’t be bothered to. She can get to know me since she never had the chance to get to know him .

I blow out a breath as he pulls onto Hickory Tree Lane so he can loop around and park in front of his house on the right side of the street. I glance at the clock. It’s not even seven o’clock yet.

“We can go in the side door of the garage in case my parents are still asleep, though I’m guessing they’re already done with breakfast,” he says as he shifts the truck into park. “There’s a bench in there where you can check me out.”

I’d love to do more than just check him out .

I refrain from admitting that aloud. For now.

Warmth surrounds me as we step through the door and into what used to be a garage. Now it’s an insulated room with heat, and one entire end looks like a gym as it’s outfitted with a treadmill, resistance bands, and dumbbells.

He takes off his track pants, and he’s wearing compression shorts underneath. They do little to hide the package I already know he keeps hidden, and I can’t help but wonder whether that has changed at all in our time apart.

I wonder how many other women have felt its pleasure.

He’s married, so at least one. I hope not many more than that.

It’s not like I expected him to save himself for me. I didn’t. Hell, I’m pregnant with another man’s baby. But still, I feel suddenly territorial over him.

A thrill of need zips down my spine as I remember all the intimacy we once shared, and those old familiar butterflies start to flap down low in my belly, aiming squarely for my core.

I suck in a breath.

This may be the most difficult examination I’ve ever performed in my professional career.