“I’m not going to base whether we keep working together or not on one game. That’d be foolish. You already told me you need eight weeks before you’d be confident any improvements were related to you.” And I’ve never been tempted to maintain a professional relationship in the hopes of securing a personal one before, but my gut tells me that if I decide not to work with her as a trainer, I’ll never get a shot at anything else either. Not that I want that. Or maybe I do. Can’t seem to fucking decide. But Iamwondering whether our working relationship is what’s made her put the brakes on the more personal connection that was starting. Maybe I don’t want anything more with her, and I definitely don’t think I need it, but I do wish I’d had the chance to see what itmighthave been.
“I appreciate that you’re giving me the time to prove myself,” she says, but her tone is stiff, professional.
I fucking hate it.
“I’ll see you tonight after the game.” I slip into the changing room to get dressed before heading to the arena just as the bell goes for her next physio client.
Bellerive might not know anything about hockey, but after tonight’s game, it’s clear they know how to host an “event” with a capital E. Except for playoff season, I’ve never seen a crowd so enthusiastically involved in every aspect of the game. Each face-off, each hit, each goal was treated like the final seconds in a cup match.
And fuck if I didn’t feed off it like they were piping adrenaline into my veins. Three fucking goals—a hat trick, during a preseason game. Every minute I was on the ice, I worked my ass off, and I don’t even feel tired.
Wired is what I feel when I exit the dressing room to meet up with Chayton for postgame drinks. Not that I’ll drink, but we’ll go to a bar, and we’ll pretend like I will.
I catch sight of Sawyer at the end of the wide hallway, talking to Tamiko. The euphoria that would have made me more talkative than usual with the press—if there’d been any in Bellerive—causes me to lose any sense of chill at the sight of Sawyer clad in a Bellerive Bullets jersey. If only there was an eighty-eight on the back.
“Doc!”
She turns, and the grin that splits her face matches mine. My heart stutters. It’s been a long time, so fucking long, since someone else’s joy at my success—our success—matched mine. What should have been a nothing game at the start of the season feels like a massive win.
“Did you see?” I ask as she breaks away from Tamiko to head down the hall to me.
“All of them!” She holds up three fingers and then raises her arms in the air in celebration. “Incredible!”
Without stopping to consider the wisdom of my actions, I rush toward her, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around. Her laughter fills the corridor, but when I ease her down, I become hyperaware of every firm peak and soft valley in her body. The sensation of her pressed so tightly to my hardness sends a rush of warmth through me that comes dangerously close to being too turned on for my own good.
She also smells amazing. The one time I asked her, as casually as I could muster, what perfume she was wearing, she told me it was Tom Ford’s Vanilla Sex.Vanilla Sex. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. More specifically, having sex with her all over the gym equipment while her vanilla perfume invaded my senses. Grueling physical activity paired with loose shorts were my only saving graces that day.
I don’t know what it is about her, but there’s some kind of primal force at play. There’s a constant push and pull inside me whenever I’m around her. My brain thinks any involvement beyond trainer-trainee is impossible and, frankly, stupid. So stupid.
But every other part of me so badly wants a taste of whatever is brewing that I might soon overrule my brain and do something rash. Impulse control has never been a problem in the past, but I can feel the rattle on the rails—like staring down the headlight of a train, knowing you’re going to get hit, and completely unable to move off the tracks. The chemistry between us might flatten me, and I don’t know if I have the will to step away. I definitely don’t right now as we stare at each other, my hands spanning her waist, my thoughts dangerously close to slipping into the gutter.
There isn’t a woman alive who’s as gorgeous as Sawyer Tucker. She’s absolute perfection.
There’s no way she doesn’t feel the air crackling around us, alive with possibilities.
“Bishop!” Chayton calls. “You coming? Or you got a better offer?” There’s a teasing tinge to his voice. He knows about Sawyer, but he doesn’tknowabout Sawyer.
“Come meet my trainer,” I call back, unable and unwilling to break eye contact with Sawyer. “She’s pretty fucking glorious.”
“Logan,” she says, her voice hushed.
Yeah, she feels it. Whatever this is. She knowsexactlyhow I meant that.
“At her job,” I add on, extra loud.
That gets a smile and a blush. “You can’t say stuff like that here. People will assume something that isn’t true.”
“I don’t mind,” I say.
“I do,” she says. “For a guy, it looks like you’re ‘getting it,’ but I look like I’m getting played.”
I want to ask her why she’d look like she was getting played. Anyone who knows me could tell her that I don’t play with women, not the way most guys do. For a long time, I was too focused on bettering my circumstances, then I became too focused on hockey, and now I’m too focused on winning. Chayton’s close enough that I can’t tell her any of that. He’s like a brother to me, which means he’s going to harass me all night about the way I’m looking at Sawyer. I know it, and I’m still not taking my eyes off her to give him the time of day.
“You’re Sawyer?” Chayton asks when he’s almost at my shoulder.
She steps outside my easy reach, and I contemplate how mad Chayton would be if I told him to fuck off. I needed five more minutes where she didn’t have gym equipment or a spreadsheet to hide behind.
“I’m Sawyer Tucker,” she says holding out her hand for Chayton to shake. “The physiotherapist who’s learning to be the kind of trainer Logan needs.”
