Page 57 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I smirk. Let my eyes drag down her body. “You sure you want me in shape? Thought you liked me better in pieces.”
She steps forward, too. “I like you better when you shut up and follow instructions.”
I drop my voice. “I follow better when your hands are on me.”
Her nostrils flare, her jaw twitches.
“Get on the mat,” she snaps.
I do. Because I’m not dumb. And because she looks like she wants to either straddle me or slap me. Either way—I’m winning.
She kneels beside me, all business. Tablet set to the side. Her fingers wrap around my ankle, adjust my position, then drag slowly—too slowly—up my shin.
Professional. Efficient. Precise.
Still sends a bolt of heat straight to my spine.
We work through the warm-up drills—basic stuff. Isometric holds. Lateral raises. Knee extensions. I count reps like I’m not imagining her sitting on my face. She taps my thigh to adjust alignment, and I pretend it doesn’t make my cock twitch.
We don’t speak.
But the tension?
It’s not quiet—it’s loud. Louder than my breathing, louder than the AC hum, and more than anything that’s ever happened on this mat, and that includes the time I popped my knee out during a single-leg lunge and almost blacked out.
“Okay,” she says finally, voice tight. “You’re moving better.”
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
Her fingers skim my thigh again. “I’m not surprised. You’re stubborn.”
“I’m also flexible.”
“That’s not on the chart.”
“It could be. Want me to show you? I practice yoga during the off-season.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s biting her lip, and that ruins me a little.
“Turn,” she says. “Lie flat. I’m going to check the tension in the IT band.”
I roll over, cheek pressed to the mat, breath slowing. Trying like hell to keep my lower half from reacting to the feel of her fingers sliding under the hem of my shorts.
She starts at my quad, palm working firm circles, then drags along my outer thigh with practiced pressure.
I groan.
Loud.
She pauses. “Pain?”
“No,” I breathe. “Just trying not to come in my gym shorts.”
She snorts. “Fuck, Jason, don’t start.”
“I warned you,” I mutter, eyes closed. “Your hands are a menace.”
“Your self-control is a menace.”
