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  HURTS SO GOOD

  By Myra Scott

  Hurts So Good

  Copyright 2018 by Myra Scott

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, redistributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in any database, without prior permission from the author.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All characters are 18+ and all situations are consensual.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  The Charmer

  About The Author

  Also By Myra Scott

  Hurts So Good

  Chapter One

  “I’m sorry, Mr.… um, Crash,” the woman on the phone replied in such a dull, monotonous voice that Crash Wellerson would’ve fallen asleep had he not been so damn irritated. “Your claim for your ACL rehab has already been processed by your insurance. Our therapist is on his way to your house as we speak. You can turn him away but you’ll be out two thousand dollars.”

  “Two thousand?” The major hockey league player groaned. “Seriously?”

  “Yep,” the receptionist replied, suddenly all too cheerful in the wake of Crash’s misery. “You’ve already gone through the surgery. Might as well do this session and then get on with your life.”

  “But I don’t need it!” Crash insisted as he ran a hand through his jet-black hair before pressing one of his palms against his battered knee. Wrapped up tight in gauze, it ached even under just the slightest pressure of Crash’s sturdy fingers. “I can manage this on my own. Rehabbing it is just a money grab.”

  “If you say so,” the woman droned, still on the line only because she had absolutely nothing else to do at the moment.

  She was more than content to smirk while Crash whined so she could giggle about this later at the water cooler with the cute guy from their accounting department. Nobody thought they needed rehab after their surgeries until they collapsed in the middle of their living room and had to crawl in pain-ridden army style to the nearest phone if they were lucky enough to be able to move.

  Crash, keenly observing that he was getting nowhere fast with the receptionist, didn’t bother muttering an irate goodbye before hanging up.

  He glowered at his phone, arms crossed over his mountainous chest. All he wanted was to get back in the hockey rink. When he closed his eyes, he could still smell the cold, fresh ice. He could still feel his skates gliding effortlessly over the frosted surface, slicing through it like a warm knife through butter. He could hear the crowd cheering like crazy; he could hear his teammates congratulating him for blocking another pass at their goal.

  It was killing him to not be there now.

  Coach Willis told Crash he was lucky that his anterior cruciate ligament tear was minor. With surgery, he’d only be out of the game for a few months before coming back for their new season next year. Most players were out for much longer with such a knee injury. But Crash didn’t feel lucky. He felt miserable.

  Coach wouldn’t let Crash back into the practice rink even to watch his teammates. It was probably a smart move on the coach’s part; he knew full well that Crash was definitely not one to just sit on the sidelines. He’d need to be in the depths of it, slamming pucks and skidding around.

  The thirty-two-year-old leaned back on his cozy leather couch, his hand still on his injured knee like he could spur it to heal faster through sheer willpower. If stubbornness did have such a power, Crash was hardheaded enough for it to happen.

  A raven cawed outside his window, soaking up the late April afternoon sun. Crash shifted, gazing out the large windows of his small home. Though he made enough money to live in a grander house, he didn’t care for any of that. Maybe he was a minimalist, but it was more likely he was just apathetic to luxury.

  Nothing mattered to goalie Crash Wellerson but the game, the ice, the competition.

  Their season, only just having ended a few weeks before, had been pathetic, and that was putting it optimistically. Crash’s knee had started bugging him mid-season, but he’d ignored the pain until he collapsed at the end of their last game, another defeat and another heavy blow to the Montana Miners’ already damaged morale. He’d had surgery the very next morning.

  His crutches mocked him from across the room, propped just out of reach. He hated those wooden torture contraptions that pinched under his arms and tripped him up. He just wanted to be able to walk again on his own. He just wanted to play hockey. Every second he sat on this couch without working out or practicing, he was losing his skill and athleticism. He could feel it slipping slowly away like water through two pressed-together palms.

  The doorbell rang, cheery chimes echoing through the living room. Crash glanced over, his best scowl arranged on his handsome, stern face for the rehab therapist. If he had to do this one session, he was not going to make it easy.

  Instead, it was Timmy Lyon who poked a curious face in through the unlocked door.

  “Hey, Crash!” He called with a grin, brown eyes glinting. “How you doing, man?”

  Crash let an internal groan slip all the way up his throat before swallowing it back down. The last thing he wanted was to have Timmy visit him. It was almost worse than having the therapist come.

  “What do you want?” Crash grunted, arms still firmly crossed after the hardened muscles of his chest.

  “Brought you coffee.” Timmy shrugged, slumping down on the couch. He extended a huge Starbucks drink towards Crash, one of those iced girly things with whipped cream and sprinkles that probably tasted like straight sugar.

  Crash eyed it skeptically, then looked at Timmy’s own cup, a simple Americano. No whipped cream. No sprinkles.

  “What the hell is this?” Crash asked grumpily, turning his nose up at the overly sweet-smelling drink.

  “Looked like something you’d like,” Timmy smirked.

