Page 45 of Game Misconduct
Like it doesn’t burn every time I push that shoulder the wrong way.
I nod. No excuses. No explanations.
But every note he gives me lands heavier than it should, like a reminder the younger guys are right there, faster, fresher, and waiting to take my spot.
And if I slip? They’ll hand it over without blinking.
When I return to the locker room, it hums with that low,fluorescent buzz, too bright, too empty. Everyone else cleared out a while ago, and that’s exactly how I like it.
No eyes on me. No one watching the old man ice his busted shoulder.
I tug my compression sleeve down, teeth clenched against the stab of movement. The joint feels like ground glass, grinding every time I shift.
I grab an ice pack from the cooler, slap it against my shoulder, and fumble with the plastic wrap to hold it in place. One-handed, it’s sloppy—slips halfway down my bicep before I even get it tight.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, jerking the wrap, pain spiking sharper.
That’s when I hear it—the click of high heels.
Sharp, deliberate, wrong in this space that smells like sweat, rubber, and disinfectant.
I don’t even look up. “Locker room’s closed. Holt’s gone.”
Silence. Then, that voice. The one that makes my blood run hot, even when it’s low and cutting and scolding me. “You’re wrapping that wrong.”
My head snaps up to find Sloane standing just inside the doorway, arms folded, eyes locked on me like she owns the damn place.
Which—technically—she does.
“Not your business,” I bite back. Ice shifts, water seeping cold down my chest.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
She doesn’t leave. Of course she doesn’t.
Instead, she crosses the room, every step echoing in my ribs, until she’s standing right in front of me. “Give me that.”
I should tell her to go to hell. I should grab the roll of wrap out of her reach and prove I don’t need anyone’s help.
But my fingers let go before my pride can catch up, andsuddenly she’s bracing the pack against my shoulder, moving with quick, sure hands.
Her scent hits first—something clean, sharp, and threaded with expensive perfume that doesn’t belong in a men’s locker room, no matter how state of the art it is.
Then the heat of her palms against my skin through the thin layer of compression fabric.
The brush of her wrist against my chest.
My body goes rigid, breath stalling as she winds the tape smooth and tight, no wasted motion.
I can’t stop watching her. The way her brow furrows, the way she doesn’t hesitate.
Like she’s done this before. Like she knows exactly where it hurts.
Finally I rasp, “How the hell do you know how to do that?”
She ties it off with a neat snap, steps back just enough that the warmth of her touch fades, and meets my eyes.
