The words hang between us, heavy with implication.
One I ignore.
I tear off the last piece of tape with more force than necessary.“You know it because you're my patient, and I'm your therapist.”
“Right,” he draws out.
I strip off my gloves, the snap echoing around the room.“Try not to undo the tape before the end of practice, and for the love of everything holy, take some stretching advice from Dash.”
He chuckles.“Sure thing, Doc.”
I take in a sharp breath at the new nickname.Then I grab my bag and head for the door, but his voice stops me.
“Hey, Hart?”
I turn, against my better judgment.
He's still sitting on the table, looking at me with those ridiculous blue eyes and that infuriating smile.“For the record?I'm glad you're single.”
“Goodbye, Cross.”
His laugh follows me into the hallway.It’s low, warm, and far too satisfied.
Three months.I can handle three months.
Three fucking months.
She hates me.
She fucking hates me.
And I fucking love it.
I'm still sitting on the treatment table, my thighs now tightly wrapped in athletic tape, as Ally Hart walks out of the room, leaving me to watch her perky ass and her ponytail swing.
The door hasn't even clicked shut and I'm already replaying the whole thing back in my head.The way she snapped that tape in warning, the little tick in her jaw when I mentioned the swimmer, how her fingers pressed into my quad just a fraction harder than necessary when I pushed her buttons.
Fuck.It makes me hard just thinking about it.
Ally Hart, the first girl on this campus I saw and liked, is single...and she blushed when I flirted, even if she tried to hide it.Everyone else on this campus treats me like I'm a celebrity.Not her.Ally Hart treated me like I was the last drill after a lengthy training session.
It's the hottest thing that’s happened to me all year.
I pull myself off the table and walk through to the locker room, surprised at how supported I feel.I've had my thighs taped before, but not with an injury like this.
Shit, maybe this girl is a miracle worker.
I take my time putting my pads and jersey on, knowing that I'm going to have a fight on my hands when I get out there.
Coach McKibbon hasn't wanted me to play ever since I hurt my thigh two weeks ago, and even with this new tape job, I seriously doubt he's going to let my skates touch the ice.
Still, I try.
The rest of the team are already mid-drill by the time I push through the doors onto the ice.Coach McKibbon is standing in the middle of it with his arms crossed, watching.
I take a tentative step on the ice, watching him the entire time, waiting for him to notice me.
When he does, his expression shifts.
