Page 92 of Break Point
He gives me a stern look. “If we were back home, I’d let this slide, but I can’t risk you cramping up tomorrow on the court.”
He’s right, again, but all I want is a hot shower and to wait for Gemma to get here.
I’m about to argue my case when Henry lifts a finger, silently asking me to hold that thought. He steps slightly away, phone to his ear, his voice low but clear.
“Greg? … Yeah, it’s Henry Mitchell. Are you available? … Belén’s left foot and calf cramped up on the treadmill … No, she’s fine now, but I’d like for you to take alook at her. She’s playing tomorrow … Okay, I understand … Sure, but … Fine. Send me the photos and any other instructions … 5:00 p.m. sounds good … I’ll text you her room number and let the guys downstairs know you’re coming up … Thanks, man. I appreciate it … See you later.”
He hangs up with a heavy exhale, slipping his phone into his pocket while a crease settles between his brows.
“Greg is tied up with an infiltration,” he says. “He can be here at five to make sure you’re good to go for tomorrow.”
Henry kneels beside me with his eyes fixed on his phone screen. “He sent over some stretching exercises for you to do now.” He scrolls through the conversation, clearing his throat. “I’ll help you through them.”
Finally, he glances at me from the corner of his eye, his piercing blue gaze flickering with something unreadable. “Sound good?”
“Is it really necessary?” I prop myself up on my elbows, hoping to negotiate. I know it’s necessary. Whatever Greg says goes. But the last thing I need is Henry hovering over me, guiding me through these stretches.
He rises to his full height, towering over me, and brings over a yoga mat from a nearby rack.
“On your back, Freeman,” he orders, jerking his chin toward the mat while his lips curl into a knowing smile.
Mercy …
I squash the urge to roll my eyes and do as I’m told.
“Okay,” he says, his eyes flicking over Greg’s instructions again. “It’s pretty standard.”
Henry kneels beside me, repeating the same motions as before, stretching my foot at different angles. His grip is firm but careful, and he moves with the precision of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
He works his way up, his hands skimming my calf, guiding me as he instructs, “Cross your left ankle over your right quad.”
I follow his cue, and the moment I do, he leans in, his weight pressing the stretch deeper. A sharp but satisfying burn spreads through my left hamstring and glute.
I shut my eyes, exhaling through the tension.
“Why didn’t you answer my text this morning?” he asks, his tone serious.
When I open my eyes, his face is so close that I instinctively widen them for a heartbeat. There’s nowhere to go. His weight keeps me pinned against the mat under the guise of necessity.
Itisnecessary. I remind myself of that.
“Are you still angry at me?”
“Very much.” I’m not in the mood to lie or sugarcoat things for him like I have done countless times before. “But I got your gift,” I mutter. “Unfortunately, I loved it. Which only pisses me off more.”
Henry snorts.
“Switch.” He pulls back, giving me room to change position so he can mirror the stretch on my other leg. His hands stay clinical, and his focus remains locked on the movement.
I take a deep breath, feeling my muscles relaxing even further.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he mutters.
Good.
“Why?” I ask as he presses my leg closer to my chest, his face drawing near mine again. I’m the one who slept like shit because of him, so he doesn’t get to make me feel bad about his self-inflicted insomnia.
The fire in his eyes reminds me of how he scanned me from head to toe yesterday when I undressed to get him to leave. It stirs something deep inside me. But then I think about why I’m pissed off, about all the lies and omissions, and realize the warmth spreading in my belly feels eerily similar. Anger and desire. Two sides of the same coin.
