“Slower,” I instruct, applying pressure to guide the movement. “You’re rushing.”
“This is slow.”
“This is you trying to get through it. Slow means feeling each degree of rotation.” I adjust my grip, accidentally brushing his ribs.
His breathing changes.
“There. Feel that?”
“Yeah.” His voice is low. “I feel it.”
The pool room is too warm. The chlorine smell too strong. The early morning light streaming through the windows creates patterns on the water that draw attention to the way it runs down his skin, andI need to stop noticing things like the water droplets caught in the hollow of his collarbone.
“Eight more,” I say, but my voice comes out wrong.
“CANNONBALL!”
The scream precedes the splash by half a second. A tsunami of pool water crashes over us as Brody Carter launches himself into the deep end with the grace of a dying walrus.
“Jesus Christ, Brody!” Roman wipes water from his eyes. “What are you, twelve?”
“Mentally? Yes.” Brody surfaces, grinning. “Morning, Doc! Morning, Cap! Fancy seeing you here at...” he checks the wall clock, “seven-thirty in the morning. Together. Alone. In a pool.”
“It’s therapy,” I say, but I’ve stepped back from Roman like we’ve been caught doing something completely inappropriate.
“Looks therapeutic.” Brody starts doing the worst freestyle stroke I’ve ever seen. “Very hands-on therapy.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Roman asks. “Like home? With your wife?”
“Elliot’s at some coffee thing. Early morning book club with the girls.” He stops swimming to float on his back. “She dropped me off. This month they’re reading a book called ‘Pucked by my Teammate’s Dad.’”
I know exactly which book that is. I’ve read it. Twice. The scenes are... memorable.
“We’re working,” Roman says firmly. “Leave.”
“Can’t. Gotta do my laps. Coach’s orders. Cardio every day.” Brody starts his terrible freestyle again. “Don’t mind me. Pretend I’m not here.”
Right. Pretend he isn’t doing interpretive swimming ten feet away while I have my hands all over his captain.
Roman continues his exercises while Brody swims, but the dynamic has shifted. I’m aware of being watched, even though Brody seems focused on his workout.
“Five more,” I tell Roman, repositioning my hands more carefullynow.
“So that book Elliot’s reading,” Brody says between strokes, “she keeps laughing about it. She read me this part with a pool scene. Apparently it’s physically impossible.” He flips to backstroke. “I mean, water doesn’t work like that.”
My face is burning. Roman’s shoulders are tense under my hands, but I can’t tell if it’s from the exercise or the conversation.
“Three more reps,” I say, trying to sound professional.
“The books get pretty detailed from what I hear. Dex said he and Goldie tried something from last month’s pick and he pulled a hamstring.”
“Two more,” I say, desperate to finish.
Roman completes the last reps in silence, then turns around in the water. We’re closer than I expected, maybe a foot apart, and water is running down his chest in rivulets I absolutely should not be tracking.
“Same time Monday?” he asks, voice low enough that Brody probably can’t hear.
“Seven sharp.”
