Page 50 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“I do, but I also think,” I say slowly, “that kissing you might ruin everything.”
She swallows. Her throat moves. Her eyes flick away for the briefest second before locking back on mine.
“But I also think that not kissing me might ruin you more,” she says, giving me a wicked smile.
And just like that, we’re frozen—between reps, between jokes, between whatever this thing is turning into—and my heart starts thudding like it forgot how to do subtle.
I don’t kiss her.
Not yet.
Because maybe she’s right.
Or maybe that kiss is coming later, but definitely not going to happen in the middle of a fucking lunge.
Instead, I give her a crooked smile, step back, and say, “Let’s finish the set. You can ruin me later.”
She’s talking about alignment.
I’m thinking about how close her hand is to a very particular pressure point.
“You’re overcompensating again,” she mutters. “You’re shifting into your left side to protect the right knee.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I grunt.
She steps around me, crouches slightly, and adjusts my foot placement. Her hands brush my ankle and the inside of my thigh—casual and clinical if she were anyone else.
But she’s not.
She’s Scottie.
And her fingers don’t feel like treatment—they feel like foreplay.
“Focus,” she says, lifting her head. Her face is inches from mine now. “Breath. Stability. Mind-muscle connection.”
“I’ve got a connection,” I breathe. “Just not sure it’s the one you’re talking about.”
She exhales, but it’s not annoying. It’s strained. Like she’s pretending my bullshit doesn’t get to her—and failing.
Her eyes drop—quick, subtle—to my mouth. I see it. I feel it.
I grin.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she straightens, puts a foot between mine, and presses lightly against my hip to deepen the stretch.
Except her thigh brushes mine, her breath fans my neck, and I swear the air turns electric.
“Is this still part of the rehab?” I ask, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
“If you keep talking, I’ll add wall squats,” she says, too fast.
She’s flustered.
I fucking love it.
