He bit his lip, and my cock twitched. “How are you managing the pain?”
“Pills. Therapy. Not sleeping much.” I shrugged with my good shoulder. “The usual rehab routine.”
“What do you do? For work, I mean. Something that uses your body.”
“Yeah. NFL quarterback.” My voice carried more exhaustion than I intended. “Was, anyway.”
Why did I add that last part?
“Mmm.” His hands hovered near my shoulder, not quite touching. “Your body's been protecting itself, holding all that tension. I can help with that.”
His understanding caught me off guard. Most physical therapists talked mechanics and exercises. This guy seemed to get the deeper shit.
“Vincent said you do therapeutic work.”
“Among other things.” He smiled, warmth and mischief mixing in his voice. “I work with the entire package—body,heart, whatever needs attention. Sometimes what hurts on the surface isn't the real problem.”
Right. This guy was selling a complete experience, complete with new-age buzzwords. But then he smiled, and all I could think about was buying whatever the hell he was selling. I found myself studying his face, seeing nothing but genuine interest. And attraction.
Don't overthink this, Cord. It's therapy. With benefits.
“What did you have in mind?”
“For now? Let your body tell me what it wants. See how you respond to my touch.” The way he said it made every word sound like foreplay. “No pressure, just... listening.”
Made me think of other kinds of touching, other ways my body might respond to him.
“And if I want more than just listening?”
“Then we explore.” His smile turned knowing. “I'm good at giving people exactly what they need.”
My pulse kicked up at the promise in his voice. The air between us felt charged.
“I'd like that.”
“I'd love to work with you, but—” He gestured to the yoga mats still scattered around, the lingering scent of sweat and sandalwood. “I've got another group coming in about an hour. Could you come back tonight? We'd have the space to ourselves.”
“Sure,” I heard myself saying. There was an easy confidence about him, genuine warmth that differed from the usual professional bullshit.
When was the last time someone offered to help without wanting something in return?
“Perfect.” He touched my good shoulder, and even that brief contact sent heat through me. “Bring something comfortable that you can move in.”
After I left Dusty's studio, I checked my phone and regretted it. Text messages from Ruben glowed on the screen:ESPN wants to schedule interview about comeback timeline. TMZ asking about your absence, they think you checked yourself into rehab. Keeping quiet but won't last.
Fuck. I shoved the phone into my pocket. Even sanctuary came with deadlines.
My shoulder throbbed, a dull ache that had become my constant companion since the hit. I'd already taken my morning pill, but the temptation to take another tugged at me. Just one more to get through the day without thinking about the surgery, or interviews, or the fact that I might never play again.
I decided to explore before dinner, walking the grounds to clear my head. The stone pathways wound through carefully landscaped gardens, connecting the various buildings scattered across the property. I passed the cluster of massage huts near the pool, their Spanish Colonial design matching the main building. The nightclub sat dark and quiet this early in the day, but I could hear music starting to pulse from inside as staff prepared for the evening.
The fitness center's glass walls showed rows of equipment that would put most professional training facilities to shame. A few men worked out inside, their bodies gleaming with sweat. Beyond that, the equestrian center sprawled across a cleared section of property, horses visible in their stalls.
Private cabanas ringed the main pool, their gauzy curtains shifting in the breeze. Men lounged in the hot tubs with attractive companions, the sounds of their pleasure mixing with splashing water and low conversation. A couple emerged from one of the cabanas, wrapped in robes and looking thoroughly satisfied.
Further down the main path, the private villas began. Each one was tucked beneath massive oak trees, offering completeprivacy behind landscaped screens. I could just make out clay-tiled roofs and small private pools through the foliage. The entire property had this deliberate flow to it, public spaces transitioning gradually to more intimate areas the further you walked from the main building.
A year ago, that would have been me in the middle of it all, not a care in the world.
