Page 48 of Playing for the Hat Trick
And yet . . .
Here I am, staring at her from across the room like a cartoon wolf. Again. Okay, no more wanting to kiss my therapist. Or fuck her. Or both at the same time, because why not? Let me tell you why not, asshole . . . she’s Leif’s little sister, your therapist, and if you fuck up your recovery, you’re done.
Sure, but how can I do that when my gorgeous therapist has an ass that looks scientifically sculpted for sin?
Focus on something else.
I look at the wall. I swear I do. But her top shifts, drawing my attention to the way her sports bra cradles her breasts like it’s daring me not to notice.
Obviously, I’m losing the challenge because I notice. I so fucking notice those tits. I’m supposed to be focusing on . . . fuck, what am I doing here again?
Right. Rehab.
You’re going to try very hard in this today, Tate. You’re going to do your glute bridges. You’re going to act like your cock belongs in your pants. You’re going to respond like a functioning adult when she touches you and not imagine her mouth anywhere near . . . and you’re already failing.
So, I change tactics. “Morning, Ella,” I say casually, pretending like I’m just another patient who hasn’t memorized the shape of her smile.
She wrinkles her nose. “Really? You’re going for Ella?”
I shrug. “Everyone here calls you that. I thought it’d be weird to keep calling you Scottie.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re acting weird, Tate. Are you feeling okay?”
God, she has no fucking idea how I’m feeling.
She glances at the tablet in her hand. “Did you do your ten-minute warm-up on the treadmill?”
“Absolutely,” I lie. Boldly. Like a man who definitely did not sit in the parking lot debating if jerking off again before walking in would help or make things worse.
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t call me out. Just points toward the open mat. “Need you here.”
Instead of telling her that I’ll be wherever she needs me, I limp over and lower myself with what I hope is the air of a man completely unaffected by the curve of her hips or how her ponytail swings when she walks. I shift, stretch out, and start moving through the first warm-up sequence with zero focus.
She stands above me, tablet still in hand, stylus spinning between her fingers like she’s conducting a fucking symphony. Her gaze drags across my chest, trails over my thighs, pauses just long enough to make my dick twitch in betrayal.
I grit my teeth. Don’t salute. Don’t salute. Don’t fucking salute.
Then she crouches.
Right next to me. All calm and in control, her voice smooth like we’re not in a room soaked in sexual tension and bad decisions waiting to happen.
“Okay, Tate,” she says. “Glutes fired. Knees up. Now bridge and hold.”
I do it. Or try to. My brain is trying to coordinate muscle activation while also screaming about her proximity, her scent, the fact that her hand is now on my thigh, and Jesus Christ, don’t let her move higher.
“Hold,” she says again, gaze flicking to the screen. Totally unaware that she’s about ten seconds from witnessing a physical and moral crisis.
I clench my jaw and focus on the ceiling.
Not her voice. Not her fingers. Not the way her shirt shifts as she leans down and oh my God, is that the curve of her . . . stop, Tate.
Her palm lands on my hip, and I nearly groan—not because I’m in pain.
It doesn’t have to do with the lunge. Nope. The real struggle here is trying to maintain my balance while she’s touching me like it’s just business.
Spoiler alert: it’s not.
Not for me.
