3. Xander #2
There was no preamble, no small talk. She gestured for me to sit on the edge of the table. I obeyed, my muscles tight, feeling like I was walking into a trap I couldn’t see.
She didn’t ask for permission, just took my injured hand in hers. Her touch was firm, but the heat of her skin radiated through mine. I noticed her nails—short, no polish.
Her fingers stilled for a second. She finally looked up, and our eyes locked. The air crackled with a volatile combination of anger and desire.
“You got this wet,” she observed, her tone mildly accusatory.
“Shower.”
“You need to keep it dry for at least twenty-four hours.” She removed the bandages and reached for a fresh packet of antiseptic wipes. “This might sting.”
It did, but I didn’t flinch. Pain was an old friend at this point.
Tara’s fingers, steady and sure, pressed the antiseptic-soaked gauze against the gash on my hand, each swipe sharp with something more than medicine, as if she were pouring all the years I’d left her behind into that sting.
She finished wrapping my hand, her touch lingering a beat too long, then stepped back, her hazel eyes unreadable. “Alright, McCrae. Full physical now. Standard for all new players. Shirt and shorts off.”
I stared, my pulse hammering. “You’re kidding.”
Her lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. “You can have Dr. Mitchell do it instead. Sixty-three, hands like a freezer, and he’s got zero patience for cocky forwards.”
I stood, tugging my shirt over my head in one fluid motion, my eyes locked on hers.
Her gaze stayed professional, but I caught the slight flare of her nostrils as it swept over my chest, the lean muscle honed from years in the gym.
When my fingers paused at the waistband of my training shorts, her brow arched, daring me to hesitate.
“I’ve seen plenty of athletes in various states of undress, McCrae,” she said, her voice cool but edged with something softer, something that remembered us. “You’re not my first.”
But the faint catch in her breath told me I wasn’t just another player. Not to her.
I dropped the shorts, standing there in black briefs that left little to the imagination.
My body was a machine, built for speed and power, but under her scrutiny, I felt like that 17-year-old kid again, half-hard, and fighting to keep my head straight.
I tried to focus on anything else—corner kicks, ice baths, the smell of wet grass—anything but Tara, with her steady hands and eyes that saw too much.
She circled me, her sneakers soft on the tiled floor, like she was sizing me up for more than just a physical. “Any injuries I should know about?”
“Besides the ones from crashing into defenders?”
She stopped behind me, close enough that I felt the warmth of her breath on my shoulder.
“Specifics, McCrae.” Her fingers brushed the tattoo on my ribs—Jimmy’s initials, the date of his accident etched into my skin.
Her touch was light, but it burned, dragging me back to the summer we lost him, the summer I lost everything.
“My brother,” she said, her voice quieter now, heavy with memory. “When did you get this?”
“Years after it happened.”
“The accident.” Her fingers pressed harder, tracing the ink as if she could feel the shared grief beneath it. “And then you left without a word.”
The accusation knocked me on my ass worse than any cheap shot on the field.
After Jimmy died, I bolted—grabbed the first contract waved in my face just to get as far away as possible from everyone’s sideways looks and hushed gossip, from that goddamn guilt that gnawed through my insides.
I never considered what my vanishing act did to her.
“I got signed to Glasgow, Tara. Besides, your father?—”
“Stop.” Her hand pressed flat against my ribs, her palm hot against my hammering heartbeat. “Not here.”
She stepped around to face me, her composure a thin veil over the flush creeping up her neck. “Lie on the table. Range of motion.”
I glanced at the narrow exam table, cold and clinical. “Is this really necessary?”
“It’s protocol,” she said, her tone sharp but her gaze soft, conflicted. “Unless you want to explain to my dad why you bailed on your physical.”
I flopped onto the table, flat on my back, eyes locked on the ceiling. Forty-two fucking tiles. I counted every single one as if it might save me from the fact that Tara was standing close enough for me to smell her shampoo.
“Arms up,” she ordered from behind me.
I lifted them, feeling weirdly naked in a way that had nothing to do with being in my underwear. Her hands wrapped around my wrists. Each time her fingers moved, my body felt things it had no business feeling during a medical exam.
“Range looks good,” she said, her voice dropping to a tone that made my brain short-circuit. “Let’s check those rotator cuffs.”
Her thumbs bulldozed into my shoulders, hunting down knots. I let out a grunt when she found a tender spot.
“Jesus, you’re tight here,” she said. “Better start stretching, or you’ll be useless on the pitch.”
“I’ll make it a priority, Doc,” I said through clenched teeth.
“You better.” Her fingers dug deeper—not a suggestion but a command. “Roll over. Gotta check your spine.”
I rolled onto my stomach, grateful for the brief shield from her gaze. The table was hard and unyielding, and I shifted, trying to ease the pressure of my growing erection. I cursed my cock for its betrayal, but in Tara’s presence it seemed to have a mind of its own.
