“Jacob,” Lauren says with a tight smile, like she can’t decide whether she wants to flirt with me too or fight me for ruining her vibe.
“Mack,” I nod toward him, ignoring her entirely, “you good?”
“I’m fan-fucking-tastic,” Mack mumbles.
Griffin snorts, his eyes flicking up to mine for the briefest second and Jesus, why does my stupid stomach do that flip when he looks at me? He ducks his head, hiding a small smile.
“Lauren, did you get the ice packs from the storage room?” I ask because that was her one and only fucking job this morning.
She sighs, “I forgot.”
I give her a pointed look and she basically storms out of the training room.
“Please don’t leave me alone with her again,” Mack deadpans, hopping off the table like it burned him.
I shake my head and smile at him. He’s always been a character and I appreciate the fact that he isn’t falling for Laurens bullshit.
“Anyway,” Mack says, clapping his hands like he’s trying to clear the air. “Which of us is getting tortured first?”
I smirk and reach for a roll of tape. “Line up, boys. Let’s play ‘whose joints hate them most today.’”
Griffin doesn’t even wait for me to finish speaking before he’s hopping off the table and rolling his hoodie off in one fluid movement, the hem dragging up to reveal a stretch of toned, tanned stomach and the faintest trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his sweatpants.
I absolutely do not stare at it. I have enough self-control for that. Mostly.
“I got dibs,” he says like it’s nothing, moving toward me with his usual easy confidence that fills whatever room he’s in. He plants himself right in front of me like a damn golden retriever demanding attention and completely unaware of how much damage he's doing just by existing.
Mack grumbles something under his breath, but I barely hear him because Griffin is turning and settling on the table with his broad back to me, his shoulder already bare and stretched just so. He looks back at me over his shoulder with that lazy,lopsided grin of his, like he knows exactly what kind of effect he has and is weaponizing it.
Which is so fucking unfair. Because I’m only one man. One man with a hopeless, quiet crush on someone very, very off-limits.
“You said you’d take another look at the shoulder,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply, definitely not blushing. I am a professional. This is my job. I’ve worked on dozens of shoulders. None of them belonged to Griffin Thatcher. None of them smelled like citrus soap and warm skin.
Fuck my life, I need to get it together.
I wash my hands and move toward him, focusing on the way his skin gleams slightly under the overhead light. I press my fingers to his skin and it’s like touching live wire. My cock literally chooses this moment to throb like it’s begging for attention and I have to think of old smelly socks and grandmas to keep myself from getting a fucking boner in the training room.
I knead my fingers gently along his deltoid, working out the tension, and try to breathe like a normal human being while my fingertips explore every inch of that thick muscle. He sighs, deep and content, and I swear I feel it vibrate right through his spine into me.
“You’ve got to stop taking hits like that,” I murmur, my voice doing that soft thing it does when I forget to keep it detached. “Your shoulder is pissed.”
Griffin chuckles, head tilted forward as he leans into my touch. “I didn’t exactly ask for a bodycheck from a six-foot brick wall.”
I laugh quietly, fingers trailing just a little lower, innocently and completely professionally, but I feel the moment it happens. The slight shift in the air. The sharp inhale. The subtle, involuntary jerk of his hips. My fingers freeze on his skin, my stomach dropping to somewhere around my knees.
I’m trying, I really am, to pretend none of this is happening. To stay professional. To keep my hands where they belong and my brain out of the gutter. Because God knows I didn’t send that memo to my nervous system.
I’m kneading into the muscle near his trap like I’m supposed to, but inside it’s one thought after another after another that I absolutely do not want to be having right now, especially on a Monday morning in a training room packed with potential witnesses who would definitely call me out for a nervous breakdown.
And just when I’m about to convince myself that I can be a fully functioning adult, fully detached and fully professional, in walks Hughie.
Bless his stupidly calm, emotionally stunted soul.
He strides in halfway, eyes flicking between me and Griffin’s posture with that concerned big brother gaze.
“Hey, I need my ankle handled,” Hughie says, voice low and steady.
