The Player Next Door (3 page)

Oh. Right. Then before she could say more, he held up his good hand.

“I just need ice. And my painkillers.”

“I will help you to your home.”

“I can walk just fine.” Then he threw her tee at her face and it landed with a soft
whump
.

She lifted her chin even though it was now buried beneath cotton fabric. “I’m helping you anyway,” she said. When she pulled the tee away, he was glaring at her, clearly disgruntled. That was not what she wanted, so she decided to give him a gift. She pulled on her tee with rapid jerks. “There you go. No longer are you tempted to look down and scar your vision with my voluptuous mammary glands.”

She thought he would scowl at her. Edward would always say something caustic when she got sarcastic. But just as she was bracing to be insulted, he started to laugh. It was a low rumble that began as a chuckle but kept going until she had to call it a laugh. It was a lovely sound. Deep and manly. It stirred happy memories of her father reading something especially delightful. In truth, it made her want other things too that had nothing to do with her parent. But that might be a function of him being a large, handsome man with the body of an Adonis.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

He jerked his chin to the house right on the other side of her fence. “Next door.” He used his free hand to wrap around his chest, apparently trying to reach the right side pocket in his shorts. He didn’t bother stifling his curse this time. “Can you grab the key out of my pocket?”

She folded her arms across her chest, as much to fight the urge to dig around very intimately in his pockets. “The Ketchums live there. She makes the best pies and he’s a retired school teacher.”

“And they’re away on a two-month cruise courtesy of their son.” He waited a moment for some reason, his gaze both wary and expectant. But she didn’t know anything about the Ketchums’ son and so she said nothing. Then he sighed for some mysterious reason. “I’m house-sitting.”

She thought about that for a moment. In her experience house sitters were college kids who needed a cheap place to live for the summer, but that might just be because her entire life revolved around a college campus. Who was she to wonder if the Ketchums picked a modern-day Hercules to watch their house?

She might have questioned him further. He just didn’t fit as a house sitter. He was too big and confident. Not that house sitters couldn’t have their act together, but as a general rule, they didn’t. Not if they were still doing odd jobs at his age which had to be in his early thirties.

But since he’d just saved her life and was looking more strained by the second, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. So she gestured for him to precede her to the Ketchums’ house.

He all but rolled his eyes at her. What? Couldn’t a woman be skeptical? Apparently not. But he resolutely crossed to his front door, then raised his eyebrows at her. “Now’s where you get that key. It’s in my shorts. Right side.” He angled his hips and even pulled up his hoodie enough to show her the cut beauty of his physique.

She had to admit she was impressed. Michelangelo had sculpted bodies like this. Pristine marble that demonstrated a thorough understanding of anatomy. But this man was alive, his flesh rippling as he moved.

Her fingers itched to stroke that skin, so she folded her arms tight to her body. “You are fully capable of getting that key.”

He looked at her, his jaw tightening. “I don’t need to resort to cheap tricks to get fondled by a woman. My arm’s immobilized, I’m going to call my doctor the moment I get inside, and damn it…will you please just get my fucking keys?”

Okay. So her attempt at humor hadn’t worked. And perhaps he was in a lot more pain than she realized. So with a quick nod, she reached forward and pulled out the key ring. It was a quick movement, done in the blink of an eye. Or so she pretended.

Actually, her hand had to flatten across his hip to grab it. Heat and iron muscles rippled underneath her palm. The thin nylon of his shorts did nothing to blunt the cut tightness of his body. Wow. Had the temperature just shot up twenty degrees? And then the answer clicked in her mind.

“Are you a cover model?” That would explain why he was house-sitting. From what she understood, they weren’t paid a lot.

“I’m an athlete.” He ground out the words as he snatched the keys out of her hand. “Pro.” That last word was punctuated with a glare.

