Reckless (Bertoli Crime Family #2) (41 page)

“I should probably know who he is, but the football team's the pickiest with student trainers, and I haven’t gone to any games in what little free time I do have. Studying, you know?" I say honestly. Maintaining a full ride academic scholarship is hard, and spots in the training community are few and far between. I don't want to graduate only to face a job market where the best I can do is compete for clients at the local Globo-Gym. Most of them are housewives, and who would choose me to train them over some hot guy that can
really
motivate you?

"Well, the other reason is a bit of a joke, too. There's debate on the exact details of the particular number, but he’s got a reputation around campus with the girls. I once jokingly called him Eighty-Three, since that's his jersey number. I bet that guy sees more ass than a proctologist."

"Ewwww," I laugh at Alicia's disgusting joke. "Still, Touchdown? That's just... I mean, I'm not sure I've had eighty-three orgasms in my life." I joke back as I wrap another strip of tape around her ankle. I finish up the job quickly, and give her foot a squeeze. "How's that feel?"

She circles her foot to the inside and then the outside, then smiles. "Good. You seriously know how I like it, not too tight, not too loose. Thanks."

"No worries. Make sure you do your warmups," I say, helping her on with her sock. Alicia thanks me and gets her shoe on, walking out of the training room while I put my stuff away. Just as I put the tape back in its bin, I hear a knock at the door, and I turn around to see Chelsea Brown, one of the other student trainers and another rising senior, at the door. "Hey Chels, what's up?"

"Coach Taylor wants to see you in the office. He sent me to take care of the rest. Who's been by?"

"Just Alicia, got her ankle done."

"Okay. Thanks. Anything I should be aware of?”

I check my clipboard and shake my head. "No, just ankle tapes. Thanks, Chels."

I go through the weight room, noticing a couple of hot guys from the baseball team getting in some work with the midsection routine that Coach Taylor likes to call 'Puke City,' and admire their builds before one of them gives me a wink. Really? Was he just winking to make me blush, or was he checking me out?

"Hey Carrie?" Coach Taylor calls from his office, startling me. "You forget something?"

Yeah, my brain which is not where it should be. I shake my head and go into his office. "Sorry, Coach. Just had a brain fart. Chelsea said you wanted to see me?"

He nods, and indicates Duncan, who's sitting in one of the other chairs, his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands behind his head. This close, he's even sexier than I'd seen from a distance, with coal black hair and gray eyes that can only be described as smoky. There's flecks of something in his eyes though that glitter and shine, like gold or diamonds hidden in the midst of all that smoke. "This is Duncan Hart, from the football team. Duncan, have you met Carrie before?"

"Hi, Carrie Mittel," I say, offering my hand, but Duncan just sits there with his little cocky smile, his hands not moving as he just undresses me with his eyes. I suspect he does that with every woman he sees between the ages of eighteen and forty, but I could be wrong. It could be fifty from how Alicia described him. I drop my hand, and turn to Coach. "What do you need, Coach Taylor?"

"Duncan here is coming off of elbow surgery, nothing too major, just a debridement and some partial fractures of his ulna. I remember that in the course you took with me, you did a paper on elbow rehabilitation, didn’t you?”

I nod, seeing where this was going. "Yes Coach, on rehabilitation protocols after Tommy John surgery."

"Good paper. While Duncan's rehab won't be anywhere near as extensive, I'm assigning him to you. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, four thirty start. Duncan, Carrie may be only a rising junior, but she's one of the best I've got. You give her any of your shit, and I'll be the one breaking a barbell off in your ass. Got it?"

Duncan's cocky little smile slips slightly, and he scowls before nodding his head. "Whatever. So, Carly..."

"Carrie. My name's Carrie," I correct him. I hate getting my name screwed up, it pisses me off. "Unless you want me to start calling you Dunc."

"No thanks," Duncan says, getting to his feet. I'm not short for a woman, but he towers over me, and I'm tempted to back down, but instead I stand my ground, looking up at his sexy gray eyes and trying not to let the flush that I feel in my chest creep up my neck. "So I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Four thirty. Be ready to work," I reply, not moving when Duncan steps to move past me. He stops, and I raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"Can you let me out?" he huffs, and I step to the side, Duncan not making contact when he leaves but only by the slimmest of margins.

I wait for him to go out, then turn back to Coach Taylor, who's giving me an amused look. "How was that?"

"Good start," Coach says. "Stick around a bit. How're you on your elbow rehab knowledge?"

"Bit rusty since this last semester didn't touch on them, but I'll brush up this evening. Do you want me to script the exercises too?"

Coach shakes his head, and nods at the chair Duncan just left. "Have a seat. Carrie, I assigned Duncan to you for two reasons. First of all, the rehab protocol is actually pretty simple. The reason Duncan was sent down here by Coach B from the football team is because he wants Duncan to learn a little bit about hard work and sacrifice before he declares for the draft next winter. So I get to write something that'll put him through his paces. The main thing he needs is a babysitter, and since you're pretty green still, I thought he'd be a good case for you to start with, since there isn't anything training-wise that'll be too difficult."

"But..." I say, noticing his expression, "you have something else you want to tell me."

"Yeah," Coach Taylor says. "I chose you because you can be tough when you want to be. That's what Duncan needs. He'd try and intimidate any of the guy students I could assign to him, and to put it frankly, the female students..."

"He'd seduce,” I finish, and Coach Taylor raises an eyebrow. "Alicia Torres was getting her ankle wrapped when Duncan came in. She filled me in on
Touchdown
."

Coach Taylor nods, then laughs. "We get one like him around here every few years. He's not the first football player to be called Touchdown. In any case, he's probably going to make a pass at you. Watch yourself, okay? You're a good kid, I don't want to see you getting yourself all emotionally busted up for a guy like Duncan Hart."

