Page 39 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I swear she said that on purpose.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I ask, eyes still closed, trying to meditate away my erection like it’s a bad thought.
“I’m doing my job,” she says, her voice far too smug for my comfort. “You’re the one who turned a basic glute activation drill into a Rated R fantasy.”
“Basic? Nothing about this feels basic,” I mutter, shifting again and praying she doesn’t glance any lower. “I think my nervous system is experiencing . . . confusion.”
“Confusion or arousal?”
“Can’t it be both?”
She doesn’t answer. Just presses her palm lightly against my thigh and says, “Squeeze. Hold. Breathe.”
I do.
Barely.
My muscles fire, like she said. It’s not smooth. It’s not clean. But it happens—my quad kicks in, the neural pathway connects, and my leg moves how it’s supposed to for the first time in weeks.
But that’s not what gets me.
It’s the way she smiles. The small one. The one she doesn’t even know she’s doing. Like maybe—for a second—she’s proud of me.
And just like that, I’m fucked.
Not physically.
(Not yet.)
But mentally? Emotionally? Yeah . . . I’m fucked—and not in the way I’d love to be.
Her hand slides just a fraction higher, fingers pressing into the muscle like she’s testing for weakness, but I can only focus on how close she is to parts of me that are no longer cooperating.
“Good,” she says. “Now relax.”
Impossible. So, fucking impossible.
My leg’s shaking, and not because it’s fatigued. It’s because her thumb just brushed the inside of my thigh, and I had to physically stop myself from groaning. There’s only a few inches between her hand and my cock. Maybe less. And that wouldn’t be a problem if said dick wasn’t currently semi-hard wanting to salute her.
I’m trying to keep it down.
I really am.
I’m breathing through my nose. Reciting hockey stats in my head. Multiplying three-digit numbers. Thinking about my third-grade math teacher and her orthopedic shoes.
Nothing’s working.
Because Scottie’s kneeling beside me like a fucking wet dream in leggings, focused and calm and utterly unaware of the absolute filthy things that are playing in my brain.
Or maybe . . . maybe she’s not unaware. She knows, and she’s not stopping.
“Okay,” she says, shifting position, leaning over me now, her knee pressed against the mat between my legs. “Engage the quad, hold, then slowly raise your leg five inches off the mat.”
I swear I hear the word ‘tease’ in there somewhere.
“You do realize you’re basically straddling me right now,” I mutter, voice low and not even a little ashamed.
Her gaze flicks to mine. “You need stabilization. This is the most effective angle.”
