Page 23 of A Game of Deception
I stood before my wall of obsession, forcing myself to really look at it. This was who I was. This was what I’d chosen. Every decision in my adult life had led to this moment, to having Xander McCrae finally within reach.
He followed you.
The thought came unbidden, shifting something fundamental in my chest. He’d followed me when I’d fled the dinner. He’d sought me out, touched me, almost kissed me. Not because I’d manipulated him into it, but because...
Because he’d wanted to.
His guilt made him vulnerable. His attraction made him weak. And that almost-kiss? That proved he was just as fucked up about this as I was.
I could work with that.
I moved to my desk, my mind already plotting, strategizing. Tomorrow, I’d reassert control. I would remind him exactly who was in charge.
My hand was on my laptop, ready to pull up my email, when my phone buzzed on the desk beside it. A text from an unsaved number, but I knew who it was from the arrogant tone.
Diego Mano:Still thinking about that dance you owe me, Doc. Let me know when you’re ready to pay up.
I rolled my eyes, a wave of annoyance washing over me. The team’s pre-launch party, a few weeks before Xander had even arrived. I’d had two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach and had been circulating to build rapport with the key players. Diego had cornered me by the bar. I’d engaged in some harmless, professional flirting—the kind of ego-stroking necessary to keep a high-maintenance star striker happy. I vaguely remembered him asking me to dance, and me demurring with a laugh. “You’ll have to catch me later.”
Apparently, in his mind, “later” had arrived.
I tossed the phone onto the desk without responding. It was a minor annoyance, a gnat to be swatted away later. My focus was singular. My focus was on Xander.
The next morning,the physical therapy room was my stage, and I was the director. I’d deliberately chosen the private room at the end of the medical wing—the one without windows. I’d dressed strategically—black athletic leggings that hugged every curve, a fitted Miami Pirates polo that was technically professional but left little to the imagination.
Dr. Swanson was in residence.
When Xander arrived, I put him through his paces. Every command, every touch was designed to re-establish the boundary between doctor and patient, to remind him of my authority. I made him take off his shirt and lie face down on the table, a position that left him vulnerable. Perfect.
I started with a general assessment, my hands moving across his back, cataloguing areas of tension. “Tell me when you feel pain.”
“I always feel pain,” he muttered into the headrest.
I ignored the comment, though something in my chest twisted at the honesty. My fingers found the knots along his spine, the places where he held his stress, his guilt, his twelve years of self-punishment.
“Breathe,” I commanded when I felt him tense. “This won’t work if you’re fighting me.”
“Story of our lives,” he said so quietly I almost missed it.
I pressed harder in response, finding a tight spot between his shoulder blades. He hissed in pain.
“That’s your rhomboid major,” I explained, my voice staying steady even as my hands softened slightly. “You’ve been compensating for that old shoulder injury for years. Your entire posterior chain is a mess.”
I worked the muscle, feeling it slowly release under my fingers. My hands moved lower, to the small of his back where the muscles were practically frozen with tension. Each touch was firm enough to be therapeutic, yet gentle enough to be something else entirely.
“Turn over,” I said after twenty minutes of working on his back.
He shifted, and I caught the briefest glimpse of his face before he settled on his back.
I moved onto his shoulders, standing at the head of the table. This position required me to lean over him, my chest inches from his face as I worked the front of his shoulders. I felt more than heard his sharp intake of breath.
“Relax,” I said, my voice dropping lower despite myself.
“Trying,” he ground out.
My hands moved to his left shoulder, the one with the old injury. I felt the scar tissue beneath my fingers and began working the area.
Then my thumb found it—a deep knot, probably adhesions from the original trauma. I pressed into it, working to break it up.
