Clarity Read online

  Reaching the small sanctuary of my office, I start the day with my usual morning routine: reviewing my charts for the patient’s I’ll be seeing throughout the day. Unfortunately, I haven’t accomplished brushing off Sarah since she’s now hovering at my doorway. She’s still speaking, but at this point, I pay no mind as she demands I be in attendance for her bachelorette party this upcoming weekend. I’ve been evading the subject since the day she announced her engagement and started planning the thing. It’s bad enough I’m forced to go to her wedding, why does she have to torture me with a party to celebrate her getting tied down?

  “Taylor, have you heard a word of what I’ve said?” Sarah irritably snaps at me. Feeling guilty that I started to tune her out halfway through the discussion, I give her a forced smile. “If you think you’re getting out of this one, you’re not. Even if I have to drag you by your teeth, I will. You are not missing my bachelorette party. This is probably the only chance I’m going to get you to have some fun. Besides my wedding, of course,” she adds, smiling as her eyes close. She’s probably daydreaming about her wedding again, making me roll my eyes at her. When she opens them, they are glaring at me in threat.

  Slumping back into my chair, I know when it comes to Sarah and Katie ganging up on me, I won’t win. I’m going to end up going no matter how much pleading I do.

  “Where are you having it, anyway?” I ask, a little curious since I will have to endure the thing.

  “It’s at the new club Trevor is promoting, remember? Eclipse?” she says, very excited. I’ve heard about the club. Her fiancé, Trevor, being a marketing director, was handling all the promotional aspects of the club and it was quickly getting a great deal of hype. He did his job well, so Eclipse was now the number one place to party in town. At least, it’s what I’ve heard. I wasn’t stepping on anyone’s toes to get in.

  “Sarah, are you sure you really want me there?” I practically plead, hoping she’ll feel some sort of sympathy for me. “You know I don’t like that kind of scene. I’m already going to the wedding. Can’t you be happy with that?”

  “Oh, no you don’t. Don’t try to pull that bullshit on me. You’re going. End of story,” she orders with a wag of her finger, leaving me to scowl at her. Maybe some sort of miracle will happen between now and Saturday that will prevent me from going.

  Is that too much to hope for?

  Who am I kidding? I would have to be lying in a hospital on my deathbed in order to avoid having to go. At this point, I’m considering stepping in front of a bus to make it happen. Now that I think about it, it doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea. It would get me out of going to the wedding as well.

  Laughing at my own thoughts, I take another sip of coffee and rummage through my files. This is one week I hope passes very slowly . . . The slower the better.

  The blaring sound of my phone ringing awakens me from my slumber. I’m already cursing whoever is calling to hell. Pulling my pillow over my head to shut out the noise, it works for the couple of seconds it takes for the ringing to stop. Grateful, I’m already falling back to sleep before the ringing begins all over again. Groaning, I ignore it until it starts up again, forcing me to actually answer it so it can shut up.

  “What!” I growl into the phone as I answer.

  “What are you doing still sleeping?” The voice of my manager speaks back to me through the phone, already irritating me.

  “What do you want, Mendoza?”

  “I called to remind you of your appointment today. Knowing you, you’ve already forgotten.”

  Grumbling to myself, I reply, “I’m not going.”

  “You bet your ass you’re going,” he clips into the phone.

  “You know I don’t need any fucking therapy.”

  His chuckling isn’t amusing to me. “You make it sound like we’re sending you to some shrink.”

  “It might as well be.”

  “Get your ass out of bed and get to that appointment, or else you’re sitting out the rest of the season. And that isn’t a warning this time,” he orders before the line goes dead.

  Running my hand down my face as I silently curse into the darkness of my room, I feel a hand start to run along my chest, startling me. Catching it with my own, my mind tries its best to remember last night. I must have been too far gone if I can’t remember even getting home. My thought is distracted when a slim leg starts to rub against my groin.

