Triple Score

“What are you doing here?” Sara rushed over to him before he could even put down his water bottle. “Your appointment’s not until noon.”

“I wanted to get some time in on the treadmill.”

“No way.” Sara shook her head. “I don’t want you jarring that elbow until it’s more stable.”

“It’s in a brace, for Christ’s sake.” Jace looked at his arm, the joint in question almost immobile thanks to the range-of-motion splint, and scowled. “How much more stable can it get?”

“You just got here yesterday.” She pursed her lips. “I haven’t had a chance to fully assess it yet.”

He held up his arm. “Assess away.”

“I have other patients to deal with right now.” She waved a hand around the room. A handful of other residents were using the equipment. One in particular caught his attention—a very familiar one on a stationary bike in the far corner, her ponytail swinging as she pedaled.

He registered the empty treadmill beside her and grinned. Like Hannibal Smith, leader of the A-team, he loved it when a plan came together. “How come she gets to work out?”

“Because she’s been here for a few weeks already. Today’s her first day off crutches.” Sara looked from Jace to the blonde, then back again. “And she’s taking it easy. She follows instructions. Unlike some people.”

“Hey, I can follow instructions.” Never mind that he’d completely ignored them last night. “When I have to.”

She smirked. “You forget I have your records from the hospital in California.”

Yeah. He hadn’t exactly been a hit with the staff there. Noncompliant, they’d labeled him. Uncooperative. He preferred to think of himself as focused. Goal oriented. “What if I promise to go slow, like the Duchess?”

“The Duchess?” Sara’s brows knotted together.

Damn. He hadn’t meant to let that slip.

“Yeah. She seems kind of...prissy. What’s she in for? Fall off her high heels? Get trampled by crazed shoppers at the Macy’s one-day sale?”

“You don’t have any idea who she is, do you?” Sara jabbed a finger at his chest. “That’s Noelle Nelson.”

Finally. The Duchess had a name. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“She’s only like the most famous ballerina in the country. Maybe even the world. Principal dancer with the New York City Ballet.”

Ballet? Jace knew as much about ballet as he did about nuclear physics. But he knew you needed two fully functioning knees. And from the look of the contraption on Noelle’s leg, she was in the same boat as him where her career was concerned. Without a paddle.

He watched her as she pedaled, her mouth set in a harsh line, a bead of sweat forming on her temple, her knuckles white on the handlebars. As slow as she was going, it still took an emotional toll. “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit.” Sara gave him a not-so-gentle shove toward the treadmill. “Go. Walk. But if I see you doing anything more than that, I’m hitting the emergency stop button.”

“Deal.” Jace started to offer his hand to her but pulled it back. “I’d shake on it, but I wouldn’t want to jar anything.”

“Ha-ha.” Sara picked up a physioball and headed across the room, where an older man with one ankle wrapped was sitting on a mat next to a set of low parallel bars. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for your session.”

Jace set off in the opposite direction.

“Morning, Duchess.” He plunked his water bottle into the holder on the treadmill console. “Fancy meeting you here.”

She stared out the window, not so much as glancing at him. “I thought we agreed to steer clear of each other.”

“You agreed. I just smiled.” He flashed her another of his never-fail-to-charm grins and hit the start button on the treadmill, setting the speed as high as he could without incurring the wrath of Sara.

“If you have to work out next to me, could you at least keep your mouth shut?”

“I thought we’d chit-chat. Get to know each other. Pass the time. Hell, at this speed, I could recite the Gettysburg Address.” He peeked over his shoulder for Sara. Her back to him, she was totally occupied with the guy in the ankle wrap. He edged the rate of the treadmill up a notch. “If I remembered it.”

Noelle swiveled her head to look at him. Finally. Too bad her baby blues flashed with annoyance and not a more...pleasurable emotion. Like desire. “What part of ‘I’m not here to make friends’ did you not get?”

“You can’t have too many friends. And you know what they say about all work and no play.”

“Well, I don’t want to play.” Her head snapped forward, her attention back on the window, or whatever lay outside it. “You’re not the only one with a job on the line and people counting on you.”

“Sara says you’re some big-time ballerina.”

“Sara’s new. She talks too much.”

“What’d you do?” He gestured toward her leg. “Torn ACL?”

“How did you guess?”

“I’ve seen a few in my time. Not on a dancer, though.”

“Dancers are just as much athletes as baseball players.” From the way the last two words dripped off her tongue, it was clear she considered his profession on par with used car salesmen and politicians. “More so, if you asked me. You don’t see us sitting on the bench, spitting tobacco. And the guys I work with throw around hundred-pound ballerinas, not a five ounce sphere.”

“Easy, Duchess.” He held up a palm. “I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

“You don’t have to try.” She tossed her ponytail. “You just do.”

“Like Yoda?”

“Minus the green skin and the pointy ears, obviously.”

“So you think dancers are better athletes than ballplayers?”

“Not better.” Wrinkles creased her forehead like she was deep in thought, searching for the right word to bridge the gap between her occupation and his. “Different. But we earn our living with our bodies, just like you do.”

“Finally.” He flashed another mega-watt smile, with as little effect as the last one. Damn. He hadn’t struck out this many times in a row since he’d faced Johan Santana at Shea his rookie season. “Something we have in common.”

“I seriously doubt there’s anything else.”

“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s just say I’m not interested in finding out.” She slowed, then stopped pedaling.

“That’s disappointing.”

“I guess you’ll have to learn to live with disappointment.”