Page 36 of Challenge
I shuffle away from him as he tries to inspect my knee. “I’m fine,” I snipe. “I don’t think I’ll need The Wilson Repair.”
He huffs out a laugh. “If you did, I know a good doctor.”
I hobble over to a nearby bench and silently curse the universe for making me look like such an arse at this particular moment. Camden tries to help me sit, but I reject his assistance. “What are you doing here? Something wrong with your knee?”
“I came to see you.” He looks down at me, shoving a shaky hand through his hair and scratching the back of his neck. “Can we talk?”
I look over and see Belle walking backwards away from us. “I’ll pick you up for the club in two hours!” she sings merrily as if it’s completely normal for a hunky, famous footballer, whom I’ve just operated on, to pry me off a street sign. She gives me a “toodles” sort of wave and I squeeze my knee to stop myself from giving her a wave of my finger.
A rueful smile tugs at Camden’s mouth. “Are you off work tonight?”
I lick my lips slowly. “Yes. Belle and I are off for five days, and it’s sort of a tradition after we work long weeks to go out on our first night.”
“I can understand that.” He sits down beside me, propping the side of his leg on the bench and draping an arm over the back. He smells better than ever.
“Are you doing your therapy I hope?” I ask, eyeing his denim-covered knee and noting how annoyingly hot he looks in dark jeans and a fitted, black T-shirt.
He nods thoughtfully. “Yes. The physical therapist is about as exciting as dry toast, but I feel great during our workouts. Normal even.”
I purse my lips and let go of my knee to sit up straight, mindful not to sit back and brush against his arm. “That’s sort of the point.”
A fleeting look of nerves shadow his eyes before he blurts, “I just started reading my book again.”
I frown. “What book?”
“My Cross novel.”
My face falls.Fudge.In my anger, I’d all but forgotten about the note I wrote inside of it.
“I’m guessing by your reaction that note was from you?”
I look away. “That was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you turned into a prickish footballer who gave me the cold shoulder.”
He deflates and shifts closer to me. “Indie—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off and slide down the bench away from him. “I’m not some baby who needs coddling.”
“I know it. I was the baby,” he replies while running a hand down his thigh. “I saw Dr. Prichard with his hands on you in the OR and I didn’t like it. And I didn’t like that I didn’t like it.”
I actually have to shake the stupor from my brain before I can reply. “The Prichard thing was nothing.”
“Well, I’m not a sharer,” he adds, piercing me with his stunning blue eyes. “Then you left the night before and it all just got to me. A bloke’s ego can only take so much.”
“You’re a professional footballer. Your ego should be bigger than London.”
His lips form a line. “It usually is…but not around you.”
I shoot him an “are you kidding me” expression. Does he really expect me to believe that I have the ability to make him insecure?
“Look, this is my fault. I’m taking full blame here. I just let what Dr. Fuckwad said get to me.” His jawbone ticks with obvious anger.
“Who?”
His eyes narrow. “Dr. Prichard. He made it a point to tell me about your published research on The Wilson Repair and it made me feel like I was being manipulated.”
