In Deep: Chase & Emma (All In Book 1) (3 page)

But it sounded like
we’d be spending a lot of time together. On call? What did he mean
by that? He didn’t exactly strike me as the relaxed and casual
type. Being on call with Chase might be fairly demanding. I’d have
to clarify it all with him when I saw him tonight. What exactly was
this new agreement?

I still had a few hours
before I saw him again. I walked the short distance to the hotel
adjacent to the swim complex where we were all staying. Up in my
room, instead of making myself crazy with questions I didn’t have
answers to, I fired up my laptop and clicked onto our blog.

Tori was keeping
Scoop’d alive, thankfully. She always did. I was a much less
frequent contributor. For one, my regular job at the Center for
Sports Medicine kept me a lot busier than hers. She waited tables at
a local restaurant. When it was crowded—which wasn’t that
often—she was full-on crazy. But during the frequent down times she
could fold silverware in napkins and post to social media. Plus the
kinds of blog posts she specialized in were quick, typically
hilarious responses to just-breaking celebrity scandals. Tori knew
how to zing off a one-liner like nobody else.

We’d started blogging
in our senior year of high school, an anonymous and entertaining way
to offer commentary on our little world. Right from the start we’d
made a good team, with her unearthing fun tidbits that intrigued
readers and me profiling the people who made our school amazing. I
did all my interviews by phone, and though I was pretty sure everyone
in our town knew we were the ones behind our blog, it became easier
to preserve our anonymity as our audience grew.

Now, seven years into
it, Tori still kept the constant drumbeat of posts alive, and she’d
really perfected a zingy, sassy writing style perfect for blogging.
I’d gotten better over time, too, figuring out which details to
feature, understanding how and when to ask the right questions to
elicit a great story. I typically read a bunch online, looking for
interesting leads, and then I’d follow up with an interview. You’d
be surprised how many people were willing to spend an hour talking on
the phone with a random blogger. I always enjoyed the conversations,
capturing every element of feel-good stories about little old ladies
who’d left unknown millions to local charities, five-year-olds
who’d managed to dial 911 and save their dad’s life after a heart
attack, or dogs who returned home after getting lost on a family
vacation hundreds of miles away.

But today, I just read
through Tori’s posts. She hadn’t flown to Rio yet, but she was
working the hype already, posting hot pics of athletes, starting
contests over “hottest abs” and “best shoulders.” So far,
Chase was winning both polls.

I didn’t have a story
of my own. Not yet, anyway. I needed to scoop it first. And it looked
like I was going to have a lot more time to do exactly that, as his
personal “on call” physical therapist. Would he want me to be
available to him 24/7, all hours of the day? And night? And why did I
feel excited about that prospect?

§

I knocked on Chase’s
door at six fifty-eight p.m. I really was my parents’ daughter.
They’d raised me on the saying, “if you’re early, you’re on
time. If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re late, it’s as
if you didn’t show up at all.” Slightly dorky, yes, but I
couldn’t help it. They’d baked it deep into my DNA.

I’d gone for a run in
the late afternoon, grabbed a salad and then taken a shower, so my
hair was still slightly damp. I’d thought about blow-drying, or
putting it up, but stopped myself. I wouldn’t start changing
everything for Chase Carter. Every day I woke up and pulled my hair
into a quick ponytail. It stayed like that until my late afternoon or
early evening run, depending on my schedule with clients. Then I took
my shower and let it air-dry. I wasn’t a primper, and Chase would
just have to deal with that. This wasn’t a date, anyway. Even
though butterflies flew around in my stomach exactly like it was.

He opened the door
wearing a T-shirt and shorts, not tight but draping along the
definition of his muscles. Damn the man had muscles. At five feet
five inches, I wasn’t short, but he made me feel small standing
next to him, like he could pick me right up, swing me over his
shoulder and carry me into his bedroom.

Which was what it
seemed like he was thinking of doing when he looked down at me. That
heat I’d seen in his eyes earlier, it was still there as he stood
in the doorway.

