Orla
I tried updating his notes in handwriting that suddenly didn’t look like mine, because apparently touching Tyler Reed meant my hands no longer knew how to function in any professional capacity.
The second the door clicked shut, I exhaled for what felt like the first time since he walked in.
Bloody hell.
I leant against the cabinet, eyes closed, trying to reset my brain. My pulse was still somewhere up near the fluorescent lights, and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone who’d never successfully held a pen before.
The way he’d said my name, God, like he’d been practicing the vowels. I hadn't even given it to him. He must have swiped it off my ID badge while I was checking his range of motion. Cheating, really. A tactical strike on my professionalism before he’d even hit the door.
Bloody hell.
I peeled off my other glove, except it pinged off with far too much enthusiasm and ricocheted across the room like a rogue elastic band. Perfect. Very professional. I retrieved it with all the dignity of a woman definitely not having an internal crisis.
I groaned to myself in frustration. Of course he was trouble. I’d already been warned. His file might as well have arrived stamped in red ink: CAUTION—FLIRTING MAY CAUSE INJURY.
I was a professional. I didn’t fraternise with players. I didn’t giggle, didn’t blush, didn’t get derailed by rippling forearms, impossible cheekbones, or thighs carved out of marble.
But Jesus. I was only human.
The door creaked, and Cara poked her head inside at the exact wrong moment.
“Everything okay in he…oh.” Her eyes dragged over my face. “Why are you the colour of a tomato?”
“I’m not,” I snapped immediately. Too immediately.
“Right. Sure. Totally normal post-session glow.” She smirked. “Need the room?”
“Out,” I said, pointing like a schoolteacher ejecting a child. She laughed her way down the corridor, leaving me to die in peace.
If I were even slightly less disciplined, I’d already be picturing him shirtless on my couch, smirk in place, while I iced his hamstring with my bare hands.
Nope.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I grabbed my water bottle and took a long swallow, willing the heat in my cheeks to back the hell off.
It was fine. I could handle him.
He’d flirt. I’d ignore him. Simple.
…Right?