The Trainer
I noticed the way he looked at me long before he got hurt.
That was part of my job.
Noticing things.
The slightest hitch in a stride. A player favoring one shoulder after contact. The difference between someone stretching because he was tight and someone stretching because he was trying to hide pain.
I noticed everything.
Including the way his eyes followed me around the training room.
He knew better than to openly flirt with a member of the medical staff, and I knew better than to encourage him.
So he kept it contained to small things.
Holding my gaze too long when I handed him a resistance band.
Finding reasons to remain in the room after his treatment was finished.
Smiling whenever I put my hands on his shoulders to correct his posture during mobility work.
I pretended not to notice.
That was also part of the job.
The problem was that I liked looking at him too.
He was tall and built like someone who had spent his entire adult life trying to become impossible to move. Thick shoulders. Powerful legs. A narrow scar through one eyebrow that pulled slightly whenever he smiled.
After games, when adrenaline still clung to everyone and the training room filled with sweat, tape and complaints, he became harder to ignore. His hair would be damp beneath the backward cap he wore after showering.
Sometimes I could feel him watching my hands.
We had maintained the uneasy professionalism for almost two seasons.
Then, he took a puck above the knee.
The shot came late in the third period, hard enough to drop him immediately. He remained on the ice for several seconds before forcing himself upright and limping toward the bench.
I was waiting when he reached the tunnel.
“What happened?”
“Blocked shot.”
“I saw that. Where?”
He pointed to the inside of his thigh, several inches above the top of his shin pad.
“Can you put weight on it?”
“Yes.”
He tried.
His face tightened.
“Mostly.”
“Training room.”
“We’ve got four minutes left.”
“And you’re done.”
“We’re down one.”
“You’re still done.”
I held the door open.
“Go.”
He limped down the hall in full equipment while I followed, prepared to catch him if the leg gave out. By the time we reached the training room, sweat had darkened the hair at the back of his neck.
He lowered himself onto the padded exam table.
I turned away while he worked his gear loose.
The game continued on the television mounted in the corner. The volume was low, but I heard the crowd react to a scoring chance.
Behind me, equipment hit the floor.
“Ready.”
I faced him.
He had removed his skates, hockey pants and shin pads but still wore his shoulder pads, jersey and compression shorts. His left thigh was already beginning to discolor along the inside, a deep flush spreading beneath the skin.
I pulled on gloves.
His gaze followed the movement.
“Lie back.”
He stretched out on the table, smiling faintly.
I stood beside him and examined the bruising without touching it first.
“Any numbness?”
“No.”
“Tingling?”
“No.”
“Sharp pain or aching?”
“Aching.”
I placed my fingers lightly near the edge of the swelling.
His thigh tensed.
“That hurt?”
“No.”
“Then relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re flexing.”
“I have naturally impressive legs.”
I rolled my eyes and pressed more firmly along the muscle.
The smile disappeared as he winced.
“There?”
“Yeah.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Four.”
“That was not a four.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Six.”
I continued palpating around the bruise, checking the muscle for anything more serious than a deep contusion.
His breathing changed when my hand moved higher. Only slightly.
My fingers paused.
“Pain?”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
I looked toward his face, and he was staring at the ceiling. The tips of his ears had gone red.
I returned my attention to the bruise.
“Tell me if it hurts.”
“I will.”
I ran my hand carefully along the inside of his thigh, assessing the tissue above and below the impact.
His leg tightened again.
“You need to relax.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
I bent his knee and guided the leg through a small range of motion.
His compression shorts shifted. So did the growing bulge beneath them.
My hand stopped as his entire body went rigid.
For the first time since I had known him, he looked genuinely embarrassed. He closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s a physiological response.”
“That makes it sound worse.”
“It’s not unusual.”
“This isn’t because of what you’re doing.”
I raised an eyebrow.
His face reddened further.
“I mean, it is, but not because it feels good. The leg hurts.”
“I know.”
“And you’re touching me.”
“I’m aware.”
“And I’ve always—”
He stopped.
My pulse jumped.
“You’ve always what?”
“Nothing.”
He pushed himself upright, wincing when the injured leg moved.
“I think we’re done.”
“We’re done when I finish evaluating you.”
“I’m cleared.”
“I really don’t think that you’re qualified to make that determination.”
“I can walk.”
“You could barely make it down the hallway.”
“Adrenaline.”
“The game is almost over.”
As though summoned by the words, the final horn sounded through the television. The team had lost, and players would begin returning to the locker room soon.
He looked toward the door.
Then at me.
“This is humiliating.”
His voice had lost its usual teasing edge.
Something in my chest softened as I removed my gloves.
“Look at me.”
He didn’t.
I stepped closer.
“It isn’t humiliating.”
“I’m sitting half-dressed on a table while you examine my leg and my body decided to make things incredibly obvious.”
“You think I hadn’t noticed you before tonight?”
That got his attention.
His eyes lifted to mine.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re not subtle.”
“I’ve been extremely subtle.”
“You watch me every time I cross the room.”
“I watch everyone.”
“You stayed forty minutes after treatment last week to talk about a tight hamstring you did not have.”
