Everyone knew the stories about Billy Costello. Best lineman of his time back before concussion protocols and CTE even had a name or were synonymous with football. Players didn’t openly talk about symptoms. Frankly, if they had, they’d have been ridiculed. No, teams gave you pills and injections, and you kept your damn mouth shut. Billy was a notorious skirt chaser, he gambled his money away and got hooked on painkillers. Then, one night, he drove his car off a bridge. I understood Lily’s hesitance, but I wanted her to see past the bullshit to see the real me. That I was nothing like her father.
Because, dumbass that I was, I’d started to catch the feels for a woman I had no business being with. Not if I wanted to keep my damn job and retire with some semblance of my dignity left. Lily Costello was a fine line drawn in quicksand that I was dangling my toes over. I needed to be concentrating on holding on to my job, not holding on to her curves.
Racking the weight, I stood from the seated shoulder press and stripped off my sweatshirt. Balling it up, I used it to mop my face before I added another plate to each side of the bar. The weight room was fairly empty except for the die-hards and other guys rehabbing an injury.
After reseating, I lined up my little fingers again and heaved the weight over my head as Shinedown launched into “Devil” through my earbuds.
One. Two. Three...
Usually, lifting cleared my head. I sure as hell needed to do something to help me focus. The rookie linebacker from Florida was breathing down my neck. He’d taken full advantage of the crack in the door I’d left him last season when I’d gone out with a dislocated shoulder.
And the kid could play.
Yet, I’d be damned if I retired from the fucking bench.
“How’s it doing today?” Devon—the team’s trainer I went to most often—stopped in front of my bench, took note of the angry red scars peeking out from under my cut-up T-shirt. “That’s more weight than you’re supposed to be doing, bro.”
I nodded, guided the bar back to the rack, brought the bottom of my shirt up to wipe away the sweat. “I’m listening to my body. I stop when it tells me to stop.”
Crossing his arms over a team polo, he gave a small nod. “Honestly, your recovery has been remarkable. I don’t want you to fuck it up is all. Keep those muscles strong and keep up the range of motion but take it easy. Go slow.”
I nodded, swigged deeply from my water bottle.
Devon rocked heel to toe. “I heard from Doc’s secretary. Jiménez rescheduled. Dr. Chase moved you up the list. Why don’t we get you stretched out and then you can see him?”
Adam Chase III—our team’s head orthopedic surgeon—was a fuckstick. Fuck. Stick. He treated the Bulldogs players like cattle. Patch ’em up and get ’em to market.
I knew at least two guys who shouldn’t have finished the season last year with the concussion protocols.
But they did anyway because the team wasn’t deep in those positions.
A short walk to the PT wing later, I hopped up on a table. Devon started to stretch me out. I was a big guy. It took a big guy to do the job. That’s why I usually saw Devon. He’d suffered a similar injury in college when he’d played ball. He knew firsthand what I was working with.
Dev put my forearm on his shoulder and started rubbing me down. “How’s the dog training coming?”
I harrumphed.
“You okay, man?” Devon walked around the table behind me, stretching my pectoral while he massaged my deltoid. “You’re kinda quiet today.”
“Yeah. Sorry, I’m...edgy.”
He barked out a laugh. “You still laying off the women? Hell, I’m surprised. Nobody should be able to tell a man he can’t get his dick wet.”
“Not women. Woman,” I grated.
“Ohhhh.” A smile crawled across Devon’s mouth. “Well, c’mon, Karen. What’s the tea?”
“My dog’s trainer.” Divulging wasn’t something I’d calculated. But Devon was a good dude. He’d keep it quiet.
The door to the PT room swung open, and in walked Dr. Douche. “Mr. Shaw, let’s have a look, shall we?”
Devon stepped away, washed his hands in the sink as the doctor started his exam. “Any discomfort? Grunt once for no, twice for yes.”
I stared straight ahead, ignoring the dig. Devon shook his head as the doctor ran me through a range of motion tests.
After hearing my jaw crack, I forced myself to relax.
“Talkative as usual, I see. I hear you’ve hired a dog trainer. A dog bites a person, you put it down.”
“Opinions are like assholes,” I barked, then hissed as he pushed my shoulder a little too far. On purpose. This prick...
I could’ve dropped him with one punch, and it was no less than he deserved, but Dick had a hard-on for me for whatever reason. Lots of guys had complained about Dr. Douche to no avail.
Devon must have read my thoughts because he rolled his eyes as he leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to be you if that dog bites Lily Costello. Push against my hand.” He put his palm out, face down, and I raised my own to meet his and pushed with all my strength, knocking him off balance. Then I grinned at the sonofabitch.
Chase righted himself. “Neanderthals. Continue with your current weight regimen. Devon, cut PT back to twice a week.” Cleaning his glasses on his custom button-down, the fucker finally found the guts to look me in the eye. “Reevaluate in two weeks.” With that, he left.
The question was hanging on Devon’s gaping mouth. “Lily Costello is your dog trainer?”
Yep. Lily Motherfucking Costello.
Half an hour and a shower later, Devon roared by in his pickup truck, as I came out of the building headed for my own truck. That engine definitely didn’t sound like stock. Dude must have made decent money as an athletic trainer.
My phone rang and I stopped to fish it out of my shorts. Hayes.
“What’s up, man?”
“Uh, hey. You here at the facility?” A dog barked and growled in the background.
“Just leaving. What’s up?”
“Umm, do you have Lily’s number handy? There’s a big-ass dog outside my truck right now that might be hurt. I think it’s a Boxer, but it won’t let me get out to check on it. I try to open the door and it goes nuts. It already attacked my bumper and front tire. I don’t want it to run off. It’s bleeding and I don’t know where from or how bad.”
Shit. “Yeah, sit tight. I’ll call her. Where you parked?” I turned to hustle back in and drop my stuff.