Page 38 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I blink. Then look at her. Really, look at her.
She’s not here to coddle me. Not here to play the inspirational therapist or hand me a gold star for showing up. She’s here to hold me accountable—every stubborn inch of me—and she’s not flinching.
And for some completely messed-up reason, that makes me want to impress her more than I want to get better.
I nod. Once.
Her hands slide under my leg—warm, confident, without hesitation. One supports my hamstring, and the other cups my ankle like we’ve done this before. My body is something she already knows how to fix.
Spoiler: she doesn’t just know how to fix it.
She’s reprogramming it.
Starting today. Right fucking now. No brace. No filters. No room for pride.
And all I can think about is how her fingers would feel if they moved just a little higher. Or slower. Or—Jesus, Jason, focus.
“This isn’t about strength,” she says, her tone sharp enough to keep me tethered. “It’s about retraining your brain to trust the movement.”
Actually, my brain isn’t doing great right now. It’s short-circuiting under the pressure of her hands and that goddamn steady voice that does nothing to hide how close she is. The scent of her skin. The heat of her body just inches away from parts of me that are very much awake.
“Relax the quad,” she adds, shifting my leg an inch. “I’m feeling resistance.”
Yeah, well, I’m feeling a different kind of resistance—and it’s currently trying to pick a fight with the waistband of my shorts.
“Sorry,” I mutter, clearing my throat and adjusting my position, trying not to do it in the obvious way. “Your hand’s cold.”
Lie. Her hand is warm. Magic, almost. A little too magic. Like she’s casting some spell that bypasses my common sense and heads straight for the part of me that really, really doesn’t want to behave.
She lifts her gaze, catching mine. “It’s not cold.”
Fuck.
“Right. Just . . . surprised me.”
She gives me a suspicious look and then says, “I’ve touched your leg before.”
“Yeah,” I breathe out. “But not this high. Or this . . . firm. Or with this much . . . precision.”
Her brows lift. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t blush.
Scottie just knows.
God, she always knows.
And I hate how much I love that.
“You want me to stop?” she asks, all cool indifference, like she’s not holding my knee in a way that has me rethinking every decision I’ve ever made.
“No,” I say too quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Very good. Totally—uh—functional.”
Her lips twitch.
She knows exactly what I meant.
I close my eyes and try not to groan. “That didn’t come out right.”
“Oh, it came out perfectly,” she murmurs, adjusting the angle of my knee again. “Your nervous system’s just . . . firing.”
