Page 53 of A Game of Deception
Me:That’s not helping.
Chloe:Honey, just picture him as a sentient anatomical chart with really great abs. All business, no pleasure. You’ve got this.
I smiled despite myself. She wasn’t entirely wrong. I could handle one soccer player with haunting green eyes and a talent for dismantling my defenses.
Me:Sentient anatomical chart. Got it.
Chloe:And if that doesn’t work, remember you’ve already seen him naked, so the mystery’s gone
I ignored her when the knock came at my door. Three sharp raps. I knew without checking it was him.
I straightened, smoothed my navy scrubs, and took a deep breath.
“Come in,” I called, pleased at how steady my voice sounded.
The door opened, and there was Xander, wearing the team’s standard training gear—a fitted blue shirt and black shorts—his dark hair still damp from a shower, those moss-green eyesburning into me like he could strip me bare with a look. My grip on composure faltered for a dangerous second.
“Dr. Swanson,” he said, his voice wrapping around my name in a way that made my pulse trip.
It took me a heartbeat too long to find my voice. “McCrae,” I replied, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “Have a seat. How’s the shoulder feeling after Saturday’s practice?”
He sat down, his tall frame making my office chair look almost comically small. “Better. The exercises you recommended helped.”
I nodded, forcing myself to look at the file rather than at the way his shirt stretched so magnificently across his shoulders. “Good. Today, I’d like to try something different. I’ve scheduled us for the hydrotherapy room.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “Hydrotherapy?”
“The buoyancy of the water will take pressure off your joints while still allowing for a full range of motion,” I explained, falling back on the comfortable rhythm of medical jargon. “It’s effective for someone with your combination of old injuries.”
What I didn’t say was that I’d chosen hydrotherapy specifically because it would put a literal barrier between us. Water. It was safe. Impersonal.
“If you say so, Doc,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.
I stood, gathering my tablet and a towel. “Follow me.”
The hydrotherapy room was at the end of the medical wing, a large space dominated by a pool roughly the size of a small hotel’s. Unlike a standard swimming pool, this one featuredadjustable water jets, underwater treadmills, and a variable depth floor that could be raised or lowered depending on the therapy needs. The water was kept at a therapeutic 94 degrees, warm enough to relax muscles without overheating during exercise.
“I’ve booked the room for the next hour,” I said, setting my tablet on a small table near the edge of the pool. “There’s a changing area through that door. You’ll find shorts in your size.”
He nodded and disappeared into the changing room. The moment he was gone, I exhaled shakily. No worries. Piece of cake. Just another routine hydrotherapy session, that’s all.
I quickly changed into the athletic swimwear I kept at the facility—a modest but fitted black one-piece with short sleeves, designed for therapeutic work rather than sunbathing. Over it, I wore black athletic shorts, creating a look that was functional and professional. I pulled my hair into a tight bun and was reviewing the session plan on my tablet when I heard the changing room door open.
I looked up, and my jaw nearly dropped. Xander stood there in nothing but navy swim shorts, his torso bare and magnificent, and my body reacted before my brain could catch up.
I’d seen him shirtless before, of course, but something about the context—the steamy room, the blue water reflecting ripples of light across his skin—made it different. His body was a masterpiece of muscle, honed by years of elite sports rather than vanity workouts. And there was that sexy tattoo sprawled across his left shoulder and chest, the intricate Celtic design only making it harder not to stare at the sculpted planes of his pectorals.
I swallowed hard and forced my gaze back to my tablet. “Let’s get started. Use the steps. I’ll be right behind you.”
He followed my instructions, descending into the water. I set my tablet aside and joined him.
“We’ll begin with some basic mobility work,” I said, my voice remarkably steady considering the riot of my pulse. “Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart.”
For the next fifteen minutes, I guided him through a series of stretches and controlled movements, focusing on his problem areas—the shoulder, the knee, the chronically tight hip flexors common in soccer players. I maintained a running commentary of instructions, using the language of my profession like a shield.
But the water, which I’d thought would be a barrier, was proving to be the opposite. Each time I needed to adjust his form or stabilize a movement, my hands made contact with his wet skin. Water wasn’t a barrier at all—it was a conductor, amplifying every touch, making each point of contact feel electric.
Shit.