  A defenseman on Crash’s hockey ream, Timmy had been subtly deriding Crash ever since he joined the team just before the last season began. Several years younger and greener and less mature than goalie Crash, Timmy was nothing but trouble aside from the fact that he was good at what he did in the rink. That was the only reason Crash tolerated him. Crash certainly didn’t respect Timmy as a person, but he did respect the young man’s budding skill. Timmy could be a great player one day, once Crash had retired if he’d just mature a bit.

  “It’s not,” Crash replied simply, refusing to touch the offensively frosted concoction.

  Crash was gay, and his whole team knew it.

  While he didn’t exactly boast about it every day, it was hardly a secret. No one on the team had even batted an eye when they found out, but something about Crash’s sexuality had stuck in the youngest defenseman’s juvenile craw.

  Timmy’s eyes flickered around the room from the crutches to Crash’s banged up knee.

  “So…” he said slowly, and Crash already knew where this was going. Fury b
egan brewing up inside the man’s robust chest, making his hackles raise defensively. “Looks like you may not be coming back to the rink for a while, hmm?”

  “Six weeks and I can play again,” Crash barked back. “So, don’t get used to not having me around.”

  Timmy just shrugged, his eyes gleaming. “If you say so,” he offered, in the exact same disbelieving tone that the receptionist had used.

  Crash could’ve punched him right there would it not upset Coach Willis. Crash was already in a precarious situation; if he irritated his coach, he could be out half the season, even once he fully recovered.

  When the doorbell rang again, Timmy arched a curious eyebrow.

  “Visitor?” he asked lightly as he settled back onto the couch like he was planning on staying a while, a fact which irked Crash to no end. “Who could that be?”

  Crash didn’t answer except to tilt his head far back. “It’s open!” he called out, making Timmy grimace with the power of his loud yell. As a temporary cripple, Crash had to get his amusement where he could.

  The door cracked slightly open, a pair of sea green eyes peering inquisitively inside, “Um, Mr. Sebastian Wellerson?” He asked slowly.

  “This is Sebastian’s place.” Timmy called back, emphasizing Crash’s full name in a way that made Crash’s skin crawl.

  He hated his full name. He’d always been Crash, rough and rowdy and strong. Sebastian made him sound like the kind of man who’d had boating lessons and wore bright blue polos every day.

  The man walked inside, setting down a heavy bag of equipment near the door.

  He approached quickly, holding out one of his hands. “I’m Jake Masters,” he said, grinning. “I’ll be your rehab therapist for the next couple of weeks.”

  Timmy abruptly burst into laughter, snickering behind his hand like a schoolboy trying to hide his laughter from a teacher. Jake ignored him completely, still smiling at Crash.

  The therapist was handsome, Crash noticed, with sandy hair and blue-green eyes that made him think of the ocean. He’d never even seen the ocean. Didn’t care to. What was the point of visiting a huge cold puddle? He liked to keep his feet on solid ground, not the slippery sands of a bay.

  “You have a nurse?” Timmy finally cackled, head falling back against the couch where he slumped uninvited beside Crash. “A nurse!”

  Crash didn’t answer, grimly shaking Jake’s hand. He made sure to squeeze the therapist’s hand a bit harder than normal, to show him how strong he was, to make him doubt that Crash even needed these appointments. The willowy, tawny-haired man didn’t seem to notice, his pleasant grin not fading an inch as he finally turned towards Timmy.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize this was a double appointment. You look like your sense of humor could use an adjustment along with Mr. Wellerson’s knee.”

  The smile instantly fell off Timmy’s mouth as his brow knit in slow realization that he was being mocked. It was Crash’s turn to laugh now as he slapped a hand against his good knee.

  “You can call me Crash, by the way.” The mountainous hockey player smirked. “Everyone does.”

  Jake smiled lightly, green eyes gleaming. “It’s nice to meet you, Crash. Why don’t you send your little friend on his way and we can get started here?”

  “Bye, little friend,” Crash echoed, waving a hand at Timmy as though he were shooing away a fly or a mosquito who wouldn’t stop buzzing in his ear.

  Timmy didn’t answer, standing up and shooting a scowl at the men before him. Without saying goodbye, he stalked out the door and slammed it hard behind him, leaving Jake and Crash alone in the living room.

  “Are you ready to get to work?” Jake asked, hands falling on his lean hips.

  While Crash was burly and rugged, Jake was lean and toned. Had Crash been in a better mood, he would’ve admired the slender strength of the other man’s body, but just the mention of this rehab ‘work’ was enough to make him glower.

  “I don’t need this,” Crash barked, irritation resurfacing like a submarine from the tide.

  Jake laughed an easy and warm laugh, fingers drumming on his hips. “That’s what they all say, Crash.”

  Chapter Two

  Two fifteen, the clock blinked in bright red letters from the clock on Crash’s unused desk in the corner of the living room.

  Only forty-five minutes left, Crash thought, clearing his throat and turning back to the sandy-haired man as Jake bent down and rummaged through his large black duffel bag.

