The Cad and the Co-Ed
Page 30

“Eilish, you must know you’re very beautiful—”
“You remind me of my son’s father,” I blurted, talking over him, not wanting to hear his assurances about how beautiful I was and that one day I would find someone special. God, I couldn’t stand it if he said that. I couldn’t deal with another rejection from Bryan Leech.
His eyes widened and he reared back, just a little. “Your son’s father?”
“That’s right.” I fought to suppress a wave of panic. What are you doing? What have you done?
“I didn’t know you had a son.” His gaze grew more circumspect, as though he was looking at me with new eyes.
“I do. He’s four. Almost five.” I wet my lips, my mind a riot. Some of the players—like Will and Ronan—knew about Patrick. Some didn’t. Clearly, Bryan hadn’t known until just now.
Careful, Eilish. Be very careful.
He nodded, his gaze again sweeping over me, as though this information explained something critical and now I made more sense to him. I tried to appear composed while he did this, but some irrational part of me both hoped and worried this news would trigger his memory. That, miraculously, he’d remember what happened between us five years ago.
I was so weird. And a coward. You’re a weird coward.
“You must’ve been very young,” he murmured, like he thought and said the words at the same time.
“I was. You see,” I had to clear my throat because my voice had grown squeaky and tight, “what happened weeks ago was about me being tired and confused. So, I’d appreciate it if we could move past it. Maybe we could start over?”
He was still frowning, like
my words were a puzzle, but in the end he nodded slowly and said, “Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.”
“Good.” My knees were shaking, so I leaned against the supply counter. “Please lie down, face up.”
His eyes, still cloudy with thought, moved between me and the table. “You’re not using the therapy room?”
“No.” I shook my head, giving him my back as I retrieved the special blend of jojoba with eucalyptus and peppermint essential oils. “I find this space better suited for my purposes.”
The table creaked under his weight and I turned to find him settling on his back. “You know, I’m sure Coach Brian would be very interested that Connors is giving you grief.”
Dismissing his statement with a noncommittal head shake, I crossed to the sink, ran a towel under the water, then popped it in the microwave. “I’ve read your chart. You tore the meniscus seven years ago, right?” I kept my tone professional and light, but felt immensely relieved that he’d let the subject of my son go without further questions.
“That’s right.” Bryan folded his hands behind his head, and I sensed his eyes move over me.
I drew even with his knee. “Why did you decide against the scope?”
“Doc said it healed, more or less. But it tightens up from time to time.”
He grunted as I probed him laterally. His quadriceps flexed, the muscle in sharp relief.
“I’m going to guide you through complete range of motion. Just relax.” I picked up his leg, sliding my hand to the back of his thigh.
Bryan mumbled something that sounded like, “Easier said than done.”
I ignored it, and him, trying to convince myself that his leg was just any leg. In fact, I imagined it was separate from his body. A mannequin leg . . .
This helped.
The microwave beeped, and I placed the limb back on the table, retrieving and then shaking out the towel of excess heat. “Have you considered acupuncture?”
Again, Bryan hesitated before speaking. “I’m not opposed to it.”
He sounded like he was making a face so I glanced at him. Bryan was indeed making a face—his nose was wrinkled, his mouth turned down, his eyes scrunched with suspicion—and the expression was so much like my son’s I don’t want to do that face that I fumbled the towel and nearly dropped it.
“Forks,” I murmured under my breath, steadying myself against a surge of discombobulating emotion. I could do nothing about the heat claiming my neck and cheeks, or the galloping of my heart, because when I looked at Bryan in that moment, I saw Patrick.
Actually, looking at Bryan now, I allowed myself to admit that it wasn’t just his expression. Patrick and Bryan looked like father and son: same hair color, eye color, bone structure, skin tone. Where I was pasty white with pale blue eyes, Bryan and Patrick were naturally bronze with jade-green eyes. They even had the same mouth.
And it was disconcerting.
My heartstrings played a morose tune of longing and regret, but I disregarded the song. Gritting my teeth, I wrapped the towel around Bryan’s knee.
“Let’s leave that there,” I said distractedly, needing a moment of physical distance. Turning, I grabbed the jojoba oil and placed a generous amount in a ramekin, heating it in the microwave for just five seconds. But it was enough. Five seconds was enough to quash the feelings cinching my throat.
“I’ll start with the other knee,” I said offhandedly, keeping my eyes downcast as I approached his side and tried my best to ignore how decidedly luscious his legs were.
For the record, all rugby players have remarkable legs. They’re cut, defined, corded with muscle. But Bryan’s were perfection. His pronation was neutral, his femurs were long, and the definition of his quads was decidedly luscious.