"Don't worry, Coach, I won't," I say. "Did you know he nearly ran me over in the hallway yesterday afternoon, and didn't even stop to help me up? You can tell by his face, he didn't recognize me either. You think I'm going to let someone like that get to my emotions?"

"Still, be careful. All right, I'll get you the protocol for him by the time you leave this evening. Thanks."

I go back to work, finishing up my taping duties with Chelsea before she went on to monitor tennis practice, since the tennis team doesn't practice near the Pavilion. When I'm done I go get my backpack and change clothes, grabbing my own workout clipboard from the rack and starting my routine. If I'm going to get Duncan's respect, I need to show him that I can hang in here, and that I know what I'm doing.

And of course, I'll have to not back down from him. Which is hard because even as I do my kettlebell swings, I'm still seeing those gray eyes flecked with reddish gold and diamonds, and that face framed by coal black hair.

I
get
a rising junior as my rehab specialist? Even worse, my specialist is a
chick
? Is this some sort of joke, or is Coach Taylor just fucking with me?

Thoughts run through my head as I get back to my apartment, fuming as I sling my backpack against the couch. I have a two bedroom spread in the Vista Towers, not the best set of condos around, but good and close to campus. Best of all, I could bring just about any woman here and it won't be a problem. College chicks are impressed by the hardwood floors and handcrafted furniture, while any professional woman thinks that I'm doing well for my 'age,' like they expected their college stud to be living in some frat house or something like that.

Not that I have a problem with frats. Some of the guys that I can possibly call friends are in frats. I say possibly because to me, well, a guy in my position can’t be sure if they’re just being my friend because they know I’ll be big time someday. Still, at least frats are up front with their aims, so they aren't quite as insufferable as the others.

"Speaking of insufferable," I mutter, thinking back to Coach Taylor and that assistant... Carrie. Yeah, that's it, Carrie Mittel. All bitchy attitude and arrogance. Oh, she did a paper on Tommy John surgery. Big fucking deal. I've caused two Tommy John surgeries so far in my football career, laying bitches out.

Still, she has a cute face, I'll give her that. And despite hiding her body underneath a t-shirt that looked like it should have been set aside for someone my size, there was no hiding that rack. Those are prime, that's for sure.

I sigh and look around my apartment, trying to figure out what to do to get my mind off of things. My eyes see my helmet, and I grin. Fuck what Dr. Lefort said yesterday, I've been flexing and moving my arm for days now around the apartment, and I can handle my bike. It's not even a real crotch rocket anyway — there's no way that I could get away with that on the team, just a 650 cc Ninja that can walk it out on the freeway, but nothing extreme. Back home in Silicon Valley I have a 1000 cc Ninja RH that can peel the paint off the road if I want.

A bike ride could be just what I need. In fact, I know just where to go, and I grab my helmet along with my leather jacket and keys. My arm is feeling mighty bare, and some new ink would help me quite a bit.

* * *

"
Y
ou did what
?"

Carrie's looking at me with disbelief, her clipboard in her hand and her mouth hanging slightly open, looking at the bandage that's wrapped around my upper arm. "I said I got a tattoo, so I won't be able to go too heavy today," I reply, touching the bandage. "You know, my skin being sensitive and all."

Carrie taps her pen against her teeth, and I'm struck again at how cute she is. She's still wearing ridiculously oversized clothes though, so my feelings that she's an iceberg are probably true. I mean, we're in the weight room for fuck's sake, and she's wearing pants like she's getting ready to go out in snow — and we’re in the desert of California for fucks sake!

"Fine. Then we'll just have to modify some things,” she finally says, scratching through and scribbling. “I’ll make sure nothing touches the skin.”

"But..." I start, before she cuts me off, jabbing her pen in my direction.

"It's not my problem that you decided the night before starting a Coach Dave Taylor written rehab and workout protocol of all things... that you decided to go out and get some ink on your arm. Personally, I don't give a damn if you do the workout shirtless to let it show off to the world and air out, but you’re not getting out of your workout.”

"Still..." I try, and Carrie cuts me off again. I swear, this girl needs to be put in her place and quick. But, I catch Coach Taylor giving us a look out of the corner of my eye, and I know he's willing to try and back up his threat of breaking a barbell off in my ass if I do what I want to do, which is say fuck this and walk off.

"Still nothing. You know, I bet if we put the weights in the middle of the stadium with thirty thousand women watching, you'd be going at this gung-ho. What, you afraid of being shown up by the others?"

Now she's egging me on? Holy shit. "You know what? You've got a big mouth for a training intern. How about you back it up?"

Carrie considers it for a moment, then nods. "Fine. Give me two minutes to change into my workout clothes. You... don't move."

Two minutes was all I needed, as I pulled off my shirt just as she practically asked me to do. Turning around, I checked out my best tattoo, a huge set of eagle's wings that stretched from shoulder to shoulder, and the beginnings of my half sleeve on my left arm. They guys at Downtown Ink only got a little bit done, I mean there's only so much even a good artist can do in three hours, but they had given me a sketch of what the final product's going to look like, with Celtic symbolism playing a big part in the design.

"You done showing off for yourself?" Carrie said behind me, and I turned. For the first time I was struck dumb by her, as she stood there with her arms crossed in front of her body.

Those curves.

That ass!

Holy shit, Carrie Mittel's fucking stacked! She's not skinny, but with a guy my size, she’s exactly how I like it.

Her hips flare out from her trim-ish waist in a set that lets you know those hips do not lie at all, before drawing down into legs that I just want to pour some gravy over and gobble. Every man's got a body part they like best, and I've always been one for a strong, toned set of thighs, and Carrie… she's got the sexiest set of legs I've ever seen.