Page 6 of Chasing The Goal
“I liked it better when you were new, mysterious and pretty… not trying to kill me.”
I stood up slowly and shot him a mock glare. “I’m not trying to kill you. I’m trying to get you back on the ice before the season slips through your fingers.”
Jaymie leaned back on his elbows with a dramatic sigh, his dark curls flopping forward in defiance of gravity. They were slightly damp, definitely unruly, and the exact kind of messy that didn’t seem intentional, just him. His glasses had fogged slightly from the heat of the room, and when he pushed them up with one long finger, blinking through the smudge, I nearly dropped the clipboard in my hand.
His eyes, those warm, melted-brown, brown-sugar eyes, fixed on me with the kind of intensity that made my spine feel like jelly.
Cute. In a very frustrating, very confusing, “do not fall for your patient” sort of way.
“You always this mean to the injured ones?” he asked, blinking innocently, which was laughable coming froma man built like a linebacker, who looked like he could charm the laces off a figure skater.
“Only the ones who whine like toddlers,” I replied, flipping the clipboard in my hand as I jotted down notes. “And flirt like frat boys.”
“Hey,” he said, putting a hand to his chest in mock offense, “I’ll have you know I was very respectful in college. Mostly. Okay, not really. But I’m older now. Wiser. More... refined.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You just said you should’ve let them amputate your leg rather than go through six weeks of rehab.”
“Exactly. Pain builds character. I’m full of character.”
“Isthatwhat you’re full of?”
His grin turned wicked. “Mallory Quince, was that sass?”
I bit back a smile, turning away before he could see the way it tried to spread across my face. He was too easy with it. Too shameless in the way he bantered. Like every word was just a setup for the next smile. And damn if it wasn’t starting to work on me.
I bent down to adjust the band tension again, focusing on his ankle. My fingers brushed the edge of his sock and I heard his breath hitch, just barely.
When I looked up, he was watching me.
Not in a creepy, overstepping way. Just… watching. Intently. Like I’d said something brilliant and hedidn’t want to miss a second of how it looked coming out of my mouth.
And okay—he was cute. No, scratch that.
He wasadorable.
Curly dark hair. Soft brown eyes. A scruffy jawline that he clearly didn’t bother maintaining with any regularity but somehow made work. That hoodie slouched off his shoulders like it was made forhisshoulders, and the way he filled out those mid-thigh Hellblades shorts? Completely unfair.
He had this whole geeky hot-hockey-player vibe going on and it was messing with my professional head.
God help me, I thought, the cute, awkward, glasses-wearing hockey player is actually working on me.
“Jaymie,” I said, clearing my throat and not quite meeting his eyes, “you need to focus on your recovery. Not flirt your way through it.”
“Not flirting,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just... being friendly. Warm. Encouraging. Classic patient-therapist rapport.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He pushed his glasses up again, as if on cue, and I turned away so he wouldn’t see the way I was grinning.
He was trouble.
And I might not hate it.
“Okay,” I said briskly, shaking it off. “Let’s do thirty reps, nice and slow. Engage your core,don’t let your hip compensate.”
He groaned but followed instructions. “You sound like one of those yoga instructors that doesn’t believe in joy.”
“I believe in progress,” I said, watching the muscle in his thigh contract under tension. “And joy is when you skate again without pulling something.”