  Crash observed him quietly, steely eyes slowly slinking down Jake’s lean figure. Though the physical therapist was slender, he was also well-built. Clearly, Jake cared as much about the health and strength of his own body as he did about his patients’. Crash could respect that. Didn’t mean he liked the situation though. In fact, the only thing that Crash really liked at the moment was the way Jake had shot down Timmy. Crash had to be on his best behavior with the young defenseman; he wasn’t allowed to get mouthy or Tim would run to Coach, but Jake was a whole other story. Crash didn’t use the word often, but he was damn near delighted about how Timmy was probably sniveling in the locker room right now, pouting about how Jake had rebuked him.

  With that thought, however, the goalie’s mood suddenly crashed even further than it had when Jake knocked on the door.

  At least Timmy was in the locker room. It was more than Crash could say. Crash glared at his injured knee, hating it for letting him down. He’d never so much as sprained an ankle before this. The worst injury he’d ever had was a stubbed toe. Coach used to say that was a miracle. So much for miracles now.

  “Alright, so we’re going to start with some simple stretches…” Jake murmured, and Crash wasn’t sure whether Jake was talking to the hockey player or himself.

  Crash shot a furtive glance to the clock. Two seventeen. The seconds were passing like snails creeping over the sidewalk in spring. But Crash was used to this, he was used to running down the clock when he needed to. It was as much a part of a hockey match as his expert blocking skills were. It was all about the strategy, and Crash knew the game well.

  “What kinds of stretches?” Crash asked idly, pretending for the moment to be interested as his grey eyes lingered on the clock. “How many different kinds of stretches are there?”

  Jake straightened back up, his hands resting on his trim hips as he shifted from one foot to the other as if he was the one about to do a workout. His mouth twitched, lips pursing thoughtfully.

  “There are lots of stretches, but most don’t apply to you right now. Today is going to be very light and simple.”

  “Why?” Crash rolled his eyes. “You’re afraid you’ll hurt me?”

  Crash practically dwarfed Jake. The goalie was broad as a mountain and just as tall. Jake looked like a spaghetti noodle next to him. A sexy spaghetti noodle, but a noodle nonetheless.

  Jake laughed and shook his head, golden brown hair hanging into his eyes, “I’m worried that if I ride you too hard today, you’ll never let me come back.”

  Crash stilled abruptly, an uncomfortable bolt of electricity slithering down his spine at Jake’s statement, making his whole body go stiff as a coat hanger. He shook his head slightly, trying desperately to clear his mind of the distraction from the handsome man’s words, but they replayed in a loop in the back of Crash’s mind, making the blood rushing through his veins feel more like lightning than liquid.

  Jake’s boyish face cocked to the side, curiosity gleaming in those ocean eyes. “You alright?”

  Crash just gave a jerk of a nod, wetting his lips as his rebellious eyes again wandered slightly down Jake’s toned body.

  Besides, Crash whispered internally, Jake probably couldn’t handle this ride if he wanted to.

  Jake abruptly clapped his hands together, springing Crash free of his unfocused mind with a slight jump.

  Crash in
stantly glanced at the clock again, sure that at least ten minutes had passed, but it was only two eighteen.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, aloud this time.

  Jake grinned and lay down a purple, fluffy yoga mat on the floor, gesturing for Crash to join him as he knelt at its side. “On your back, please,” he instructed, patting the springy material lightly.

  “It’s not usually me on my back,” Crash retorted, his mind right back down in the gutter before he could control it.

  He cleared his throat, hoping his cheeks weren’t turning red, choosing to narrow his eyes on the therapist as if he’d meant to say that out loud instead. He had to get a grip on himself, but something about Jake made his mind mosey to wicked places and his mouth to lose all filters.

  He expected Jake to roll his eyes or ignore him; but instead, the man laughed and grinned, full pink lips pulled back over pearly teeth.

  “I think you must be lucky with the ladies then, hmm?”

  “Lucky yes, but not with the ladies,” Crash responded, eyeing the mat on the ground still.

  It was such a perky shade of lavender that it almost made his eyes hurt. There was no way he was going to lay on that.

  Jake’s laughter faded slightly as he gave a faint nod, tugging slightly at the edges of the mat to straighten it on Crash’s fluffy carpet.

  Crash looked at him curiously when Jake went quiet, disappointment flickering in his stone-grey eyes. Jake’s silence could only mean one thing, Crash believed, and that was intolerance. Crash had experienced it before, of course, but something about Jake’s warmth had made Crash think he was more accepting.

  Oh well, at least now perhaps this rehab session would be over more quickly.

  But then Jake’s green eyes flickered up, and a small smile played on his handsome mouth. It wasn’t a biased smile; it was one that told Crash that Jake was of the same mind, that they both idolized the male figure in identical ways.

  Professionalism, Crash theorized, was probably why Jake didn’t just say it outright. Crash felt his eyes widen just a hair in surprise at their shared look, though he said nothing until he glanced at the clock and saw that it was now two twenty. Then he forgot his subtlety.