My chest constricts. Emmitt’s here? In the building already? I swallow hard. “I’ll find him and get started.”
“Good. Any chance you can have the report by the end of the day?”
“Of course.” I nod, eager to see Emmitt. To share the news. To tell the man I’m falling for there’s an option to pursue after all. A way we can be together without risk.
After dropping off the cart and grabbing my tablet, I head to the weight room. The familiar sound of weights clanking against metal reaches me before I cross into the open space. I smell the rubber mats and disinfectant, with that underlying scent of sweat and effort that permeates every corner of this facility.
Sure enough, Emmitt’s there, doing squats at the rack closest to the mirrored wall. For a moment, I just watch him through the wide opening from the hallway, my breath catching at the sight. His form is perfect—shoulders back, core engaged, controlled power in every movement as he drives up from the bottom position. The weight on the bar has to be close to three hundred pounds, but he makes it look effortless.
His T-shirt clings to his sweaty back, defining every muscle as he moves through the rep. When he racks the weight and steps back, rolling his shoulders, I see the strain in his face, the way his jaw is clenched from more than just physical effort.
God, he’s gorgeous. Even exhausted and stressed, he’s the most compelling man I’ve ever seen. I’m so focused on watching him I don’t notice Connor until he speaks.
“Three more sets, Cap, then I’m done.”
My stomach drops when I realize Emmitt’s not alone. Connor is there, too, working through his own routine on the bench press, and from his position, he has a perfect view of me standing in the doorway like a lovesick teenager.
But this is great. Perfect, actually. Connor’s presence means Emmitt and I won’t be alone, which eliminates any possibility of crossing professional lines or giving in to the tension that’s been building between us for days. With a witness, we’ll be forced to keep everything strictly professional—exactly what we need right now.
Emmitt glances toward the door and sees me. Everything stops. The air, my breathing, time itself. For a long second, we just stare at each other, and I can see everything he wants to ask written in those ice-blue eyes. My pulse jumps, but I consciously regulate my breathing. Hyperventilating would be a dead giveaway and one I can’t risk.
Connor racks the weight with a loud clang and sits up, breaking the spell. “Hey, McKenna. You’re here early.”
“Morning, Connor.” I force my voice to sound normal, professional. “How are you today?”
“Good, thanks. Though now that I see you, it reminds me that I’ve been meaning to ask if it’s normal to crave those weird green smoothies you make? I actually bought kale yesterday, and I’m pretty sure that means you’ve broken my brain somehow.”
“That’s actually a positive adaptation,” I say, unable to suppress a small smile. “Your tastebuds are adjusting to nutrient-dense foods. Though, I prefer to think of it as fixing your brain, not breaking it.”
Emmitt finishes his reps and straightens slowly, grabbing a towel to wipe his face.
“What can I do for you?” His voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the slight rasp as he studies me closely. I know he spoke with Linda. She told him about the option I’m facing. Thequestion is clear as day on his face, but how can I tell him I’m going for it?
I approach slowly, hyperaware of Connor’s presence, of how every word will be scrutinized. The distance between Emmitt and I feels charged, like static electricity building before a storm. “Coach Miller requested a comprehensive performance assessment. Some concerns about recent game consistency.”
Something flickers across Emmitt’s face—guilt, maybe, or frustration. He knows exactly why his performance has suffered. His hands grip the towel tighter.
I pull a specimen cup from my kit, trying to ignore how my hands want to shake. Clinical. Professional. I can do this. “I’ll need a urine sample before practice for hydration and metabolic markers. But for now, do you have a minute to review your current nutritional framework?”
Our fingers brush as I hand him the cup, and electricity shoots straight up my arm. His breath catches, barely audible, but I hear it. Connor’s still watching, so Emmitt steps back quickly, the distance between us suddenly feeling like a chasm.
“Here?” he asks, likely wondering why we’re not heading to my office as would be normal protocol.
“No need to go to my office for this. I’ll be quick; I promise,” I reply, hoping he gets the hint.
“Fine.”
I’m grateful he doesn’t press the issue, though it’s clear he wants a minute alone.
“Great.” I take a seat on a nearby weight bench and unlock my tablet, already pulled up to Emmitt’s profile. Connor moves to another machine while I pull out the stylus. “Would you say you’ve maintained your standard nutritional framework, or have there been any deviations from your usual dietary patterns recently?”
Emmitt leans against the machine and cocks an amused eyebrow at me, but with his arms crossed in front of him, I have to force myself not to stare at the way the position emphasizes his chest and shoulders.
“I’ve been sticking to the fundamentals,” he says, his gaze flicking over to Connor before swinging back to me. “Though I made some adjustments recently. Had an incredible Margherita pizza that completely changed my perspective on…optimal fueling.”
So this is how it will go. Alright, I see you. And two can play this game.
I clear my throat, hyperaware of Connor’s presence as he continues his workout routine. “In my experience, when athletes implement modifications to established routines, it can create systemic disruptions. Even beneficial changes can compromise performance if the transition isn’t properly…managed.”
