14. Tara
TARA
But focusing on paperwork wasn’t doing it today. Not when my mind kept replaying our weekend run along the shore, the way his eyes had locked with mine when we’d agreed to find Morrison, the heat in his voice when he’d leaned close at that coffee shop.
“I can think of a few other things that are better without interruption.”
I slammed the folder shut and pressed my palms against my eyes. This was madness.
My phone buzzed with a text, jolting me from my thoughts.
Chloe: Thanks again for coming to the opening! So... how’s Ghost Boy this morning? Still broken in all the right places?
Of course. Leave it to Chloe to cut straight through my pretense. I hesitated for just a moment before responding.
Me: I have a session with him in 5 minutes, and I’m freaking out. I don’t think I can do this.
Her response was immediate.
Chloe: Of course you can. You’ve got a wall full of diplomas and probably the most expensive pair of yoga pants in Miami right now.
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 eyes burning 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 featured adjustable 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.
“Now we’ll work on core rotation,” I said, moving to stand behind him.
My teeth caught my bottom lip before I could stop myself—God, from this angle it would be so easy to slide my arms around his shoulders.
But I chastised myself and continued, “This will engage your obliques. Now twist from the waist while keeping your hips stable.”
I placed my hands on his hips to show the position, and I could feel the subtle shift of muscle beneath my palms. Ugh, he was making this impossible, and he didn’t even know it .
“Like this?” he asked, executing a perfect rotation.
“Good,” I said, my voice betraying nothing of the desire building low in my belly. “Now, in the other direction. Keep your hips facing forward.”
He twisted again, and I felt the powerful engagement of his core muscles. Things were going along well. Just a doctor working with a patient. That I could smell his soap, could remember exactly how those muscles had felt under my fingertips in a very different context, was irrelevant.
“We’ll do ten more repetitions,” I instructed. “I’ll count them out.” I moved around to face him, positioning myself in front so I could monitor his form more closely.
We were on number seven when it happened. The pool was equipped with therapeutic jets that could be programmed to activate at specific intervals. I’d forgotten to disable this feature before our session, and suddenly, a powerful jet near where we were standing switched on with a mechanical hum.
The forceful stream of water hit the back of Xander’s legs, pushing him off balance. The pool floor was slick, offering little traction. He stumbled forward, his feet sliding. Instinctively, he reached out to catch himself, his hands finding my waist just as I stepped forward to stabilize him.
The momentum carried us both backward until my back hit the pool wall. His body followed, pressing against mine, his hands still gripping my waist, my palms flat against his chest in a failed attempt to maintain distance.
The heat of him, the slick strength of muscle under my hands, the thud of his heartbeat against my palm—it was all too much. The warm water swirled around us, but it might as well have been fire licking at my skin.
We froze there, breaths mingling, his face inches from mine, droplets clinging to his lashes. His pupils were blown wide, green swallowed in black, and every ounce of restraint I’d been clinging to threatened to shatter.
“Sorry,” he murmured, but he didn’t move away. “Lost my footing.”
I should have stepped aside. I should have made a comment about the importance of proper footing in aquatic therapy. I should have done anything except stand there, my hands still pressed against the wet, warm skin of his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palm.
“It’s okay,” I said, my voice barely audible over the hum of the water jets. “The pool floor can be slippery.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I felt something inside me unravel. The walls I’d constructed, they all dissolved in the steam-filled air between us.
“Tara,” he said, my name a question on his lips.
I knew what he was asking. Acknowledgment that whatever was happening between us was real and mutual and inevitable.
I gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
His mouth was on mine before I could draw another breath, hot and insistent.
This kiss was different—not desperate or angry or tinged with revenge.
It was slow, deep, exploratory. He tasted of mint, and I answered with a desperate heat, my lips parting, my tongue tangling with his as if I’d forgotten the meaning of restraint.
My hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, then into his wet hair, pulling him closer. His hands moved from my waist to my back, pressing me against him until there was no space between us, just the warm water and the heat of our bodies.
The rational part of my brain—the part that had graduated top of my class, that knew exactly how many ethical boundaries we were obliterating—was screaming at me to stop. We were at the facility. During working hours. Anyone could walk in.
But the part of me that had obsessed over this man, the part that had finally tasted what it was like to be with him, was louder.
His hands slid lower, cupping my ass through my shorts, lifting me slightly so that I was pinned between his body and the pool wall. I wrapped my legs around his waist, a small sound of need escaping me as the new position brought him flush against my center.
“God, I’ve thought about this every minute since the other night,” he murmured against my neck, his accent thicker with desire. “Can’t focus on anything else.”
“Me too,” I admitted, the confession torn from me as his teeth grazed my collarbone. “It’s driving me crazy.”
He captured my mouth again, the kiss deepening as his hips pressed against mine in a rhythm that made my breath catch. The water lapped around us, creating small waves that seemed to echo the building tension in my body.
Even though we were in a therapy pool, in our swimsuits, in the middle of the day, it still felt more intimate than when we hooked up at his penthouse.
That wasn’t all about years of anger and obsession finally letting loose.
This was totally different—a conscious decision, made with clear heads and open eyes.
His hand slid between us, fingers dipping beneath the edge of my shorts, seeking. I gasped against his mouth as he found his target, my hips bucking involuntarily against his touch.
“Xander,” I breathed, both a warning and a plea. “We can’t... not here.”
He withdrew his hand immediately, pressing his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard. “You’re right,” he said, his voice rough.
The acknowledgment should have been a relief, but instead, I felt a crushing disappointment. I wanted him—now, consequences be damned. The realization was terrifying in its intensity.
I disentangled myself from him reluctantly, putting a few inches of water between us. His eyes were dark, his breathing uneven, his desire clear even through the distortion of the water.
In that moment, I made a reckless, potentially career-ending decision that flew in the face of all my careful planning.
But I was tired of planning. Tired of calculating every move, of keeping my wants and needs buried beneath layers of career ambition and old grudges.
And for once, I was going to take what I wanted without overthinking it.
“My place,” I said, my voice low and steady despite the rapid pounding of my heart. “Tonight.”
His eyes widened slightly, surprise giving way to heat. “Your place?” he repeated, as if making sure he’d heard correctly.
I nodded, a strange, exhilarating sense of freedom washing over me. “Use the back entrance. The one by the recycling bins. There’s a smaller chance of being seen.”
A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features from merely handsome to devastating. “What time?”
“Nine,” I said, already calculating how long it would take me to get home, to prepare, to make sure there was no evidence of my research wall or the years I’d spent stalking him. “And Xander...” I leaned closer, my lips brushing his ear, “don’t be late.”
I pulled away before he could respond, before I could change my mind. With a composure I didn’t feel, I waded to the steps and climbed out of the pool.
“That’s enough for today, McCrae,” I said, my voice impressively steady as I grabbed a towel. “We’ll continue this on Wednesday.”
I didn’t look back as I headed to the changing room, but I felt his eyes on me the entire way. As the door closed behind me, my heart was still racing, my body humming with unfulfilled desire.
What had I just done? Invited a player—a patient—to my home for what would undoubtedly be a night of breaking every ethical code I was bound by. Risked my career and my reputation.
And I didn’t regret it for a second.