Page 4 of Pucked Mountain Man
GRADY
The room is quiet enough to hear tendon rasp over bone.
I grimace as I draw deep breaths and the resistance band squeals with every rep.
It’s day three in this tricked-out “cabin.” It has everything: a two-story stone fireplace, a state-or-the-art kitchen, a retro game room—and me, the least fun feature, grimacing on a bench in the gym.
Ankle looped to a band on a post, I flex, hold, and release. The knee isn’t screaming. But it’s still making its presence known.
I add another set to prove I can.
The door clicks. I know it’s her.Don’t look.I look anyway.
Stevie pads in barefoot, leggings, oversized sweater. Long dark-blonde braid over one shoulder. Freckles. Green eyes with little gold shots when the sun finds her. Curvy as sin. She’s the kind of beauty that makes a man forget he’s not supposed to touch.
I look away before my staring can cross a line.
“Morning,” she says. “I see you started without me.”
“Didn’t realize I needed a chaperone for PT.” I pull the band. Flex. Hold. Release. Don’t show the wince.
“You don’t need a chaperone.” She comes closer. “You need a spotter.”
“I’m not benching a car.”
“You’re benching your pride,” she says cheerfully, then grins. “That’s heavier than a car.”
I keep my face blank. “I’m fine.”
“Sure.” She drifts to the mirror wall, tests a band. “Your form’s a little off.”
“Did Thatcher tell you to say that?”
“I actually took a few classes,” she says, meeting my gaze in the mirror.
I remember Thatcher always talking about his kid sister like she was a little girl. She isn’t. She’s a full-grown woman with a body that’s driving me crazy.
“I’m good,” I say, angling my knee to prove it.
Pain nips. I swallow it.
She comes to my side, not touching, just watching.
“Rotate your hip a bit. Don’t lock the ankle,” she says. “You’re overcompensating for the quad.”
“I’m compensating for the fact that I hate this.”
“I know.” Her voice is full of warmth, not pity. “Just remember, if you cheat now, you’ll pay later on the ice.”
“Who says I’m getting back on the ice?”
“You do,” she says. “Every time you grit your teeth and push yourself a little longer.”
She steps in, close enough for the sweetness of her shampoo to blow up my focus. Her knuckles skim my thigh as she adjusts the band.
I forget how to exhale.
“Like this,” she murmurs. She rests two fingers to the outside of my knee. My dick twitches. “Hold there. Drive through the heel.”
