Love Heals

“Don’t worry, that patient is waiting for a different doctor. Dr. Guararia is ready for you, so just go ahead down the hallway and go through the second door on your right.”

“Thanks so much,” Emilio said gratefully, “Ms…”

“White,” the receptionist responded, smiling, “but you can call me Fran. Come back to the desk when you’re done your appointment and we’ll set up the next one.”

“Thanks, Fran!” Emilio said as he walked towards the hallway. Maybe this appointment wouldn’t be so bad. The team doctor had said that Dr. Guararia was one of the best, and Emilio hoped that he was right. He wanted to be back in shape and ready to play as soon as possible. When he got to the second door on his right – second star on the right, Emilio thought with a smile – he knocked twice, short and firm.

“Come in!” a honey soft voice called from inside. Eerily familiar…Emilio opened the door and walked in, hoped his posture was good and he looked ready to get fixed. He was terrified, was the thing; he had no idea what to expect. He was terrified that after one look at his ankle the doctor was going to say that he could never play again and possibly never walk and other countless bad things. Emilio never said he was an optimist.

Whatever he was expecting, though, was definitely not this.

Dr. Guararia was around his age, and possibly younger, and definitely hotter. Definitely hot. Super hot. The hottest. She was also Rachel. Emilio’s mouth dropped open.

“Your name isn’t Guararia,” he accused before his brain could get back online.

Rachel looked up at him, eyebrow raised, “It’s my middle name,” she replied, not sounding as…displeased to see him as Emilio imagined she must be. In fact, she sounded kind of indifferent. Which kind of hurt though Emilio couldn’t imagine why.

“Oh,” he said in a small voice.

 “Great,” Dr. Guararia laughed pleasantly. Emilio was pretty sure harps start playing. “If you could just follow me this way, we’ll chat for a bit and get started.”

“’kay,” Emilio said dumbly, following Dr. Hottie through a door he hadn’t noticed.

“So, Da Costa, your team’s doctor sent me all the x-rays and reports on your ankle, and I’m happy to say that your recovery won’t be as long as he initially guessed it to be.”

Emilio was not listening very well. Emilio was thinking about Rachel’s mouth and how cherry-red her pouty lips were and how honey gold her eyes were and then he was thinking about Christmas and how he kind of, crazily, wanted to spend it with her and he literally knew nothing about who she was now except that she was still very, very pretty, and obviously very smart, and very pretty.

But Dr. Guararia’s words caught up to him.

“Sorry, what? My recovery? Shorter?” Emilio needed to get a handle on his brain.

“Yes,” Dr. Guararia smiled, wide and genuine. “I think we’ll be able to get you and your ankle on the pitch by semi-finals.”

“You think they’ll make it that far without me?” Emilio said before he could help himself, and he was joking, of course, but the filter on his mouth was apparently not working today. At least if he tried to make jokes he wouldn’t say something about how he still wanted to lick the skin stretched between Dr. Guararia’s neck and collarbone. He was usually better behaved than this.

Rachel laughed again. Definitely harps. And possibly angels singing.

“Maybe not, but let’s hope so. You can get better and then show-up and help them win the title again. We don’t want San Jose or New York FC to win it, do we?”

Emilio was surprised.

“I’d have thought you’d be happy if we lost,” he said breaking the ice on speaking on the past.

Rachel smiled, “Now why would I want that?” she asked.

Emilio shrugged, “Because I broke your heart?”

Rachel laughed again and this time, it didn’t make Emilio feel too good, “That was a long time ago; we were children.”

“Yeah…” Emilio agreed reluctantly, “I guess.”

Before Emilio could even breathe he had a list compiled in his mind of why this appointment was The Worst Thing to Ever Happen to Him. Number one: his physiotherapist was his ex girlfriend, worse; the one who got away. Number two: she called him Da Costa now. Number three: that he was into hot women calling him Da Costa. Number four: how goddamn slowly Rachel spoke. Like molasses and sugar, littered with breathy chuckles and lip licking, and Emilio needed a cold shower, maybe.

“Well,” Emilio said, his voice a tad scratchy and a lot embarrassing, “fix me right up and we’ll definitely win again.”

Dr. Guararia grinned, and it was a completely different smile than what she gave Emilio when he first walked through the door. That smile had been impersonal; Maybe Emilio was imagining it, but it looked more like a challenge, and Emilio was super into it. And so, so screwed.

“Good that,” the doctor said professionally, but still grinning. “Alright, Da Costa. Take your pants off and get on the exam table face down, please.”

Emilio choked.

Dr. Guararia’s back was turned like she wanted to give Emilio some privacy as he took his pants off. He sent a prayer of Thanks up to the Virgin that he’d worn his new Calvin Klein boxers for this appointment and not his favorite Angry Birds pair. Emilio tried to breathe in some dignity quietly but it was difficult. He was ready to put on a strip show for Rachel. Emilio would do anything she asked him to do, realistically. He got onto the exam table, the cold paper crinkling, and lay down on his stomach. Emilio Da Costa, face down, naked except for a t-shirt and boxers, waiting to be ravished by a hot doc. That should probably go on his tombstone. Emilio made a mental note to tell Cameron.

Emilio turned his head so he could see Dr. Guararia. It looked like she was warming her hands up by rubbing them together as she hummed under her breath. Emilio took the moment to check her out, and not in the sexual way, for once.

Kind of.

She would be 24 or 25; he couldn’t remember her birthday month, probably early in her career since she’d been a third year intern when he knew her before. Still, she must be pretty good if MLS doctors were making appointments for their players with her, Emilio mused. Her fashion sense had also very much improved if the nude pants and fitted shirt she was wearing was anything to go by. Her silhouette was still off the chains; she looked like a cartoon rendition of a hot black girl, all big hips, long legs, tiny waist and big boobs. The perm she used to have was gone, replaced by nappy hair combed into an afro. It kind of suited her heart shaped face; Emilio was liking it.  Emilio’s mind wandered to Rachel taking her pants off at night before she crawled into a bed – probably only a Queen, not a King despite the fact she could probably afford it – and read a book. He knew she liked to read erotica before bed; she’d confessed it one drunken night when things were still good between them. She’d fessed up to really liking real person fanfic too and followed several writers on Tumblr. Emilio was surprised he remembered so much detail; he’d have sworn he was only half listening at the time. If Emilio wasn’t attracted to her before (laughable, really), he certainly was now.

But Rachel’s hair. Her hair was what pulled Emilio in the most. It was the most chesnuty brown he had ever seen with lighter highlights threading through her curls like she was really not a doctor and instead a shampoo commercial model. What was that hot doctor’s name on Greys Anatomy with the good hair? McHotite? McFuckme? Becky? Emilio couldn’t remember. Emilio couldn’t think of much, really, except that he wanted to touch her curls and poke his fingers through the ringlets littering her head.