Finding Dr. Right. Lisa B. Kamps

the Cup this year.

      “Nathan?”

      “What?” He flinched at the sharpness of his own voice and made an effort to soften it with a smile at Matthew.

      “Don’t worry, you’ll play again. I know you will.” The certainty in the child’s voice touched a hidden spot deep inside him, a spot he didn’t want to examine too closely. Swallowing hard, he leaned over and ruffled the kid’s hair then pulled back guiltily when Dr. Wilson came to a stop behind the wheelchair. There was no mistaking the glint of warning in her eyes as she stared down at him.

      The shrill sound of the buzzer echoed off the ice and pierced the noise of the crowd, silencing the excuse that had formed on his lips as effectively as it signaled the end of the game. The cheering crowd moved to its feet and slowly turned into a throng of beasts just two steps shy of a stampede, doing their best to scramble out of the arena. Nathan was struck by the uncomfortable silence that engulfed the three of them, setting them apart from the hordes. Embarrassment raced through him when he realized they were waiting for the crowd to thin before moving Matty’s wheelchair.

      He glanced at his watch. “Hey, Matty, how’d you like to go meet everyone?”

      “I don’t think—”

      “Oh, too cool!” Matthew’s squeal of excitement drowned out the doctor’s objection. “Please, Mom, can I?” He turned in his wheelchair and looked up at her with wide brown eyes full of pleading, and Nathan knew that whatever objections she had been about to voice just died a swift death. Hell, even he wouldn’t have been able to resist that look. He noticed the doctor’s pursed lips and met her narrowed eyes as she reluctantly nodded her consent. Without a doubt, Matty knew exactly what buttons to push with his mom. Nathan decided he’d have to talk to the kid and find out what he was doing wrong. There was no doubt he was pushing the good doctor’s buttons, too.

      It was just a shame they were all the wrong ones.

      Chapter Three

      Sweat poured from Nathan’s face; he reached up and absently wiped the stinging from his eye. Focus. He needed to focus. He struggled against the weight, feeling the pull in his knee. Focus! He repeated the word with a mental shout, over and over until the refrain obliterated the tearing pain he felt.

      One more. Just one more.

      He leaned back and gripped the padded handles harder, pulling, lifting, until a flash of heat tore through his knee. The sound of steel hitting steel rang out like a shot and echoed through the empty gym, taunting him with his failure.

      “Damn!” Nathan wiped a towel across his face before resting his elbows on his knees. Just that little bit of pressure caused more pain and he winced before shifting positions.

      “Damn!” The curse echoed around him. This was definitely not going the way he had planned. He was into his fourth week of physical therapy. He should be able to lift more weight by now. They had told him not to push it, but what did they know? If he waited as long as they suggested, he’d be old and gray before he went back to playing. That was a chance he couldn’t take.

      Nathan ran his hands through his damp hair then stood, ignoring the throbbing in his leg that threatened to topple him to the floor before he got his balance. He limped halfway to the locker room, thinking of nothing but a long, hot shower followed by several ice packs when the gym door opened behind him.

      “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The voice was unnaturally loud, the anger and accusation bouncing off the walls. Nathan stopped with a sigh and slowly turned.

      Sonny LeBlanc stormed across the floor, his meaty fists clenched by his sides when he stopped a foot away. Nathan fought the urge to flinch and make up excuses like a child. Sonny had that effect on everyone. At a stocky six feet tall, Sonny looked more like a former drill sergeant than a hockey coach. His dark eyes were harsh slits and the squareness of his face was made more austere by the buzz cut of his salt-and-pepper hair. The straight-edged scar that ran down the left side of his cheek glowed red under the bright overhead lights, an incongruous slash in an otherwise smooth face.

      Sonny had the misfortune of running into a skate blade during one of his final games years earlier. Now one of the best coaches in the league, he had the reputation of remaining outwardly impassive—except for the scar. No matter how poker-faced the man stayed, the scar always betrayed him, glowing like a brand during times of anger and duress.

      Right now, the brightness of the scar would light the gym if the power failed. Not a good sign for Nathan. He took a deep breath and let it out, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

      “How stupid are you, Conners? How stupid do you think I am? What are you trying to do, blow every chance you have of coming back? I oughtta suspend you just for being dumb! I’d’ve thought you knew better! Well? What the hell are you doing?”

      “Therapy.” Nathan’s tight voice seemed liked a whisper after Sonny’s outburst.

      “Bull! I just got off the phone with that doctor of yours and he said you ain’t supposed to be doing any of this crap until you’re cleared.” Sonny’s finger came up and jabbed Nathan in the chest for emphasis. “And you’re not cleared! Now get in there and wash up and don’t let me catch you back here! I’m not going to have you blow your chance because of some bullheaded notion swimming around that thick skull of yours!”

      Nathan clenched his jaw and stared at Sonny’s broad back as he left, feeling like an ultimatum had been laid at his feet. So now they were trying to keep him from working on his own, were they? Well, he’d just go see about that. He had too much at stake to let it rest in someone else’s lap.

      “I need to see Dr. Porter,” Nathan repeated for the third time, leaning closer to the desk so he hovered over the receptionist. He felt a second of gratitude when she flinched.

      “Mr. Conners, I’m sorry, but I already explained he left for the day. I can make an appoint—”

      “No! I want to see him. Now.”

      “There is nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”

      Nathan glared at the small woman staring back at him and called himself every kind of fool. He would get nowhere by browbeating the poor lady, but he couldn’t just turn around and walk away. He had come here full of steam, eager for a face-off. He couldn’t give up so easily, not when there was so much at stake. “What about Dr. Wilson? Is she in?”

      The receptionist eyed him warily then flipped through one of the many appointment books in front of her. He was grabbing at straws, he knew, but he was desperate.

      “Yes, she’s still here.”

      “Fine, then I’ll see her.”

      “Mr. Conners, you can’t just walk in…she has patients.”

      Nathan shot a quick look around the empty waiting room then turned back to the receptionist. “I need to see her!”

      “Mr. Conners, I said—”

      “What is going on out here?” Nathan turned at the sound of the cool voice, swallowed hard at the look of steel in the dark eyes that impaled him.

      “I’m sorry, Dr. Wilson, but Mr. Conners insists on seeing someone….”

      “In my office!” She turned smartly on her heels and walked down the short hallway, stopping at the open door of her office and shooting him a look of impatient anger. Nathan clenched his jaw and followed, preparing for the battle he had initiated. He flinched when she slammed the door behind them. The apology that hovered on the edge of his lips died before he could utter it.

      “Who do you think you are, storming in here and shouting like that?” Clenched fists rested on her slim hips as she stared at him, the fury evident in her flushed face and heavy breathing. Nathan fought back his own anger, knowing he had instigated her temper with his loud demands. It would be easier to ignore her if his gaze would stop traveling the length of her body,