My face goes hot, and my heart kicks up, pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
I’m suddenly very aware of the warmth of his skin under my palms. The way his muscles flex when he breathes. The sheersize of him on my table, how he makes the room feel smaller just by existing in it.
Stop. Stop it right now.
I clear my throat and focus on a knot near his spine, pressing harder than necessary.
“Câlice,” he mutters under his breath, then catches himself. “Sorry. That one’s deep.”
“Was that French?”
“Quebecois. It’s... not polite.”
I smile. “I figured from the tone.” I continue pressing, working up my courage. “So, six years is a long time,” I say, and thank God my voice comes out steady.
“Tell me about it.”
“But you’re—” I stop myself, but not fast enough.
“I’m what?”
Ugh. Fine. “A hot single dad, and an NHL star. You must have women lining up.”
He’s quiet for a beat, and I keep my eyes fixed on his shoulder blade so I don’t have to see his reaction to me calling him hot.
“Sure. They line up.” His voice is flatter now. “Then they hear I have a kid, and realize I’m not interested in anyone who sees her as an obstacle. That weeds out most of them pretty quick.”
We fall into a rhythm—me working through the tension in his muscles, him pretending it doesn’t hurt as much as it does. It’s become our thing over the past week, this back-and-forth. I push, he resists, I push harder, he eventually gives in. Rinse and repeat.
I shouldn’t like it as much as I do.
“How’s the pain been?” I ask, moving to his rotator cuff. “Scale of one to ten. Real answer.”
“Four.”
“Zayden.”
He sighs. “Five. Maybe six in the mornings.”
“That’s almost honest. I’m impressed.”
His lips twitch. “I’m a work in progress.”
I snort before I can stop myself, and he glances back at me with something that looks dangerously close to satisfaction. Like making me laugh was the goal.
Stop it,I tell myself.He’s a patient. This is professional.
But it doesn’t feel professional. It feels like something else, something I don’t have a name for yet, and that’s exactly the problem.
Halfway through the session, his phone starts buzzing.
It’s on the bench near his gear bag, screen lighting up every thirty seconds with texts and calls he’s very deliberately not answering. I watch his jaw tighten each time it goes off, his focus fracturing even as he tries to hold it together.
“You need to take that?”
“It’s handled.”
It’s clearly not handled. The phone buzzes again—a call this time—and I see the name flash on the screen before he reaches over and flips it face-down.
