Read Online Sidelined: A Wilde Players Dirty Romance by A.M. Hargrove, Terri E. Laine - Free Book Online

hours.”
    He folds his hands across his chest. “I’m up for it if you are. I’ll pay you for your time.”
    As tempting as it is, I say, “I need to think about it.”
    “Don’t take too long, Cass. I need to tell my agent something tomorrow.”
    “You’ll have my answer by then.”
    And as much as I want to stay and let Fletcher fuck my brains out, I leave, wondering exactly what I’ll tell him in the morning.

 
    Fletcher
     
     
    Last night Cassidy told me to meet her at the office around noon today. If she can’t get me back on the field, we’re both fucked. I won’t have a chance in hell of negotiating another contract if I can’t prove my worth to anyone, not to mention, her career could possibly be ruined if it becomes known that she’s the one who failed to rehab me properly.
    But then it hits me. Not ruining her career is even more important than getting a contract signed. What does this tell me? Am I so pussy-whipped already that I’m willing to do anything just to make her look good? One thing I do know is she means the world to me, and I want to make her shine like gold.
    She opens the door for me and then locks it after I enter. The place is quiet and empty, since it’s Sunday. The office isn’t open on weekends, so we have the place to ourselves.
    “Ready?” she asks.
    “As I’ll ever be.”
    “This is going to be intense, Fletcher. I’m going to push you harder than I normally push patients. You’re going to have to let me know whether it’s good pain or bad. I trust you know the difference, being an athlete.”
    “I do.”
    She begins with manipulation and massage, where I grind my molars to prevent me from whining out loud and sounding like some pansy ass. I’ve barely recovered from that when she sticks her head in front of mine, and with a bright smile asks, “Ready for some strengthening exercises?”
    My feeble muscles feel like mush, and she’s just taken them and torn each fiber individually, treating them as though they are rubber bands. Well, they aren’t, and I’ve a mind to tell her as much. And now she wants to know what? If I want to lift weights or something? I think she’s purposefully trying to be evil, to pay me back for those disgusting media pictures.
    Only I have to put my best face forward or she’ll know I’m nothing but a whiny ass bastard. “Whatever you say, boss.” And I grin as sweetly as I can, even though sweat is gushing out of me like I’m a fucking thundercloud.
    “Okay, here.” She hands me two of those wide elastic bands and tells me to step inside of them so my ankles and thighs are wrapped in them. And then I go to work doing all sorts of crazy shit. Who knew those thin little pieces of rubber could be so damn torturous? I’m going to melt every single one I can find if I ever get through this. I need a block of wood to bite down on. This shit is like getting sacked by a three hundred pound defensive end over and over. After fifteen minutes of this, I want to call my mom and cry and ask her for my blankie.
    “How ya doin’ over there?” she calls out from across the room, clipboard in hand.
    “Good. Great.” Motherfucker. Get me through this.
    “Good job, Fletch. Keep going.”
    I watch her grab a pen from behind her ear and scribble something down. I wonder if it’s bring out the rack, that old medieval torture device, and put Fletcher on it to abuse him some more.
    When I don’t think it’s possible for me to lift either leg one more time, she says, “Great job. That was awesome. Now for your shoulder.”
    Shoulder? I have a shoulder?
    “Lie down on the table.” And she does that muscle-tearing, ripping-out thing she did to my knee. The next thing I know, I’m stretching my arm against some slanted board, cursing everything known and unknown to man. Why the hell did I ever agree to this?
    When those stretching motions are over, I think my right arm is ten inches longer than my left. This could be a good thing. If my