Tara’s hands moved down my back, her thumbs tracing my spine, pressing at intervals. When she reached the small of my back, just above my briefs, her touch slowed, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin there.
“Slight curvature,” she said, her voice closer, her breath warm against my ear. “Postural, probably. Core strength?”
“Strong enough,” I managed, my voice rough.
“We’ll test that.” Her hands slid to my hips, fingers digging into the muscle where my lower back met my glutes. “Pain?”
“None.” Not the kind she meant, anyway.
“Good.” She stepped back. “Turn over.”
I froze, because turning over meant one thing—Tara getting an unobstructed view of the hard-on I’d been praying would go away. “Give me a minute.”
“Problem?” Her voice carried a teasing lilt.
“You know what the problem is,” I muttered, low and raw.
“I’m a professional, Xander. The body’s just biology.” But the flush on her neck, spreading to her collarbone, said she wasn’t as detached as she claimed.
I rolled onto my back, jaw clenched, refusing to acknowledge the obvious strain in my briefs. Her eyes flicked down, then back to my face, a spark of heat breaking through her cool facade, causing her to falter for the briefest second.
Then she continued, “Hamstring flexibility.” But when she spoke, her voice was huskier now. She lifted my right leg, pressing it toward my chest, standing between my spread thighs. The position was intimate, vulnerable, her hands steady but her proximity undoing me.
“Decent flexibility,” she murmured, her hand on my thigh firm, almost possessive. “But you’re tight. Feel any pulling?”
“Only where it’s obvious,” I said, my voice a low growl.
A smile flickered across her lips, gone as fast as it came. “Pain, Xander. I’m talking about pain.”
“None.”
She lowered my leg but didn’t step back. Instead, she lifted my left leg, positioning it over her shoulder, bringing her face inches from mine. Her ponytail brushed my chest, and I fought the urge to tangle my fingers in it, to pull her closer.
“Discomfort?” she asked, her breath warm against my jaw, her eyes locked on mine.
“Define discomfort,” I shot back, my control fraying like a worn-out cleat.
Her smile was slow, dangerous. “Push against my shoulder.”
I did, feeling the stretch in my hamstring and the maddening heat of her body so close. When she shifted, her hip grazed my erection, deliberate and unapologetic. I sucked in a sharp breath, my hands twitching toward her.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice low, not sorry at all.
She switched to my right leg, repeating the motion, but this time her fingers brushed the front of my briefs, slow and intentional. My control snapped like a taut string.
“Tara,” I warned, my voice rough with need.
“Yes, Xander?” Her eyes were dark, her mask slipping.
Before I could answer, the door swung open, no knock, no warning. Diego, the team’s cocky striker, leaned against the frame, grinning like he’d caught us in the act. “Well, damn, Doc. This the new warm-up routine? Count me in.”
Tara spun toward the door, her professional mask slamming back into place. The transformation was instant—eyes hardening, spine straightening.
“Diego, what have I told you about knocking?” Her tone was sharp and scolding. “This is a medical examination.”
Diego’s smirk didn’t falter as his eyes traveled from my position on the table to Tara’s flushed face. “Seems like a very thorough examination.”
I sat up, swinging my legs off the table, every muscle in my body tight with frustration. Diego’s eyes flicked to my briefs, his smirk widening into something that made me want to rearrange his perfect teeth.
“I have the test results from the practice field,” he said, waving a manila envelope. “Hank asked me to bring them directly to you. Said it was urgent.”
Bullshit . What a liar. And a bad one at that. This was a power move—marking territory, letting me know where I stood in the locker room pecking order.
Tara snatched the envelope from his hand. “You could have left these with my assistant.”
“And miss this?” Diego’s eyes lingered on me. “Welcome to Miami, superstar. Better get used to the heat.”
“That’s enough,” Tara snapped. “Out. Now.”
Diego raised his hands in mock surrender, backing toward the door. “Whatever you say, Doc.” He threw me one last look before disappearing, his message delivered: she’s off-limits .
Tara tossed the envelope onto her desk without opening it. “We’re done here.” Her voice was clipped, all business. “You can get dressed. Your test results will be filed with the coaching staff by the end of the day.”
I reached for my shorts, yanking them on with more force than necessary. “That guy’s a piece of work.”
“He’s the team’s top scorer.” Her tone gave nothing away. “And you’re the new star player threatening his position.”
I pulled my shirt over my head, feeling the heat of her gaze even as she pretended to write notes on her clipboard. Part of me wanted to grab her, finish what we’d started. The smarter part knew that was suicide.
“Same time tomorrow for the cardio assessment,” she said, not looking up.
I nodded, wariness battling in my gut. If Diego hadn’t interrupted... Christ, I don’t know what would’ve happened. Something stupid. Something we couldn’t take back.
“Tomorrow,” I mumbled, and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind me, separating us once again.