Touchy touchy. Or perhaps
—
she grudgingly admitted
—
in a lot of pain. She stood back, watching him unlock the front door while she searched her memory. She didn’t follow sports at all, but she had lived in Chicago for the last four years. Some sports were hard to miss even when one lived in an ivory tower, and that included basketball. Granted, this man didn’t play for the Chicago Bulls, but he was a thorn in their side, or so her fellow professors claimed. And now that she’d placed him, she wanted to whack herself in the head for her stupidity. In her defense, he’d grown out his hair, hiding the signature eagle tattoo. Plus no one expected the famous Knicks point guard Michael Giamaria to be house-sitting next door.

So, a NY Knickerbocker was house-sitting in Chicago. No one would believe her if she told them that. And worse, what the hell did she say to him now?

While she pondered her next attempt to get him to laugh, he opened the door and pushed into the modest ranch-style home. He didn’t even glance back at her as she trailed in behind.

“I’ve got it,” he grumbled. “You can go home now.” Then a pause before his tone moderated a tad. A very tiny tad. “Thanks.”

“I can help with the ice,” she said, loath to leave him alone. He was injured from rescuing her. The least she could do was help with the ice. And if he had to take off his shirt to do it, so much the better.

He didn’t respond, but walked deeper into the house. She looked around as she followed, appreciating the simple decor. Her aunt’s house was cluttered with knickknacks of every sort on top of fussy Laura Ashley prints. This house had simple brown paneling, beige carpet, and nicely polished wood furniture. Very serviceable and very clean.

But then she stepped into the kitchen/family room combination. Clearly this is where the Ketchums lived. The large kitchen was very modern. Had to be, she supposed, to accommodate a prize-winning pie maker. And it attached onto a family room dominated by a very large, very big screen TV.

It was also, she noted, where her neighbor spent his time. She saw free weight equipment scattered over the room, plus various other electronics. A quick perusal showed her an e-reader and iPad on the coffee table, plus a laptop on the counter that faced the television. That’s where her neighbor went
—
the counter
—
except he reached behind the laptop to pull out a medicine bottle. He tried to open the childproof cap one-handed, but this proved too much for his big hands.

“I got it,” she said, coming closer. She took the bottle from his hands, feeling the warmth of his fingers entwining with hers for a brief moment. Damn, she’d always been a sucker for a guy’s hands. Large, strong, and full of power. His were at least a size larger than she’d thought possible on a man, and she couldn’t stop the tease of arousal that whispered through her body.

She stepped away, opening the cap. “How many do you need?” she asked, but he was already there taking the medicine from her hand.

One-handed, he tapped out two pills onto the counter, then he quickly threw them back, swallowing them dry.

“I always choke when I do that,” she said, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed. Even his neck was muscular, she realized.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he thumbed on the iPhone on the counter, punching the second speed dial before putting it to his ear. Well, if he was going to ignore her, the least she could do is try to be useful. She’d get him ice, but first she needed a baggie to put it in. So she started pulling open drawers.

He spun around and frowned at her. “What are you doing?”

“Looking
—
”

“Hey Joey,” he interrupted, speaking into the phone. “Call me. I…” He sighed, and there was a wealth of frustration in the sound. “I think I messed up.”

He meant
she
messed up by falling onto him. Crap, she was just now processing that she’d seriously hurt him. Sure, she knew he’d wrenched something, but damaging an accountant’s shoulder wasn’t that big a deal. Or a car salesman or an electrician. Any of a zillion other jobs. But he was a pro athlete. And not just any pro but a multi-million-dollar megastar.

Damn. But at least she’d found the baggies. She pulled out the box with a ta-da motion only to have him thumb his phone off, stomp to the freezer and grab a cold pack off a shelf. No baggie required.

Oh.

He slapped it too hard onto his chest, the super-sized blue Ace pack whipping over his shoulder to slap against this back. Of course the hoodie kinda dulled the impact. And the cooling effect.

“That would probably be more effective without the sweatshirt.”

“I know,” he said, his words clipped. But of course, she saw the problem even before he tried to haul off his sweatshirt one-handed. Not going to be easy to take off his shirt while keeping the shoulder immobilized.

“Let me help,” she said.