  “You ready for another round?” the girl lying next to me seductively purrs, making me smile. I have the entire day ahead of me. What better way to spend it than with what is next to me?

  WITH THE COFFEE finally starting to kick in, I wake my computer from its sleep mode to double-check my schedule. I remember my boss mentioning he was assigning me a new patient this week, but I have yet to discover who it is. It’s most likely an urgent VIP since it’s a last minute add-on. Somehow, I always end up with those.

  I didn’t intend to specialize in sports medicine when I chose my profession, especially since you’ll never find me watching sports. But during my residency, I found it was the specialty where the patients didn’t expect me to be personal. They were here for one reason: to recover and get back to doing what they love, which was playing. They didn’t want to talk about their personal life, or ask about mine. It was the perfect job for me. Get them in, get them fixed, and get them out. Simple and done . . . No questions asked.

  Among my coworkers, I’m known as the least friendly person to associate with, especially since I keep to myself. It’s how I prefer it. I do my job well, so well I’m one of the top sports physical therapists in demand. My lack of social skills is overlooked as long as the job is done correctly, the first time.

  My mind returns to my schedule, taking in my usual patients for the week. With the exception of the one new patient at the end of today, I was set. The sooner I get this day started and over with, the sooner I can get home.

  My day goes as normal. No major difficulties until three o’clock approaches. It’s the expected time for the new patient and he has yet to arrive. Glancing at the clock, I realize he’s already late. Irritably huffing, I take the time to research his file to distract myself.

  It shouldn’t surprise me he’s late considering who he is. He’s a short stop for the Chicago White Soxs. This explains his VIP status. Because he’s a starting, and regular player at that, they were looking to get him back on the playing field as soon as possible. It was most likely his manager who requested he get in ASAP. I already know I may have a challenge ahead of me considering his lack of concern to arrive on time.

  Further researching his injury, I soon discover this it his second injury in the last year. First time was a simple sprain; this time around, it was fractured, explaining why he was now required to take therapy.

  The sound of footsteps in the room breaks my concentration, causing me to lift my head in that direction. From the cocky persona of the gentleman who is the cause of the footsteps, it informs me this must be my patient.

  Still wearing his aviator glasses, he looks in my direction, his steps unhurried, as if he’s purposely taking his time to reach me. I watch from the spot in which I’m sitting on a stability ball in the corner of the room. Eventually reaching the location where I’m sitting, he stands directly in front of me, forcing me to tilt my head up to look at him. He’s tall, physically fit, and the tight tee he’s wearing emphasizes the chiseled muscles of his chest.

  Lifting his hand, he removes his glasses. My breath hitches as he greets me with the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Add his ‘didn’t bother brushing, sandy blond hair’ and half-smile and I’m completely flustered. The once half smile is now turned down, irritating me further.

  Lowering my head to look back down at his file to distract myself, I begin speaking. “Mr. Hunter, I assume?”

  “Nick,” he corrects. Confusedly snapping my head back up to look at him, his brow is now arched. “It’s Nick. Mr. Hunter is my father.”

  Disr
egarding his retort, I continue. “You can take a seat on the exam table,” I order, pointing at the bed beside me. He questionably looks in its direction, resuming his position directly in front of me. The only movement he gives me is the crossing of his arms over his chest. Challenging me.

  I’ve learned one important aspect from my first day on my job: never show my patients any weakness, whether it be physical or mental, and right now he is expecting me to show mental weakness by allowing him to defy me.

  Now I’m the one quirking my brow at him as I point my pen once more towards the bed. “The longer you stand there, the longer it’s going to take for us to get started.” Severing eye contact with him, I return to reviewing his chart.

  “Look, I don’t really need to be here, so why don’t I just save us both the time? Just sign whatever little paper you need to so I can get back out onto the field,” his deep voice says above me in an exasperated tone.

