Page 108 of The Backup Plan

He’s silent as I work, his expression a mask of indifference while his eyes remain fixated on my face. I close my eyes for a beat as I move into evaluating his flexion and welcome the smooth give of warmed tissue beneath my hands.

It’s impossible to clear my head though. To separate him like this—clinical and a patient—from the man whose body I can still feel over mine.

“No pain with that?” I ask, voice neutral.

“Depends. Are you asking as my doctor?” he says before his voice lowers so only I can hear, “or as the woman I can’t get out of my head?”

I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll give myself away.

“Kidding,” he says, clearly enjoying this. “Mostly-ish.”

“Hale,” I warn quietly.

“Oh, I love when you Hale me.” He chuckles. “But yes, I’ll keep things where they need to be kept.”

“You’re never going to forget that statement, are you?” I ask.

“Nope. Just like you won’t orange slices and Gatorade.”

My hands falter momentarily at his words and the grin he gives me when I meet his eyes.

The things this man does to me is ridiculous.

You’re at work, Em. Stop staring. Stop wanting.

Because the last one isn’t easier said than done or anything.

Needing to refocus, I shift my grip to assess the one place he still has difficulty, his abduction movement. I bring his arm out to the side and then overhead. He hisses in response and I don’t know if it’s from pain or surprise. I repeat the motion, slower this time and more deliberate. “Talk to me. What was that for? Sharp pain? A pinch? The joint grinding? What?”

“No. Just . . . tension.” He exhales with the next movement.

I hum and repeat the motions so I can try and recreate whatever caused him discomfort to better assess what’s causing it. “That’s helpfully vague.”

“Funny. I was going to say the same thing about you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. This is the problem: the way our connection bleeds into this facet of our lives. The way his voice drops when it’s just the two of us. The way my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

I press my thumb into the supraspinatus muscle near his shoulder blade. He sucks in a breath and visibly tenses. I wait for him to play it off, to pretend that didn’t just happen.

He doesn’t. No playing it off. No pretending it wasn’t there, which is progress. He just clenches his jaw when I do it again.

“That spot,” he says as I repeat the motion again but this time with less pressure.

“Has it always hurt when I do this or just since the three-step drop drill yesterday?” I ask, concerned he might be experiencing a setback. And while that would be perfectly normal, it’s the last thing I want for him, considering how well he’s been performing.

And it hasn’t gone unnoticed by Coach.

“Can’t be sure,” he says. I give him a dubious look and sigh, but he shakes his head. “I’m being serious. I can’t be. I’ll pay attention to it in practice and let you know.”

I meet his eyes and can see the honesty in them. The trust. And a small part of me sighs in victory at maybe finally breaking through on that front.

“The minute you feel anything, you let me know. I’ll be on the sidelines and—”

“I know. I will.” His eyes meet mine. “I promise.”

Our gazes hold for a beat until his begins a slow, lazy descent down to my chest, his eyes darkening as he does.

“Eyes up,” I say snapping my gloves off and tossing them into the bin.