City of Champions (11 page)

Jenna had let herself down, but more than that, she was horrified to know that she'd failed to honor the words of guidance her mother had given her.

Sitting there in her office so many years later, Jenna could still feel the moist dirt seeping through her jeans and chilling her knees when she had knelt on the ground to say good-bye to her mother's grave the day before she left for college at just seventeen years old.

"Momma, I'm so so-rry," she had said to the tombstone she'd visited so many times before. "I know you want me to stay here and watch after Dad…but I just ca-an't. I failed, momma. I screwed up. I got fooled, and now I have to leave. I just do."

Jenna did disappear, but Chase Matthews didn't. He popped up in her life again, like a mean and hateful penny. Nine years had passed by the time he came to visit her in Atlanta. Her stomach twisted at the memory of seeing him again.

Jenna had only recently begun her internship at Emory after wrapping up medical school at Duke. Somehow, Chase knew she had connections at the Atlanta Falcons, and he got her to use them on his behalf to get a leg up toward a position as their backup quarterback.

Part of her wanted to say no to him. She felt confident that her father had shaken his bad gambling habit, but she couldn't bear the idea of risking his career, no matter how slight that chance may be. On top of that, there was the terror of letting her father know of her failure in trusting a creep like Chase, and keeping so many secrets from him for so long. It was wiser — and easier — to just oblige Chase again.

Just the thought of being near him made Jenna feel sick with fear. She had to run and begin a new life again. This time she fled to Pittsburgh to help Tea after transferring to
UPMC
. All she wanted was to try to build something great for herself that would make her mother proud. She felt like she was finally close to making that happen.

This plan left no room for dreaming about a man like Wyatt McCoy. Because, it wasn't him or the rest of the stream of athletes she ran into over the years that she didn't trust — it was
herself
.

She'd been fortunate enough not to hear from Chase for several years. Part of her worried he would find her and torment her again, but she ignored those thoughts.

Instead she preferred to believe that her life was now her own — and she wanted to keep it that way.
Yet, she had no control of her mind where Wyatt Alejandro McCoy was concerned.

She kept thinking about him and it was infuriating to her. Jenna didn't even know him. So how was it that with one meeting and a few attempts to contact her he had completely recalibrated her life's magnet — leaving her with a mindlessly spinning arrow and no true north, except for perhaps a constant nagging need to constantly point her thoughts toward him?

And to make it worse, now he was invading her
professional
life. It made her furious — spitting mad, to be precise. Mainly at herself, if she were being honest. After all she'd been through — the shame and humiliation Chase had caused her — and here she was drawn to someone who could very well be just like him. 

Just who the hell does Wyatt think he is?
she asked herself.

He's nobody to me, that's who,
she answered confidently.

No one is allowed to do that to me. No one. I can't let someone have this power over me — take advantage of me, get the best of me. Not again.

She needed to orient herself back to who she was before, or else she'd be lost in the woods. Wyatt was just another patient, and if she couldn't get over the discomfort he caused her, then she'd never be able to make this career a success.

A knock on her office door jarred her to life. Jenna realized it was Wyatt on the other side of the wooden barrier and she quickly steeled her nerves for the unavoidable meeting.

She stood up straight, thrust her shoulders back, and smoothed down the front lapels of her lab coat. After a long and slow breath, she felt like she could appear strong and calm again.

It was just a one-hour consult. She could get through that and then she would never have to see Gunslinger McCoy ever again.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wyatt swallowed hard as he stared at Doctor Jenna Sutherland's office door, waiting for a response to his knock. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this nervous about anything. He chalked it up to the stakes being high.

He'd become almost fixated on getting her to back up his plan to avoid surgery. Yet his mind had also repeatedly gone back to thinking about her for a totally different reason over the last few days. When she opened the door to him that reason took over again and a potent rush began to course through his bloodstream.

She stood in front of him with her left hand cradling the doorframe, pulling the virginal white lab coat snugly across her ample breasts. A simple gold locket with what looked like a woman's face on it nestled in her cleavage. Her silky blonde centerfold hair was pulled into a bun with reading glasses perched delicately on her straight nose.

This woman was a constantly overlapping set of apparent inconsistencies — sexy but demure, tough but sweet, strong but vulnerable. The combinations made her seem like a mirage from a wet dream to Wyatt, and he couldn't wait to make it a reality.

Yes, he needed her help, but that didn't mean he couldn't have some fun with her in the process.

"Mr. McCoy. Hello. Please come in." She stepped aside to let him in, and he made sure to let his right arm brush across her chest until she jumped slightly back, with the slightest bit of a mortified breath escaping from her parted lips.

"I thought I told you to call me Wyatt," he said, leaning his head toward her, until she stepped a full pace back and closed the door behind them.

This is almost too easy
, he thought happily to himself.

"You did tell me that,
Mr. McCoy
."

Oh, she's gonna dig in. Fine, then so can I
.

She walked across the room with him alongside her, then turned and held out her hand. He took it and only briefly shook it, instead, pulling her closer and stroking her palm with a familiarity he knew was inappropriate.

She looked into his eyes crossly and yanked her hand away, only turning him on more. She spun around with a huff and walked to her desk to sit with a clear attempt at authority.

"It's my understanding you requested me specifically," she said smoothly, but he could see that she kept moving things on her desk with her busy hands.

"That's right, Doc."