“Your hair’s down,”
he observed as he stepped to the side to let me in. “And a little
wet.” He reached out and took a strand between his fingers. “Did
you go swimming?”

“No.” I gave him a
slightly flustered smile, and took a step away. I didn’t know why I
felt so exposed around him. “I showered after my run.”

“Thought so,” he
murmured, almost to himself, and then went on to ask me questions
like the athlete he was.

“What kind of a
runner are you? Short course or long?”

“Distance.” I knew
what he meant, even though he used swimming terminology.

“What’s your
favorite race?”

“10K.” I didn’t
have to think a moment about that. I’d run a marathon, once, and
decided that would be my one and only. The first guy who’d run it
had died at the end, anyway. Even a half marathon became a slog to
me. But the 10K? That fit me just right, long enough I could push it
the whole time, but short enough I could still walk to a bar and
celebrate afterward with friends.

“What’s your best
time?”

“45:23.”

“Did you run in
college?”

“Yes.” I held up my
hand, signaling to him to give me a moment after all those rapid-fire
questions. And I had to tease him a little. “So, you don’t like
interviews. But you don’t mind giving them?”

“I do want to get to
know you.” The intensity in his aquamarine eyes made me catch my
breath. As did his next question. “How do you know I don’t like
giving interviews?”

“Everyone knows
that.” I shrugged, averting my eyes. It wasn’t because I was
trying to interview him! Besides, what I said was true. Everyone did
know that he hated interviews. He’d grown famous for his swimming,
of course, but his avoidance of the spotlight had played into his
star status, too. Everyone wanted what they couldn’t have.

I looked around his
suite and realized while all of us were staying in the same hotel
near the swim center, we clearly weren’t all in the same type of
room. Chase had a lavishly decked-out suite with what looked like a
full kitchen and living room large enough to accommodate a massage
table, already all set up.

“Would you like
something to drink?” he asked, heading toward the kitchen. “Water?
Pellegrino? I’ve got some sports drinks, too.”

I smiled, in spite of
my nerves. It was kind of nice to not have to explain myself. I’d
never been a big drinker, and after my last boyfriend’s tendency to
get stumble-down drunk more nights than not, I’d cut way back. But
I wouldn’t have to explain that to Chase the uber-athlete, now
would I?

“I’ll have some
water, thanks.” I followed him into the kitchen. He handed me a
glass, then started fixing himself a whole wheat bagel with peanut
butter. His short brown hair looked a bit wet. I bet it usually was.
I wanted to run my hands through it.

“Want one?” he
gestured to the bagel, an overflowing gooey, sticky mess.

“Thanks, I just ate.”

“So did I.” He gave
me a goofy smile I couldn’t help but return.

“Hard to get enough
calories?” I asked, understanding. I’d worked with athletes
before, though none of his caliber. Even for top-tier athletes, his
workouts were legendary, five or six hours a day of swimming over two
separate sessions. He probably had to take in around 8,000 calories
every day.

“Never enough,” he
agreed, giving me a hungry look. Insatiable, huh? I took a sip of my
water and looked down.

“Why did you become a
massage therapist, too?” He gazed at me with those bright blue
eyes, his head tilted slightly with curiosity. “In addition to
being a physical therapist?”

“Well,” I
reflected, “probably because of my mom.”

“Is she one?”

“No, she’s a nurse.
But she works in this great senior facility with a lot of different
physical and massage therapists and I guess I grew up understanding
how much they could both help people.”

“You like to help
people?”

That struck me as a
strange question. I looked at him, and he shrugged, munching on the
last bites of his bagel. “Not everyone does,” he clarified.

“I think it’s
more…” I struggled with the right words to express something I
wasn’t sure I ever had before. “So many people walk around in
constant pain. My mom used to be one of them.”

Without realizing I was
doing it, I started telling him all about it, how my mom had
developed rheumatoid arthritis at the early age of 40 with crippling
pain every morning. Eighty-five pounds overweight and sedentary,
she’d had high blood pressure and faced a scary downhill slide into
her future.

