Page 37 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Knowing her hands are on me, I still want more.
Not sex. Not yet.
Just closeness. Conversation. Eye contact that doesn’t end in her walking away.
But right now, I get none of that.
Just her fingers wrapped around the most vulnerable part of my body—which surprisingly isn’t my cock—and a silence that feels like it’s watching me.
“Relax,” she says, adjusting my leg with an ease that makes me feel like dead weight. “You’re stiff.”
“No shit.”
Her mouth curves—just slightly. “Stop talking.”
“I was trying to flirt.”
“That explains why it’s not working.”
God, I missed this.
I close my eyes for a second. Not to escape—just to breathe.
To remember what it feels like to have someone meet me where I am and not flinch.
My breath locks up.
Her hands are warm, and I shouldn’t focus on them the way I am, but I can’t help myself. She moves my leg slowly, testing range. Watching for compensation. Her expression doesn’t change, but I can feel the calibration happening behind her eyes.
“Quads are engaging before glutes,” she mutters. “You’re bracing with your hip. And your ankle’s guarding again.”
“Awesome,” I mutter. “Glad to know I’m consistent at something.”
She ignores me. Presses a thumb into my thigh. I hiss.
“That hurt?”
“No,” I lie.
She does it again. Deeper.
I flinch.
She leans closer. Her voice drops. “You’re not going to get better if you keep lying about where it hurts, Jason.”
Her breath brushes my jaw—citrusy, strawberries and flowers. Warm skin. And her scent . . . it’s fruity and flowery. I used to associate it with summer practices and victory hugs. Now, it just reminds me how close I am to falling apart.
“I’m not lying,” I say. “I’m just selective with my truths.”
She raises a brow. Doesn’t respond. I just move my leg again, slower this time. Her fingers skim my calf. Not intimately. Not intentionally, yet I feel it everywhere.
“You’re disconnected,” she says. “Your body doesn’t trust your brain. And your brain’s not listening to your body.”
“Well, they haven’t been on speaking terms since I fucked up . . . it was a separation at first, but now there’s a discussion about a divorce.” I shrug. “Don’t ask me how that’s going to work out since I can’t split them, but it’s going to be a fucked-up hell if we can’t fix it.”
Her lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite. It’s the kind of reaction that says she knows exactly how much of a pain in the ass I’m about to be.
She adjusts her grip, all business. “We’re going to start with micro-activation drills. No weight. Just control. You’re rewiring this movement pattern one nerve at a time. So that means no cheating. No overcompensating. And absolutely no bravado.”
