Page 2 of Pressure Point

“Your brace wasn’t half bad either,” he chided, his Irish accent a stark contrast to Dash’s Argentine one. Dash wasn’t the kind of guy Liam normally would have hung out with—he was outgoing, flashy, charming, and never met a party he didn’t like. So when he’d discovered they were going to be roommates at camp and on all team road trips, Liam was a little unsure. Dash had taken a similar risk as Liam, leaving behind his home country and family for the chance to play for the Rising, and the two had bonded over that, quickly becoming buddies.

“Dash,” a team staffer Liam had never seen whisper shouted as they made their way past the centerline of the pitch. “We need you for the premier peach.”

“The what?” Liam asked, feeling just as confused as his buddy looked.

“It’s what we’re calling Man of the Match. The premier peach. We have a whole thing planned in front of the supporter’s section. The fans are waiting.”

“Well, then, I cannot leave my fans waiting,” Dash said, turning up his smolder. Liam gave him a playful shove, hoping it would knock down the guy’s ego a peg or two, but the finger guns he got in return let him know that it didn’t work.

Letting out a sigh, he watched as the large group waiting at the end of the field burst out with excitement as Dash walked toward them. He was the poster child for the new franchise—a hotshot player who looked like he could just as easily have been walking down a runway at fashion week as running up and down the pitch.

A flash of red hair caught Liam’s attention as he walked into the locker room. His whole body came to life again at the idea of just who that beautiful mane belonged to. She’d managed to take over all his thoughts while he wasn’t on the pitch, something no one had ever done before. At least not like this. He’d spent almost eight years with the same girl back in Dundalk, and not once had she ever occupied his mind the way this beauty was. This one was something special. If only he could find a way to tell her.

“Excellent clean sheet,” Gunnar said, slapping him on the shoulder. Liam winced slightly, his coach’s hand making contact with the exact spot he’d rammed into the goal post earlier in the game while making a save.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Your shoulder okay?”

“Yeah, I just knocked it against the post. It’ll be fine.”

“Have one of the trainers look at it. It’s probably nothing, but a little ice never hurt anything.”

Liam nodded, tossing his gloves into his cubby. He slipped off his cleats and socks, wiggling his toes against the soft carpet of the dressing area. Everything in this stadium was brand-new and state-of-the-art, and there were moments he still had a hard time believing he was here. Pulling off his jersey, he tossed it on top of his gloves before stretching out some more, trying to prevent the lactic acid from building up. When he felt the twinge in his shoulder again, he knew Gunnar was right—he needed to ice it down. Plus, it provided him an excuse to head into the PT room and see the beauty that he knew was already in there, hard at work.

Avery Houghton.

* * *

There was just something so incredibly distinct about the smell of athletes post game. It wasn’t something that Avery could describe, but it was different than your standard sweaty guy smell or even what they smelled like after practice. She had no idea what it was about a game that gave them that odor, one that she was so used to at this point that she wondered if she would miss it if she ever stopped working in sports.

“Okay, I want you to ice that ankle for fifteen minutes before you hit the shower. If it still feels wonky tomorrow, let me know, and I’ll look at it before training on Monday,” she told Boone Jarrett, one of the midfielders, who was currently sitting on an exam table. He was so engrossed with whatever was on his phone, he didn’t even bother to look up at her, choosing instead to just nod at her instructions.

At least he’s giving me that…

Spinning around to see who else had wandered into the training room, she inhaled deeply, taking in that distinctive smell all over again. A smile spread across her face, watching one of her counterparts chat with Parker, the team captain, and Vance Henderson, the other league veteran. She couldn’t tell if they were just hanging out, or if one of the two players actually needed something, but it all seemed to be under control, so she didn’t give it much more thought, taking the chance to savor the moment.

She’d dreamed of being a physical therapist since her older brothers had each broken a foot while wrestling together in the backyard as kids. She’d been seven—three years younger than Gabe and five years behind Russ—when the whole thing went down, leading to one very upset dad. To this day she still didn’t fully understand how they had done it, but as if it were yesterday she remembered being fascinated by watching them do their physical therapy exercises once their casts came off. The power of the human body had amazed her then and still amazed her now, as she spent every day working with professional athletes, who some days seemed like were on a mission to tear their bodies apart.

Landing the job with the Atlanta Rising Football Club after graduating from her doctorate program at Emory University was a dream come true. After finishing her undergraduate degree in biology at Georgia Tech in three years, followed by three more years in her doctorate program, she was over the moon to be working not only with what seemed like an incredible organization, but some really awesome players.

“Hey, Avery.”

The sound of her name in the deep rumble of an Irish accent made her jump a little. She turned around to find Liam, their goalkeeper, ambling into the training room in nothing but his uniform shorts. His hulking frame towered over her—easily at least a full foot taller than her five feet five—making her feel even smaller than normal.

“Hey!” she called back, pointing to an empty table, signaling for him to hop onto it. “First team win! Congratulations! And another clean sheet at that!”

“Thanks,” he answered, as he settled onto the table. Liam was about as quiet and stoic as she had ever seen, so she knew she would probably have to do most of the talking.

After training camp and weeks of preseason, she’d worked with each one of the players on the team in some form by this point, but Liam had collided with a player from the opposing team a couple of weeks back during a game, so she’d stayed with him that night, monitoring him for a concussion. It had been an easy decision on her part—even though she’d barely known him when she’d volunteered. She took pride in her work, and she worried about each one of these guys. Their health was important to her, and the idea that one of them could have had a concussion, when it was still only preseason, had sent her into reactionary mode. Liam had been a trooper about it and was more than willing to follow concussion protocol to the letter.

The next morning, Avery had been thrilled to report that there was no sign of a concussion. On top of that, she was even happier to have spent the time getting to know their goalie. Despite the fact that he looked like a Viking and usually had an unreadable expression on his face, he was about as sweet and gentle as anyone she had ever met. Just the kind of guy she wanted as a friend.

“Shoulder?” she asked. She’d watched him hit the goalpost with his left shoulder, diving to make a save. From where she’d been standing, she couldn’t see just how much contact he’d made, and he hadn’t seemed overly bothered by it for the rest of the game, but she was glad he was checking in.

“Yeah, hit it on the post.”

“I saw. Let me take a look,” she muttered, picking up his arm, moving it back and forth to get a feel for the shoulder joint. Liam winced ever so slightly, and she could feel the muscles already starting to tighten up. Placing her thumb right above his shoulder blade, she pushed against the pressure point—a spot in the body that either increases or alleviates pain—hoping it would provide some relief. “This hurt?”