“So she changed.” I
brightened up at the memory. I’d only been 11 at the time, but I
could still remember how she’d started walking in the mornings,
lifting first two-pound then five-pound weights as she hustled around
before breakfast. She’d met with a nutritionist, physical and
massage therapists and low and behold she’d made that illusive,
long-term lasting whole-scale change.

“It’s so
inspiring,” I gushed, thinking about how healthy she was now in her
50s. She and my father went biking and swimming together almost every
day, enjoying life like they never had before. “Pain is so
debilitating for so many people. I like doing what I can to lift it.”

“You’re a good
person.” He made the statement as if it were a done deal, the final
decision on the subject. I looked up and met his eyes. Not a hint of
a smile, he wasn’t teasing. He really thought I was a good person.

“Um, thanks.” I
tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and left the kitchen. I didn’t
usually start talking about myself and my family with someone I
didn’t even know, let alone someone who was supposed to be my
client for the next month. But all of this was new. I’d never had
just one person I was working with at a time before, for an entire
month. As we practically lived together in hotels.

“So, the on-call
thing?” I started. “Can we talk about what you have in mind for
the next month? Just working with you?”

“It’s simple.” He
walked into the living room over to the massage table. “I’m going
to be pushing myself to the limit over the next month. I’d like to
work with you on an as-needed basis, starting the day, ending the
day, sometimes in the middle, too.”

I nodded. That was a
lot. But he’d be my only client.

“I have a chance to
make history at these games, win gold medals and maybe even break a
world record. I think I can do it, especially if I work with the
right team. I’d like you to be a part of it.”

My breath caught in my
throat as I looked up at him, feeling a sudden rush of excitement.
I’d always loved the Olympic Games, the triumph of will and
athleticism, the inspiring moments of personal achievement and
victory hovering over the risk of heartbreak and failure. I usually
watched them with my parents, holding my breath, jumping up to cheer
at a perfect vault or record-breaking sprint. Watching athletes fly
through water had always been our favorite. Swimming was huge in
Florida where the weather made it a year-round sport. I’d done some
recreational team swimming as a kid, enough so I really understood
what a Herculean impossibility it was to swim that fast.

Chase was one of the
greatest swimmers of all time. He’d missed the last Olympic Games
in 2012 due to an injury, leaving the spotlight to others. Now he had
his chance. As a part of his team, Chase was offering me a chance to
make history.

“Let’s do it.” I
smiled up at him.

“Thank you.” He
reached out and gave my shoulder a brief squeeze. The contact buzzed
through me as I nodded, my stomach doing a slow flip. I didn’t know
what kind of a ride we’d be on for the next month, but I knew I
wanted to be on it.

Wasting no time—that
precious asset—he pulled off his shirt and shorts, standing before
me in just boxer briefs. I think I managed to keep a calm,
professional mask on my face but inside I was leaping around and
freaking out. Those abs! That V! He’s hung like a horse!

“Tonight, focus on my
right shoulder and left quad.” He climbed onto the massage table,
lying on his back.

I asked him a bit about
each, making sure he didn’t perceive any recent injury or
aggravation. He had general muscle fatigue, plus some symptoms of
overuse. I would have to talk to his coaches and get the full plan on
how he was going to taper. Somehow I didn’t think “scaling back”
was a frequent phrase used in Chase’s vocabulary. He might need
some help with that.

Zeroing in on the task
at hand, I worked on his thigh, focusing on my every touch, making
sure I applied enough but not too much pressure, easing his tension.
I could feel some grittiness in his quad, maybe scar tissue, and he
needed care and attention. I could lose myself in my work, and I did
just that, but right as I gave his warm and relaxed muscle a pat and
said “turn over,” something snapped me right out of it.

His cock, long and hard
and fully aroused, strained against his briefs. Fully covered, I
still could see every impressive inch of it pressing against the
thin, form-fitting cotton. My mouth fell slightly open as I noticed
the ridge around his crown. So huge. What would it feel like to be
with a man that big? And in his kind of athletic condition? He could
probably fuck me all night.