"It’s just an old injury," I say, trying to wave it off. "It flares up sometimes. I'm fine?—"
"Sit down."
Two words. An order.
And my body obeys before I can even think about arguing. I sink onto the bottom bleacher like my legs just decided to listen to him instead of me, and something hot and liquid pools in my core at how natural it feels.
He notices. I see a micro-expression of surprise crossing his features before he schools it back to neutral.
He crouches in front of me, and suddenly his face is level with mine. I see how thick his hair is despite its short length, how silver dots through his stubble, and how the fine lines at the corners of his eyes draw me in. He smells so clean and fresh and warm, with a subtle woodsy undertone that has me fighting not to inhale deeper.
"Which knee?" he asks.
"Left."
He shifts, his attention going into clinical, EMT mode. I mean, he's probably done this a thousand times…assessed injuries, checked for damage.
But there's nothing clinical about the way my heart is pounding.
"I'm going to check to make sure you didn’t re-injure anything," he says, his voice low.
I nod.
His hands wrap around my calf first, and I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping. They're warm even through my leggings…big and yet gentle. He's feeling for swelling, checking my range of motion, his fingers pressing and probing.
"Does this hurt?" He manipulates my ankle, rotating it slowly.
"No,” I manage.
His hands slide up to my knee, and I stop breathing.
His fingers probe the area around my kneecap, pressing in careful places, testing the stability of the joint. Every touch sends sparks shooting up my thigh, and I'm suddenly very aware of how thin these leggings are, and how wet my panties are.
"What about here?" he continues.
"N-no." My voice comes out breathy.
Dammit.
He glances up at me, and our eyes lock. His hands are still on my knee, his thumbs pressing into the soft areas just above and below.
He clears his throat. "Extend your leg for me."
I do. Slowly. And watch his jaw twitch as his hand slides up to my lower thigh to brace me.
His palm is huge and hot against my leg, his fingers curving around the muscle like he's savoring the shape of me. He bends my knee, straightens it, and bends it again.
"Doesn't feel like anything's torn," he murmurs, still focused on my knee. His brow is furrowed, breathing slightly uneven. "Probably just aggravated. You've been on your feet too much."
"I'm the coach." I try for levity, but my voice is too husky. "Being on my feet is a big part of the job."
He looks up at me again. We’re so close. His hands are still on my leg, and his gray eyes are searching mine with such intensity. "You need to take better care of yourself."
The words hit me somewhere deep and primal.He’s scolding me.Like he's concerned.
My response slips out before I can stop it: "Maybe I need someone to make me."
His hands tighten on my leg. Just enough that I feel it, my whole body lighting up.