  If he thinks he’s irritated, he doesn’t know the half of how I feel about his arrogance. Snapping my head back up with narrowed eyes, I say, “If you don’t want to be here fine, I don’t care, leave,” then wave my hand toward the door. “But if you think I’m going to jeopardize my job for you by signing your release back to the field, then you’re wrong. So it’s your decision, Mr. Hunter. Either you sit your ass on that table, or leave. Either way, I don’t give a crap. It’s your career, not mine,” I say, pointing at the table again with my pen for what will be the final time.

  My response surprises him as he slightly snaps his head back. Seconds go by as we both glare at one another, but it’s me who wins in the end when he steps over to my side and climbs up onto the exam table. The crunching of the exam table paper as he seats himself overtakes the awkward silence between us.

  Although the exercise ball I’m sitting on still keeps me below him, I can’t bring myself to stand just yet. At times like this, it helps with my anxiety when I lightly bounce on it, calming the frustration that has built in me. Now, it’s helping to keep calm my urge to strangle this man.

  “Your chart states your cast was removed last week. Are you experiencing any discomfort when you walk or during any other physical activities?” I ask.

  Now looking back up to him for his answer, his lips are once more up to one side. “No pain when I walk, but I don’t think I really need my ankle for any of the other physical activities that are important to me,” he states with his voice dropping seductively low.

  “By other physical activities you mean running, or exercising?” I inquire, not quite catching the intention of his statement.

  He leans down towards me, mere inches from my face as he answers, “I guess you can consider sex an exercise since it does involve sweating. But no, no pain from the ankle there.”

  Is he fucking serious?

  “Mr. Hunter, what goes on in your personal life is none of my business and I’d rather we kept it that way. So I’m going to ask again, have you experienced any discomfort with your ankle?” I ask, attempting to emphasize the importance of the question as I try to get the appointment back under control.

  I must have made my intention clear because his face grows somber. Shaking his head to indicate no, I make a note in his chart then remember what he was wearing when he arrived.

  “Did you receive the paperwork which should have been mailed to you upon the scheduling of your appointment?” I ask, knowing it’s procedure to send patients the paperwork explaining the dress requirements for the appointment. It explains how the patient is to wear loose, comfortable clothing to ensure their movements are unhindered during the exercises involving their injured muscles. We don’t want any restrictions from clothing getting in the way.

  He nods his head in agreement. “Yeah, I received it, but I didn’t bother reading it. I’ve already told you I don’t need to be here, so why are you wasting my time?” he insists.

  Appearing bored with the subject, he leans back on the table, bearing his weight on his extended arms. “If you insist on continuing with this whole charade, then just roll up my pants and do your thing.”

  He’s correct. The clothing he has on won’t cause any restrictions with the exercises he’s required to perform since it’s for his ankle. I will be able to work with what he’s dressed in, but if every other patient follows orders, why shouldn’t he be expected to do the same? His defiance of following simple instructions and arrogant manner warns me I’m not going to get anywhere with him today.

  Standing, I snap his chart closed. “Fine with me. When you do decide to read the paperwork, you can call to reschedule your next appointment. Have a great week, Mr. Hunter,” I reply without looking back, leaving him sitting on the table, pissed he didn’t take his appointment seriously and wasting my time.

  Watching the saucy little female marching away renders me speechless. I’d expected to have to pull out my charms to convince her to sign the paperwork, but I wasn’t expecting to be rejected in the end. It’s never happened before. No one has ever said no when I’ve worked my charms on them.

  Knowing I need my paperwork signed to return to the field, I come to my senses and climb off the bed to follow her. Reaching the door in which she disappeared through, there are only two options as to where she could have gone; one towards the direction I’d come in, and the other through a set of double doors marked “Employees Only.”

  I choose the latter.

  Heading through the double doors, I’m already a couple of steps inside and turning the corner when a security guard stops me.

