Page 41 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I watch her type something in. Her thumb hesitates.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“Nope.”
But her eyes don’t meet mine. I’m reasonably certain she saw it. She definitely felt it when she helped me up.
Good.
Now we’re even . . . but are we?
I smile and look back as I leave. “I really hope you’re fine. If not . . . well, you know where to find me. I can help you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Scottie
When You’re Not Sure as to What the Actual Fuck Just Happened?
One moment I’m very professional; the next . . .what the fuck was that?
I don’t even make it back to my office. There’s no time for that. I detour straight into the supply closet like I’m being chased by a wild animal. Except this isn’t a wild animal and morelike my own libido, which apparently wasn’t dead—just sleeping. Like a bear in hibernation. A very angry, very confused bear that woke up mid-spring after several years and wants to know why no one had the decency to wake him up. Better yet, he wants to know where’s the food because he’s so hungry he could eat Jason Tate.
The Jason Tate.
And that is a no.
No.
No . . .
Fuck nope.
The door clicks shut behind me. I don’t merely lean against it—I slam my back into it like that’ll knock some sense into me. My head follows with a thunk that might’ve concussed a lesser woman.
The ceiling light decides now is the perfect time to strobe, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it explodes in the middle of my crises. Do lightbulbs explode? I don’t remember seeing one do so, but with everything going against me these days. I wouldn’t be surprised.
Great, I need to change the bulb before there’s a fire in the supply closet. Maybe I just need to report it or . . . move. Moving seems simpler. No one will find me. It’s a lot less paperwork and fewer feelings.
“For fuck’s sake, Ella,” I hiss, dragging my palms down my face. “Focus. Not on the lightbulb. Not on the damn electrical grid. Focus on the massive, throbbing problem that just rolled in on the knee brace like a fantasy wrapped in scar tissue.”
Jason. Freaking. Tate.
No. Nope. No, thank you.
“I have a better idea. Let’s do a return to sender. Better yet, let’s just abandon ship.”
I’m talking out loud now. To the rubber bands. The paper towels. The forgotten protein bar melting in the supply drawer. They’re the only witnesses to my spiral and, frankly, the only ones I trust not to tell HR. Do I even have to involve HR when it’s just me and my very dirty thoughts about a client?
That’s even worse, Scottie.
“That wasn’t me,” I mutter to the roll of athletic tape judging me from the shelf. “I don’t do this. I don’t get flustered. I don’t eye-fuck clients like I’ve been living on a monastery diet of celibacy and lukewarm coffee.”
I mean, this is professional sports. I’ve seen thighs carved by the gods and glutes that could crush a watermelon. I’ve handled athletes who make Men’s Health subscribers cry into their whey protein. One guy cried every time we foam rolled his IT band, and I still managed to keep my mind on the goal, rehab, and not on his cock.
But Jason? He’s not a normal client. He’s a walking violation of my inner peace.
He breathed, that’s it. That’s all it took. One breath timed with the moment my hands moved over his leg, and I swear to God the man shuddered. Not from pain. No, it was from something more profound—like restraint. Like control was hanging by a thread, and I had a pair of scissors in my grip.
