Page 34 of Whiskey Wednesdays

Coach Bailey turned to me and scowled. “I don’t appreciate being contradicted in front of my players, Ms. Cruz.”

Ben stilled next to me, and my heart sped up.

“I meant no disrespect.”

He pointed at my chest. “Don’t do it again.”

He was starting to prick my temper, and my face got hot. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try. And call me Isabella.”

Coach Bailey’s eyebrows rose. Ben folded his arms and looked down at his feet, and I thought I heard Phyllis chuckle, but I couldn’t be sure.

“Coach, Butler has a question for you,” Phyllis broke in.

Coach Bailey turned away, and I decided to go back to the medical office so I wouldn’t cause any more trouble. I took off down the hall, feeling a little sick to my stomach.

I’d never had a confrontation during any of my clinical rotations before. A few staff here and there had been dismissive or impatient, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary.

When I got to the medical office and flipped on the light, I pulled up short. One of the players was sitting in an ice bath with his eyes closed and his head laid back on the edge.

“I didn’t know anyone was in here. Do you want me to turn off the light and leave you in peace, or can I quietly fume while you soak?”

The player seemed huge, even sitting in the metal tub. I could also see an intricate tattoo on his shoulder, and his messy thick blond hair looked like he combed it once a week at the most.

“Don’t care,” he grunted.

“Okay. Lights on or off?”

“Still don’t care.” There was a hint of Canadian French in his deep voice.

“On might be better, after what Coach Bailey just insinuated to the team,” I muttered under my breath.

The player raised his head up, and I noticed he was older than the other guys on the team. Maybe even in his mid-thirties. He also looked annoyed.

I held up my hand. “Cold water immersion sucks enough without listening to someone complain. I’ll be quiet.”

Walking over to the counter, I picked up the clipboard with Ben’s notes regarding the concussion assessments and a few ongoing injuries we needed to watch.

I got lost in the charts until I heard the player rise out of the bath. I glanced over and noticed he had on compression shorts, thank God. Although the shorts were tight and didn’t hide much. He seemed to be looking around for a towel.

A stack of towels sat on the counter next to me, and I grabbed a couple. “Here, catch.”

His head came up as I tossed the towels, and he caught them both in one hand.

He grunted. “Thanks.”

I nodded absently and went back to the clipboard. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw him methodically strip off his shorts and pat himself dry. He threw a towel on the puddle of water he’d made on the floor and wrapped the second one around his waist.

When his towel was securely wrapped, I looked up and met his stare.

“I’m Isabella Cruz. I’ll be with Dr. Rasmussen and Dr. Singhal working as a physician assistant intern for the next three months. Call me Isa.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Titus.” His voice was low and gravelly.

I pointed to his right kneecap. “MCL injury?”

He nodded shortly.

I pointed to another scar on his left shoulder. “AC separation?”

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