Page 28 of Rookie Recovery

It was as though I had floated outside of my body and was now looking down upon my pasty, prone ass spread out on Jamie’s bench. I had the sudden realisation of how dickish I was being. I should have admitted I was lying. Just messing him around like always. I was so sure that he’d brush me aside. I should have apologised for wasting his time—because, let’s face it, that had been my plan—jumped off his table, excused myself, and hit the weights room with the rest of the team. And never bothered the doctor again. Pulled up TopTier on my phone and got this itch scratched by someone else.

By someone I wouldn’t bump into at every training session.

And … God forbid, what if I got a proper injury? I wasn’t sure I could handle the sheer mortification.

But I couldn’t bring myself to tell the full truth. Which was absurd. Jamie knew the truth, it was written all over my pallid, sweaty face.

“Actually, it’s probably nothing,” I said instead. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just … Can I have a massage instead?”

“Now, now.” Jamie raised a brow. “What kind of PT would I be if I ignored your complaint?”

“But I’m sure I’m fine. I’ll be right as rain in no time.”

Jamie crossed over to his desk, picked up a clipboard. “Do you want me to examine you or not?” Yes. No. Please? “Because I can refer you to one of the other massage therapists.”

“No, I don’t want …” I didn’t want what? To be referred to someone else? To admit the truth? To give up my Bowie bravado and tell Jamie out loud that I liked him, and more than anything, I just wanted him to think of me as someone he could see himself liking too.

“One way or another, we address every complaint. So, would you like me to refer you?”

I cleared my throat. Tried to muster my earlier nonchalance. “No.”

I expected an eye roll, a huffed out breath, but what I got was a smile. A pinched one, as though the mighty Jamie was attempting to hold back his mirth. He came to stand on my right side.

“I apologise if my hands are cold.” He paused once again, waiting for my consent. Which I gave with a pained expression and a tiny nod. If he was calling my bluff, I realised, he might have been even better at this than being a super-serious doctor.

And then Jamie plunged his fingers under the waistband of my pants, right between my hip and my dick.

“Oh, God,” I choked out. The coolness of the contact, the skin on skin, the shock that he’d actually gone through with the examination, and I was finally, thoroughly lost for words.

Of course he’d gone through with it. He was a pro. The pro-iest pro I’d ever met. And I’d been a total twatwaffle. Every time I was in his presence. Why was I the way I was?

I tried not to cant my hips, arch into his touch, whine. Because it shouldn’t have felt good. Not with the sliceable tension between us, or this weird funk I’d somehow tossed Jamie into.

But fuck, it felt so—

No, it was wrong. So, so wrong. So very fucking wrong.

And … right … and … No, it wasn’t right. But it was so right. Oh, God.

It started slowly. Like an airbed being slept on overnight, but in reverse. Little Bowie twitched once, twice, began changing direction, making a U-turn. Luckily, on the other side of Jamie’s fingers.

His eyes flitted towards my face. His lips pulled taut as though holding himself back from laughing, and he stopped his examination. He pretended like he hadn’t noticed my cock filling itself with blood only millimetres from his fingertips.

“Nothing seems to be amiss.” His voice was a little squeakier than its usual husky tenor. “Would you like me to check the other side?”

Yes. “No?” I said, phrasing my answer as a question.

He permitted himself one fleeting glance at the blaring beacon now threatening to bust through the waistband of my boxers. His eyes flashed wide for a millisecond before he pulled his gaze to my, no doubt, beetroot red face.

“Would you like a breather?” he said.

And then I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was the unbridled humiliation coursing through my veins. Perhaps it was that I’d realised the tables had turned, and I was now Debbie the rottweiler and Jamie was young Archie Bowman with a stick. Or maybe it was the glint in his eye. A flash of something new. A challenge? Something fun and playful that I hadn’t seen on him before.

I broke first. My laughter came out as a massive pig-like snort. I needed to sit up, to breathe, but right then, it wasn’t a possibility. Through blurry, tear-logged eyes, I saw Jamie double over. The table shook as his laughter, deep and melodic and fucking wonderful, reverberated through it.

It took a while for us to regain our composure. Every time I wiped my cheeks dry and caught his eye again, the giggles would start anew.

Eventually, we both released sighs. Jamie stood towering over the bed once more.

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