Page 12 of A Game of Deception
She stopped behind me, close enough that I felt the warmth of her breath on my shoulder. “Specifics, McCrae.” Her fingers brushed the tattoo on my ribs—Jimmy’s initials, the date of his accident etched into my skin. Her touch was light, but it burned, dragging me back to the summer we lost him, the summer I lost everything.
“My brother,” she said, her voice quieter now, heavy with memory. “When did you get this?”
“Years after it happened.”
“The accident.” Her fingers pressed harder, tracing the ink as if she could feel the shared grief beneath it. “And then you left without a word.”
The accusation knocked me on my ass worse than any cheap shot on the field. After Jimmy died, I bolted—grabbed the first contract waved in my face just to get as far away as possible from everyone’s sideways looks and hushed gossip, from that goddamn guilt that gnawed through my insides. I never considered what my vanishing act did to her.
“I got signed to Glasgow, Tara. Besides, your father?—”
“Stop.” Her hand pressed flat against my ribs, her palm hot against my hammering heartbeat. “Not here.”
She stepped around to face me, her composure a thin veil over the flush creeping up her neck. “Lie on the table. Range of motion.”
I glanced at the narrow exam table, cold and clinical. “Is this really necessary?”
“It’s protocol,” she said, her tone sharp but her gaze soft, conflicted. “Unless you want to explain to my dad why you bailed on your physical.”
I flopped onto the table, flat on my back, eyes locked on the ceiling. Forty-two fucking tiles. I counted every single one as if it might save me from the fact that Tara was standing close enough for me to smell her shampoo.
“Arms up,” she ordered from behind me.
I lifted them, feeling weirdly naked in a way that had nothing to do with being in my underwear. Her hands wrapped around my wrists. Each time her fingers moved, my body felt things it had no business feeling during a medical exam.
“Range looks good,” she said, her voice dropping to a tone that made my brain short-circuit. “Let’s check those rotator cuffs.”
Her thumbs bulldozed into my shoulders, hunting down knots. I let out a grunt when she found a tender spot.
“Jesus, you’re tight here,” she said. “Better start stretching, or you’ll be useless on the pitch.”
“I’ll make it a priority, Doc,” I said through clenched teeth.
“You better.” Her fingers dug deeper—not a suggestion but a command. “Roll over. Gotta check your spine.”
I rolled onto my stomach, grateful for the brief shield from her gaze. The table was hard and unyielding, and I shifted, trying to ease the pressure of my growing erection. I cursed my cock for its betrayal, but in Tara’s presence it seemed to have a mind of its own.
Tara’s hands moved down my back, her thumbs tracing my spine, pressing at intervals. When she reached the small of my back, just above my briefs, her touch slowed, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin there.
“Slight curvature,” she said, her voice closer, her breath warm against my ear. “Postural, probably. Core strength?”
“Strong enough,” I managed, my voice rough.
“We’ll test that.” Her hands slid to my hips, fingers digging into the muscle where my lower back met my glutes. “Pain?”
“None.” Not the kind she meant, anyway.
“Good.” She stepped back. “Turn over.”
I froze, because turning over meant one thing—Tara getting an unobstructed view of the hard-on I’d been praying would go away. “Give me a minute.”
“Problem?” Her voice carried a teasing lilt.
“You know what the problem is,” I muttered, low and raw.
“I’m a professional, Xander. The body’s just biology.” But the flush on her neck, spreading to her collarbone, said she wasn’t as detached as she claimed.
I rolled onto my back, jaw clenched, refusing to acknowledge the obvious strain in my briefs. Her eyes flicked down, then back to my face, a spark of heat breaking through her cool facade, causing her to falter for the briefest second.
