“It was forty-eight. But I guess if that’s all you’ve got in you…” She shrugged indifferently.

He completed the last of the set and went on to add five more, hoping to impress her. But she was already preoccupied with the weights on the wall, carefully selecting a pair of dumbbells for his next torture.

“Give me thirty reps, the first ten slow, then pick up the pace. We need to get these arms in shape.” She indicated his biceps. “No wonder you’ve hit zero for twenty.”

His eyes blazed, but as she’d predicted, he worked even harder. By the time they were done, she almost felt sorry for him. Roger was dripping in sweat, red from exertion, and trying to hide his puffing.

“Okay, you’re done for the day. Good work.”

He beamed like a three-year-old who had been praised for putting away his blocks. Rising, he grabbed a towel and proceeded to blot some of the sweat that now gleamed from his torso. Tossing it aside, he approached her with a speculative look in his eyes.

“You know, we work together every day and yet we don’t hang out. Why don’t we grab a few beers, get to know each other?” He gave her his most charming grin and reached up to finger a lock of hair that had escaped from her cap.

Jessica burst into laughter. “That’s very flattering, but no thanks.”

“Why not?” He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Some guy screw you over?”

She froze for a second before putting the mat away, and then she turned to look him in the eye. “Not that it’s any of your business, but with the exception of my brothers, I don’t care for professional athletes.”

“Why?” Roger asked, bewildered.

“Because you all have egos the size of the state of Texas, and you want to screw everything that moves. You don’t care about anything but the game and yourself. What about all that would be appealing to me?”

“Come on, we’re not that bad,” he said with a smirk and tried to pull her into his embrace.

She laughed and threw a fresh towel at him, chuckling when it smacked his head. “You are exactly that bad. Hit the shower. Same time tomorrow. Got it?”

Roger grinned. “Yeah. I get it.”

She hoped for his sake he did.

—

Pete walked into the PT room a moment later, popping his gum with a grin.

“I want you to meet our new player, Gavin King. Gavin, this is Jessica Hart. She is the best sports therapist in the business, and a hell of a trainer. Jess, Gavin just joined the team, but he’s on the DL.”

Jessica turned to the coach, saw the ballplayer beside him, and her heart stopped.

He was exactly her type. Or her former type. As she took in his magnificent physique, black eyes, and Colgate smile, she felt an instant attraction.

Gavin was the kind of guy she used to dream about, drool over, and date. She’d met enough of them growing up, friends of her brothers who started out as decent guys but got caught up in the hype and eventually stomped all over some poor girl silly enough to give up her heart. Unfortunately, she’d had to walk that path herself. She’d made the fatal mistake of falling for an outfielder who played for Cleveland, and eventually played her. Zach had the same dark hair, heart-stopping smile, and killer body.

He’d taught her what the word devastation meant.

“Good to meet you.” She extended her hand, reminding herself to think of him in clinical terms: he was a pro baseball player, a young athlete, and he was hurt. “So what seems to be the problem?”

“I had surgery for a meniscus tear,” he said, lifting his left pant leg and indicating a bandage. “It’s pretty much healed, but the surgeon wants me in physical therapy for a few months to build back up. I think they sent my test results, the MRI, and a script.”

She nodded, squatting before him and removing the bandage to examine the pink half-inch line on his knee. “I’ll take a look at the films. Red zone?” she asked, referring to the location of his tear.

“Yeah, I think so. But they said it spread into the white zone.”

Her eyes shot to Pete’s, and he gave a slight negative shake of his head. This news wasn’t good, and neither one of them wanted to share their misgivings. A tear that went into the white zone could mean big trouble for a ballplayer, or it could heal well and the limb would fully recover. It would take weeks before they’d know, and she understood now how the Sonics had acquired this magnificent specimen of a man:

His previous team didn’t want the risk.

So New Jersey had rolled the dice, gambling on his recovery. She could only hope they’d beat the odds.

“Okay, let’s get started. Have you done any therapeutic exercise up until now?”

“Yes, for a couple of weeks,” he said, flexing the knee to demonstrate. “They had me doing leg raises until they took the brace off.”

“That makes sense. We won’t do much today; we’ll do an evaluation, take a look at your records, and then we will put together a program.”

“How long?”

Her eyes met his and she saw the pain and frustration there. No player ever wanted to be on the disabled list, especially for any period of time. She didn’t want to raise false hopes, but she also didn’t want to discourage him. She took a deep breath, carefully choosing her words.

“It’s different with everyone. Some people recover much more quickly than others. A lot depends on how well you heal, how much you can tolerate, and if you’re willing to do the exercises at home. That will give us the quickest turnaround.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said fervently. “I just want to get back in the game.”

Jessica nodded as she wrapped the limb with the heating pad. No way in hell would she tell him the truth:

He might never be back.

Chapter 2

It was a step down.

Gavin couldn’t help the disappointment that flooded through him as he returned to the locker room after his first PT session.

Jessica had been great, and she obviously knew her stuff. But the workout room was merely adequate, the equipment functional. It wasn’t what he was used to, though it would be enough to assist in his recovery.

Glancing around him, he noticed the bald spots in the grass, the chipped paint on the rails, the cheap advertisements for local businesses. He wasn’t a snob by any means, but he’d gotten used to playing for a marquee team that was well funded and could afford a ballpark that looked like a cathedral with padded seats, climate-controlled corporate suites touting names like Microsoft, Cisco, W. B. Mason…The Fortune 50 insisted on crystal and white linen, catering and open bars to entertain. Their banners decorated the brick wall surrounding the baseball diamond, and they filled their boxes with prospective clients during the businessman’s specials.

The Dodgers’ clubhouse had benefited from an influx of money, from the framed art in the hallways to the heated bathrooms that boasted good tile floors and hand towels. The Stadium Club was a members-only restaurant and bar where fans could order everything from a salad to a perfectly cooked steak accompanied by Napa Valley wines.

And it wasn’t that the New Jersey ballpark was a disaster. But it had the aura of a blue-collar town, where hardworking people brought their families for a game, watched every play like hawks, and cheered with the passion of the Northeast. While the locker room was functional, the towels were flimsy, the floors scuffed from cleats, the benches carved with the initials of players who eventually made their way to a better place.

A few winter pansies struggled to survive outside the bullpen, yet he could see dozens of fans in attendance, bundled up against the cold. They drank beer by the gallon, ignoring the coffee, and chomped on hot dogs and peanuts while cheering their team.