He glanced at her, and she could see he wanted to refuse. He was getting surlier by the second, and she was struggling to think of ways to make him laugh. In fact, this was starting to feel eerily like the last few years with Edward, and she’d just made a big and clear break from the let-me-tease-you-into-a-good-mood lifestyle. So instead of cracking a joke, she simply stood there and waited for him to either throw her out or acknowledge that he needed some help.

It took about twenty more seconds of him fumbling one-handed, but in the end, he huffed out a breath. “If you could…”

“Of course,” she said sweetly. “I’d be happy to help, Mr. Tiger…er, Mr. Woods.” She knew he wasn’t Tiger Woods, but a horrible part of her personality couldn’t help but poke at inflated egos. And superstar athletes were the worst of the bunch. Not that she knew any, but still.

It took him a moment to realize what she’d said. Long enough for her to have buried him in the depths of his hoodie such that his sputtering was muffled by the fabric. Or maybe he was cursing because she couldn’t help but jostle his arm.

Shit.

But then he emerged, and his eyes were flashing fire. “Golf? Seriously?”

She put on her most clueless blonde look and blinked at him. Then she grabbed the ice pack and pressed it
—
gently
—
to his shoulder. Or rather it would have been gently if he hadn’t been moving to do the same thing. As it was, the impact was a little bit harder than she intended.

He hissed slightly in reaction, and she settled the rest of the long blue pack over his back. The thing was cold enough to bother her fingers, but he made no more response as she settled it tight against his body.

Well. Taut male physique exposed here for her perusal. She couldn’t fault the view, that was for sure. She wondered just what the average basketball bunny would give to be where Tori was standing right now: in front of a wounded and mostly naked Michael Giamaria.

Meanwhile, Mr. Superstar Athlete was still annoyed she hadn’t recognized him. “I’m not Tiger Woods,” he groused.

“Really?” she said in her most innocent voice.

He studied her, then a moment later cursed under his breath. “You’re teasing me. You know who I am.”

“Does it matter?” she challenged. If he expected her to ask for his autograph, he was sadly mistaken. “I’m Tori Williams, by the way.”

“Hello Tori,” he said, but his tone was still miffed. He leaned over in his chair, far enough to reach a pile of brown Ace bandages stacked neatly in the corner. He grabbed three
—
his hand was that large
—
then started to unravel one before pressing the end to the front of the ice pack. “Hold it here?”

It was a question, but she bristled at his order. It wasn’t rational. Edward had done that a million times to her. Phrasing an order as a question. So because she knew that she was reacting irrationally, she held one end of the bandage down then wrapped it as he directed.

Just as she was halfway through the third Ace, his phone rang. He thumbed it on with his good hand and pressed it to his ear.

“Joey?”

She was so close she could hear the other end of the conversation clear as a bell. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Caught an acrobat out of the air.” He glanced up at her when he said it and if she were in a more charitable mood, she might have smiled. Instead, she felt a wave of guilt. What if she’d just ended his career?

“What?” Joey asked on the other end. Well, that and a string of profanity. Tori distracted herself from her guilt by appreciating the rhythm of the curses. It was almost iambic pentameter.

Meanwhile, Michael was grimacing into the phone. “Stop it, Joey. Look, can you come check it out? Or Doc? And bring the Cortisone.”

“Doc’s already on his way. I’d come over, too, if this traffic would fu—”

Michael thumbed off the phone mid-curse, but he didn’t look up. His gaze was on the phone and his thoughts a million miles away. Probably on the problems his one Good Samaritan moment had caused in his life. She silently sent up a prayer to the Unifying Force of All Good that the damage was minor. She’d never forgive herself if her stupidity on the roof had ended his career.

In the end, she cleared her throat and stepped away. “So your friend’s on his way over—”

“Doc. And yeah.”

“Do you need me to wait around?”

“And trade golf tips?”

Was that a joke? Probably, but she was feeling too guilty to react appropriately. So she flashed him her most idiot blonde smile and waved at her house. “I’ll just go back to my roofing
—
”

“No!”

She swallowed. Okay. Well, she was feeling a little hot anyway. “Um, okay. Rock garden it is. But, you know, if you need anything else, I’m right next door.”