Page 46 of Only Between Us

“But you did keep up. You played through it, stubborn man that you are. Played through itwell.” I prop myself on the dresser opposite the bed, watching his fingers move over his leg muscles. My arms wrap around my middle, hugging myself the way I’m suddenly tempted to hold him. He looks so brokenhearted. “If you’re really worried, then let’s call it and go home. Skip the gala tomorrow so you can get checked out.”

“We can’t miss that party. We’re seated at a table with Shawn Hartley and a handful of the coaching staff, and I need this weekend to go well if I’m going to make the Rebels think there’s a chance I’llsign with another top team. Might not be able to twirl you around the dance floor, though.” The joke is barely half-hearted, delivered without a fraction of his usual ease, and I officially hate this. “I really need this to work, Pip.”

“This comeback?” I hesitate, knowing this is in clear violation of rule number one, keeping us surface level, but I’ve already come this far. “Why are you so set on playing again? On going back to the Rebels?”

He’s the one who hesitates now. This is unchartered territory for us. We’ve found somewhat of a groove with the ribbing and small talk, the way I annoy him and love every second of it. But we don’t dothis.

“I was happy when I played there. Was happy with that team.” Brooks speaks slowly, like he’s testing the waters. “It’s been a rough couple of years.”

“Rough because of injuries?”

“Not injuries. Life’s been… I don’t know.” He gives up on his leg, instead rubbing his brow. It’s a frustrated move but also reeking of deep exhaustion. “Blank. No thrill, no joy. Nothing’s ever come close to filling the void, and I can’t… I can’t keep living like that, Pip.”

I ache at that. Both for the heaviness in his voice and the fact that I get it. I spend about sixty hours a week at the shop without thrill nor joy.

“Surely there are other things…” I think to the day we met. His dejected sigh in that coaches’ booth, and the flash of panic in his eyes when I’d asked for his version of my pick-me-up skinny-dips. The way he’d scrambled to find an answer before landing on his sweet dog.

Brooks’s mouth tips in a lackluster smile. “I signed up for a fake relationship with a woman who can’t stand me. I played on a bad knee. That’s how bad I need this.”

Guilt pounds at the wall I erected between us the moment he first threw those accusations at me. I assumed this comeback was inpursuit of money or born from an athlete’s typical inability to let the sport go. Knowing he’s been struggling like this… I’d love to pin this concern on the fact that I need to keep riding him and his NFL prospects to the bank for the sake of my finances. Which I do.

But damn my stupid heart, I’m worried abouthim.

“You’re sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” Brooks shakes his head, and, with a sigh, I lift off the dresser. “Out of the way, Attwood. My mom is arthritic. I learned a few tricks that might help.”

I avoid his eyes as I kneel at his feet and take up his previous efforts. My fingers start below the knee, sliding upward and gently working muscles that are definitely tight. I’m close enough to hear a breath gust out of him, to sense his disbelief over the fact that I’m helping him. By kneeling at his feet, no less.

While he sits on a bed. But I’m not thinking about that pesky detail.

“Tom used to play injured all the time. I hated it, but it’s part of the deal whether you’re making a comeback or you’ve been playing for years.” I keep my focus on his leg as I work, perfectly content not knowing how he’s looking at me, and grapple for something to help lighten… him. This fake relationship is shaky at best, couldn’t even qualify as friendship. But he doesn’t deserve to feel like this. “At the risk of inflating your ego, you were amazing out there, Attwood. Injury and all.”

Brooks gives a quiet chuckle. A hint of life. “My ego thanks you.”

“Plus, if I’m going to get all dolled up for this gala—and this is me we’re talking about, so you know it’ll be good—I’m going to require a minimum of one dance to show off my outfit. So let’s get this knee in working order, shall we?”

A beat of silence follows, but I still don’t muster the courage to look him in the eye. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s a slight laugh in those two words, shrinking the pit he put in my stomach. And then he fills it completely, seals it shut when he releases a sigh, thick with relief, as my thumb digs into his thigh.

I chance a look at him. Brooks leans back on his hands, head thrown back, eyes closed, a furrow in his brow. He inhales deeply and his T-shirt strains against every hard bit of his chest.

“That hurts so fucking good, Siena.”Jesus.

The tentative air around us shifts, spikes with sudden, unbearable humidity. My lungs struggle to draw breath as a flush rises up my neck. I watch his chest lift and fall, almost in pace with my fingers. His massive hands are spread out over the white comforter, digging into the down.

I’ve never been more aware of a bed in my life.

“Is this how you act on the treatment table for your friends?” I force my eyes back to his knee, my entire body tense. All of it. Shoulders tight, toes curling, pussy clenching. “Because I’d urge you to consider reeling it in.”

“You checking me out, Pippen?” I feel his eyes on me again. Hear the definite humor in his voice.

Don’t look at him. Focus on putting air into your lungs. “Is this doing anything to help?”

“You’re the one nursing me to health. You tell me.”

“That doesn’t sound like a thank-you.”

I forget all about breathing when Brooks reaches for me, lifts my chin with a finger so that I’m finally forced to look him in the eye. He’s perfectly calm, amused. Not at all the bundle of overactive hormones I’ve become.

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