Right, because this day wasn't bad enough. The training room smells like antiseptic and muscle rub. I walk into Mike's treatment room, where he's organizing his station with supplies.
"Hey, Black. You're next door with Jo," he tells me.
Fuck. "Really?"
Mike stills. "Yeah ..." He lets the word drag. "Is something the matter?"
"No ... um ..." I don't want to get her into trouble. "I just thought I was in here."
He nods. "Sorry. Got to head out for a kid thing. But Jo is very capable."
"Okay, cool. No worries," I tell him. I leave his treatment room and head next door to Jo's. When I walk in, she’s bending over, and my eyes are drawn to her juicy ass. Someone is trying to kill me, aren't they? Is this karma for kissing Sully's sister when I was sixteen? She's in her team polo and black leggings, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. One that I want to wrap around my hand and pull her to me with. See those rosy, pink lips wrapped around my dick while I punish her for benching me.Cool it.The polo stretches across her chest, stopping at the top of those leggings that hug every curve. She looks up and suddenly notices I’m there, those hazel eyes meet mine. There's a flicker of something, hesitation maybe, before her expression goes neutral and she slips on her professional face.
"Emmett." She straightens. I watch the way her chest rises with a steadying breath. "Take a seat."
I move to the treatment table, the paper crinkling beneath me as I sit. The room feels smaller than Mike's, more intimate. Her perfume lingers in the air, it’s floral, which takes me right back to that hotel room in London.
"Shirt off," she says, turning to grab something from her supply cart.
I pull the T-shirt over my head, wincing as I bring it over my head and toss it on the chair beside me. When she turns back around, her gaze drops to my chest for just a second before snapping back up to my face. Does she like what she sees? Myego hopes she does.At least I'm not the only one affected by the other. "Let's see how it's going." She moves behind me. I feel the warmth of her body before her hands even make contact. "Tell me if anything feels worse." Her fingers press into my shoulder.
I clench my jaw, not from pain, but from the way my skin burns under her touch. She lifts my arm slowly, rotating it through its range of motion. The stretch pulls at the injured tissue.
"That hurts," I hiss through clenched teeth.
"Better or worse?"
"About the same."
She hums and makes a note on her tablet. "The swelling is down compared to yesterday, but you're still guarding it. We're going to work through some exercises today." She crosses to her supply cart, and grabs a resistance band, the red one which is a medium tension. When she turns back, her expression is all business, but I notice there's a tightness around her eyes that tells me she's as aware of this situation as I am. "Stand up," she commands.
I slide off the table, and she moves closer, looping the band around my wrist, and her fingers brush my skin as she adjusts the positioning. Heat shoots up my arm.
"External rotation first. Keep your elbow pinned to your side." She demonstrates the movement. "Slow and controlled. Don't push through pain."
I start the exercise, pulling the band outward, it burns but it's manageable.
"Slower," she says, stepping closer. Her hand comes to my elbow, holding it in place. "You're compensating with your body. Isolate the shoulder."
Easy for her to say, I adjust my form, focusing on the movement. She watches, her eyes tracking every micro-adjustment. Hazel eyes that I can't seem to get out of my head no matter how hard I try.
"Better. Ten more."
This is going to hurt. I count them out in my head. When I finish, she takes the band and loops it differently.
"Internal rotation now. Same thing. Slow. Controlled."
We work through the exercise in silence, the tension between us is thick enough to choke on. Every time she adjusts my form, her hands linger for what feels like a second too long. Every time I meet her eyes, something flickers there before she looks away.
"You could've cleared me for contact today," I say, needing to break the silence.
"No, I couldn't."
"The shoulder's better. You just said the swelling's down."
"Better isn't healed." She guides my arm through another rotation, her grip firm. "You're still compensating. That means the tissue isn't ready."
"I've played through worse."
