“You weren’t a player for the Mayhem that Halloween night.”
He exhales sharply, shifting against the table as my hands find the back of his thigh. “But you didn’t know that yet.”
I hesitate. “No. I didn’t.”
Another sigh, deeper this time. His head shakes against the table, like he’s processing and annoyed with my answer. “So, you thought I was a player, and yet you slept with me anyway.”
“Yes.”
He huffs.
“Would it have changed anything for you if you’d known who my father was?” I ask. “Would you have walked away?”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then his head turns and eyes find mine and there it is, the brown in his eyes looks richer, warmer, like milk chocolate, and the flecks of green seem like gems. When his eyes are like this, they remind me of a teddy bear’s fur. The one that I grew up sleeping with as a little girl. The one that I’d clutch to when I wondered where my dad was, why he didn’t love me enough to stay home with me and my mom.
Because that’s what Seth is, underneath all his defenses and gruffness. Beneath the sharp tone and his attempts at keeping distance between us. He’s a teddy bear where it matters. I see it in the way he cares for Sawyer. I hear it in the way she talks about him. Isensedit by the way he touched me that night—making sure I came first, always checking in. Those are two things that my exneverdid. He might have a darker, sadder side to him, but inside, he just wants to be held.
He closes his eyes for a beat, then tilts his face away. “No. I still would have done it.”
I try not to focus on that. I try to ignore what his admission means.
I clear my throat. “Okay, I’m going to start the examination now.”
He lets out a grunt but keeps his face turned away from me.
I check for swelling, bruising, anything concerning, but everything looks good. My fingers press carefully into the muscle on his thighs, and he makes no sound at all.
“How does this feel?”
He grunts. “Fine.”
That tells me nothing.
“I need you to be more specific than that. Tell me when something changes. Tell me if you feel any pressure, pain or tightness.”
I get another grunt from him as my fingers start to move deeper in my assessment. I’ve done this for years, first in school, several internships, and now as part of the Mayhem’s training team. But working on Seth feels different because now I’m working on someone I’ve seen naked.And fuck, his body is built for this.
His ass sits high and firm in his warm-up pants, and his legs—damn—they’re like massive tree trunks, packed with power. He’s the perfect keeper, solid and unshakable, letting nothing get past him. And despite the complicated feelings between us, I can admit that my dad did well bringing him to the Mayhem. The first home game is this weekend, and with the new, structured team they’re going to be lethal.
“It looks good,” I say. “May I do some massage work? It’ll help.”
Another grunt. I take that as permission.
I warm my hands, then press my fingers into the thick muscle, working slowly, methodically, breaking down any tense spots. My thumbs dig in deeper, finding the knots, coaxing them loose. There are more than there should be. He’s been carrying around tightness and probably holding back on how much it’s pained him.
Seth’s fingers flex against the table. His shoulders stay tight, his body bracing—like he’s forcing himself not to react. I need him to relax or he’s going to bruise. I also need him to talk to me if this is going to work.
I check in softly as my fingers continue to work. “Painful?”
“No,” he grits out, but says nothing more.
I keep my pressure steady, kneading along his hamstring until I decide a direct approach is more efficient.
“Seth. I need you to tell me what you’re feeling for this to be effective.”
He exhales heavily and makes a noise that sounds a lot like a groan. “It feels good.” A pause, then, quieter, “Your fingers are better than my last PT at theSuns.”
I smile. “I took an advanced course,” I say. “Massage complements the rehab. Most people don’t understand or consider that.”
