“Did you do the foam rolling I showed you last night?” I asked, tugging his shorts up to reach the muscle I badly needed.To treat. Needed to treat.For fuck’s sake.
And Jesus. How had I not noticed the sheer... scale of the situation in his shorts before? Calling it a bulge was a massive understatement; I was fairly certain a family of four could camp out in there and still have room for a guest suite. My gaze flicked there for a traitorous, lightning quick second before I snapped it back up and bit the inside of my cheek hard.
“I sure did, ma’am,” he said with a wink.
I cleared my throat, praying he hadn’t noticed me looking. “And this morning?”
I lifted his knee, sliding one hand under his thigh for leverage. Warm, solid muscle met my palm. Suddenly I washyper aware of how my fingers were slightly trembling against his warm skin. I also noticed the way his eyes tracked my every movement as I worked. A little unnerving.Focus, Orla. Professional. Just another body. It’s normal. You see dozens every day.
“Of course,” he said, voice dropping just a fraction. “I’ll do anything you ask me to.”
My eyes shot up. He was watching me now with a calm, slightly unreadable gaze.
I cleared my throat again, pretending his words hadn’t landed somewhere low in my stomach. I continued to press into the muscle, feeling how it gave more easily than yesterday. “You’ve been doing the stretches right, it doesn’t feel as tight.”
“See? Excellent student.”
“Debatable.” I deadpanned.
He chuckled smugly and I shook my head but the smile tugging at my lips betrayed me.
“You should do that more,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Smile.” His voice was stripped bare for half a second. “Looks good on you.”
My throat went dry. I had no idea what to say to that. The ‘fixer’ in me wanted to ask more about him, the professional in me wanted to punch him in the face and tell him to shut up, but the woman in me wanted to climb onto that table with him.
So I didn’t do any of them.
I took a breath, released his leg and stepped back. “It should hold up today. Come find me after the match so we can reassess. If anything feels off during?—”
“I’ll call for you,” he cut in quickly. “Promise.”
I nodded. “Good luck today, Tyler.”
He stood, a little too close, his kit bag brushing my knee as he swung it up. Our eyes caught and held for the briefest of moments.
“That means a lot coming from you,” he said quietly. The tension between us crackled, the spark back. A wicked little smirk played on his lips. “Catch you on the flip side.” Before I could react, he was gone, leaving only the sound of the treatment room door closing behind him.
I hadn’t even realised I was holding my breath until it came out all at once. I dropped onto the bench, head in my hands, my pulse thundering.
What the hell was happening to me?
Fuck.
I didn’t usually watch the matches. I preferred the quiet coolness of the locker room where there was no chance of getting swept up in the drama, but today I found myself wandering out to the medic box. Technically, I was there in case his leg acted up, which wasn’t unusual, so no one questioned it.
But that wasn’t the truth.
I was curious. I wanted to see him in his element. To see what all the fuss was all about.
And then he walked out, the air seemed to leave the court.
Jesus Christ.
His build was lean and powerful, his golden skin catching the afternoon sun. His hair was just tousled enough to look deliberate, that one signature rogue lock falling over his forehead like a challenge. Stubble shadowed a jaw that looked like it had been carved from marble. Those broad shoulders tapered into biceps I hadn't properly appreciated until now—muscle flexing under a white Nike tee, veins tracing his forearms like a roadmap of raw power.