"I hope that means you plan to be serious about this consult, Mr. McCoy," she said carefully, catching him staring at her chest. And Wyatt couldn't hold back the smile that spread across his face.

"I'm willing to do anything for my NFL career, Doc. Besides, cut me some slack, you're the one that wore that sexy lab coat."

She practically growled in frustration and he loved it. He needed her off-balance for what he had in mind, but damned if he hadn't guessed he'd enjoy it this much.

Time to push her a little more,
he thought.

As he leaned across her desk and perused her body up and down, he whispered, "Though I do wish it were tighter."

"Right. Because I sit around in a lab coat to be sexy. Like I'm in
Hustler
magazine or something." She suddenly started to coo in a Marilyn Monroe breathy voice. "
Oh, no. This microscope is so heavy. Guess I should bend down to relieve the weight of this massive tool. Oh, what's here between my legs? Oh, it’s so warm down there. Maybe I should investigate?
Please. So ridiculous," she said to herself with annoyance. "Excuse me, are you okay, Mr. McCoy?"

He was definitely
not
okay. His mouth had fallen open slightly and all the blood had rushed to his lap. Wyatt was so hard he was practically in pain. He realized he may have underestimated this woman.
Maybe
. Her voice broke through his lust-filled fog.

"I thought it was your shoulder that had the issue. Do you have a head injury too?" she asked with concern, replacing her previously sultry voice.

"Um. Yeah. I mean no. Just my shoulder. You're the second opinion on my shoulder injury, and my coach also said maybe you could help my game. I'm not sure how though."

"It may be hard for you to imagine that you could need help from anyone, but I've certainly been able to assist some of your teammates to use their bodies more effectively."

Wyatt raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Now that's more like what I had in mind."

She rolled her eyes impatiently at him.

"Please, Mr. McCoy. Trust me, me using your body is most definitely not part of the treatment. What I mean is, that I try to help my patients use their bodies more effectively and in a way that can avoid future injuries. It's easy to develop bad habits in this game, especially after playing for so long, as you have. And a professional athlete's muscles need more care and attention. They can often benefit from a better approach to their movements. In your case, if you want to keep your career going for several more years, I think you will need to make some changes. That
is
what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes, absolutely. This makes me feel even better about picking you."

Wyatt began running his finger slowly in a circle on her desk, not even realizing he was making the motion until he noticed her staring at it, and it felt like a triumph. 

"Well, it appears that your finger works. Let's get back to the consultation, okay?"

"My fingers work very well. Want to see?"

"Enough.
Please
. Are you always this cocky and unserious?"

"Actually, if you asked most people that know me, they'd probably say I'm generally more of a grumpy asshole."

"So this is a rare treat you reserve for me?"

"What can I say, Doc? You bring out the best in me," he answered, with a smirk. He caught the slightest hint of a smile on her face, confirming to him that, at least in some way, he was getting to her — he could swear by it.

"Lucky me. Now, Mr. McCoy, back to your shoulder." 

"You keep calling me Mr. McCoy. I really do prefer Wyatt."

"I prefer Mr. McCoy. You have what looks like a serious shoulder injury that is being exacerbated with every game you play in, so hopefully we can make some headway today."

"I'd like that," he said seriously. Her eyes were earnest and it looked as though maybe she really did care about his well-being. It made his chest feel tight in the oddest way. "Hey, Doc?"

"Yes?" She took her glasses off and placed them on her desk, looking directly at him intently. It was distracting how big and blue her eyes were — huge almost, and rimmed with long, soft lashes. She was so unlike the women who had thrown themselves at him most of his life. Even her physical appearance was a breath of fresh air. It looked like she didn't seem to wear much, if any, makeup. She blinked patiently at him and he remembered it was his turn to talk.

"How'd you know my shoulder was hurting when we met? The team and I have worked hard to keep it out of the press."

"It's my job."

"I've met other people whose job it was also, and they couldn't tell. Was it because you were looking very closely at me while I played?"

"I was, but only out of professional curiosity."

"Come on, Doc. I really want to know."

She sighed, "Fine. Right before you throw, you twitch your right shoulder and glance slightly sideways. I noticed it first when you were a QB at UT, especially in the Orange Bowl. Then when you turned pro and played in Dallas, it was there as well. And it looked like you still had it when you were traded to Pittsburgh."

Wyatt let out a dry, mirthless laugh that didn't meet his eyes.

"You're the one that asked," she huffed out, scribbling a note angrily on her pad, refusing to look at him.

"I'm not laughing at
you
. Trust me. No, I'm just impressed you noticed so much about me over the years. I'm also trying to count all the different coaches I've had since I was barely out of the crib, and wondering why not a single one of them picked up on that."

"Well, it's subtle. Those D-linemen probably register it on some level, too. Even if they don't consciously realize it, they sense it. And all those coaches? Your talent when you are hitting on all cylinders really is remarkable — good enough to overcome that idiosyncrasy in your throw, so they probably weren't looking for it."

"And you were?"

"I have a gift for recognizing things no one else wants to see."

"And how could you tell I was injured?"

"When I saw you play in person, I noticed your tic is even more pronounced than usual and that your release is markedly slower. You've always held the ball longer than most QBs in the pros, but now, you're also dropping that shoulder a bit. And you’re often ending up with more dirt on your jersey than on the field. Point is — the injury and repeated trauma you've endured make your habit more obvious. That makes it easier for the linemen to see and figure out what your next move will be when you play. That's why you're getting sacked more, picked off more, you name it."