  “I’m sorry, sir. No patients are allowed back here,” he orders, firmly holding out his arm to deny me any further access. Taking me in, his eyes go wide in recognition. “Are you Nick Hunter?”

  Excellent. A fan. “Yes, nice to meet you,” I greet, holding my hand out to him. Excitedly, he shakes it. “You didn’t happen to see a girl come in right before me? Brunette, about this height,” I state, holding my hand up to my shoulder. His once glowering frown returns and I may just be screwed. “I seem to have upset her and want to apologize. You know, you can never leave a lady feeling mad or else you’ll be in the dog house when you get home.”

  His eyes go wide, stunned by my statement, before a hint of laughter spreads across them. “No, can’t be having that,” he jokes. “She’s down the hall. First door around the corner,” he explains as he points ahead of us. “Good luck. She’s a little firecracker when she’s pissed,” he adds with a mocking grin.

  I’m about to walk away when he asks, “Are you getting back onto the field soon?”

  “I’m working on it. It’s up to my little firecracker,” I reply with a wink. Giving me a nod of understanding, I leave him to make my way to my destination.

  Within seconds, I reach the doorway and see her sitting at her desk. Her hands are digging into her hair as she lets out an aggravated growl.

  “Am I that frustrating?” I ask, stepping into the office and leaning against the wall.

  My question startles her. Her wide eyes questionably stare back at me once her head snaps up. She stares at me with confusion then looks past me, as if searching for someone.

  “What is it you need, Mr. Hunter?” she asks calmly, but from the tight appearance on her face, I know she’s far from calm as she folds her arms across her chest and stares back at me with irritation. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s the only expression she carries. Now I know what the guard meant by “a little firecracker.”

  “You really shouldn’t be standing like that. It will only cause more stress to your ankle and it won’t help with your recovery time,” she states, pointing her chin down at my feet. Looking down, I see I’m bearing most of my weight on my injured ankle, making me stand up straight.

  “To answer your earlier question, Mr. Hunter, yes, you’re frustrating me.”

  Normally I would despise anyone calling me by my last name, but the way it rolls off her tongue makes me begin to reconsider that feeling.

  “If you’d just sign th
e paperwork, I’d be off your hands and you wouldn’t have to put up with me anymore,” I suggest.

  With an angry scowl on her face, she repeats the command. “No. I already told you. Either do the therapy sessions or you don’t get clearance. End of story,” she throws back at me.

  Oh, yeah. She’s a little firecracker. “I don’t know why you’re being so difficult.” I uncontrollably growl back at her.

  My temper has gotten the better of me, causing my voice to rise. I am not accustomed to being refused anything. Her eyes have returned to the size of saucers, but this time with a hint of fear as they frantically dart past me. Glancing over my shoulder, wondering if the person she was searching for has arrived, I find the hall still empty. Confused, I look back to her. Her right hand is on the phone, as if ready to call someone. Then it occurs to me, I’m the one startling her and she’s most likely searching for someone to rescue her.

  “I’m sorry for getting upset, but you’re being difficult,” I explain, hoping to calm her. Her once rigid body relaxes and it is then that I know my apology has worked, at least temporarily.

  “If you would have taken the appointment more seriously, Mr. Hunter, you would have been one session closer to recovery. But since you didn’t, then you’re back to square one. It’s your decision whether you want to do this or not,” she lectures as she pinches the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

  The conversation feels as if it’s going around in circles. It’s obvious she isn’t going to budge. I’m ready to admit defeat and beg she give me another chance—something I never thought I’d have to do with a girl—but it’s not required when she states, “I have an open appointment for this Wednesday at 9 A.M. If you want it, I’ll put you on the schedule. It will give you enough time to go home, read over your paperwork, and decide whether you want to take your therapy serious. If you show up, great, if not, then we both know you won’t be returning to the field anytime soon. You decide,” she clips out before standing. “Have a great day, Mr. Hunter,” she orders through clenched teeth, brushing past me and out the door.