“It could have become tight.”
“You asked whether I was going on the last road trip.”
“I was curious.”
“You asked what hotel the staff stayed in.”
He swallowed.
“That might have been less professional.”
I rested one hand on the edge of the table beside his hip.
His eyes dropped to it.
“I noticed,” I said.
“And?”
“And I didn’t mind.”
The embarrassment in his expression gave way to disbelief.
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I’m your athletic trainer.”
He glanced meaningfully at the space between us.
“You still are.”
“Right now, yes.”
The words came out before I could reconsider them.
His eyes sharpened.
“Right now?”
Heat moved through me. I should have ended the conversation. I should have stepped into the hallway and asked another member of the staff to complete the evaluation.
Instead, I said, “Your exam is finished.”
His gaze remained fixed on mine.
“What’s the diagnosis?”
“Deep thigh contusion. You need ice tonight, and I’ll reassess you in the morning.”
“Am I allowed to leave?”
“Yes.”
Neither of us moved.
His hands settled beside him on the padded surface. He looked toward the door.
“Lock it.”
My pulse jumped before I crossed the room and turned the lock.
When I faced him again, he had removed his shoulder pads and jersey. He sat on the edge of the exam table in the damp compression shirt he wore beneath his equipment, watching me with an intensity that made my skin feel too warm beneath my work clothes.
“You move quickly,” I said.
“We’re short on time.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I don’t need to walk.”
I approached the table.
He spread his knees enough to let me stand between them, careful with the injured leg. His hands hovered near my waist before he pulled me toward him.
The kiss began almost carefully.
That lasted less than a second.
His mouth opened against mine, one hand spreading over my hips while the other slid into my hair. I gripped his shoulders, feeling muscle shift beneath the damp fabric of his shirt. He made a low sound against my mouth.
“You like that?” I whispered.
“You know I do.”
I pressed my fingers into the muscle beneath his collarbone, using the same controlled touch I used during treatment.
His breath caught.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I like knowing exactly what affects you.”
“You have an unfair advantage.”
“I went to school for it.”
Then he kissed me again.
The exam table placed him at nearly my height. I could feel the heat of him through the thin layers between us, I could see the unmistakable evidence that his earlier reaction had not faded.
If anything, it had become stronger.
I shifted closer, placing my hand on his hard cock as he kissed me deeper. I placed one knee beside his hip and climbed onto the table, settling over his lap, careful not to put pressure on the injured thigh.
The position brought us chest to chest. My hands found the hem of his shirt, and I pulled it upward.
He raised his arms and let me remove it, the movement awkward in the confined space. The shirt landed on the floor beside his discarded pads.
I had seen his bare chest before.
Many times.
In the training room, it had always been something clinical. A shoulder to tape. Ribs to assess. A bruise to document.
Now, I allowed myself to look.
His chest rose quickly beneath my attention. Pale scars crossed his skin, each one familiar to me for professional reasons that suddenly felt very far away.
I traced one near his shoulder.
“You stitched that.”
“Seven of them.”
“You complained the entire time.”
“The anesthetic hadn’t kicked in.”
“You complained before I started.”
“You were holding a needle.”
I bent and kissed the scar.
His hands tightened around my hips and his mouth moved to my neck.
I tipped my head, letting him reach the sensitive skin beneath my ear. His hands traveled beneath the hem of my shirt as he pushed the fabric upward.
I raised my arms.
My shirt joined his on the floor.
His gaze moved over me.
His hands slid upward, exploring carefully at first, then with more confidence when I leaned into him.
He kissed me again.
The hallway outside grew louder.
Voices passed the locked door.
Someone laughed.
We both froze.
His eyes met mine.
“This is a terrible idea,” he whispered.
“Probably.”
I moved against him again and the friction sharpened the ache building inside me. He caught my hips and guided me more firmly against him.
The movement pulled a gasp from me before I could silence it.
His mouth came close to my ear.
“Quiet.”
I helped him as he slid down my pants, shifting carefully on the narrow table while trying not to bump the injured leg. He kicked off his compression shorts, revealing how hard he had grown since the start of the exam.
He lifted my hips up, pulled my panties to the side and slid me back down on top of him.
I kissed him as I began to move, taking all of him inside of me.
His head fell back.
The response went through me like a spark.
I had watched him maintain control through pain that would have brought most people to their knees. He took hits, blocked shots and accepted stitches without giving anyone more than a clenched jaw.
Now a slow movement of my hips had reduced him to a rough exhale and closed eyes.
I did it again.
His fingers tightened.
“That feels good?” I asked.
“You know it does.”
I rolled my hips harder and the table creaked beneath us.
I found a steady rhythm, using his shoulders for balance while his hands guided my hips. His mouth moved over my neck and chest, each kiss becoming less controlled as I moved faster.
I could feel him watching me whenever I leaned back.
The attention made me bolder.
I let my hands travel over him, touching every place I had previously approached with clinical detachment.
His ribs.
His stomach.
The strong line of his shoulders.
His body responded beneath mine in ways no evaluation had ever revealed.
“You have no idea,” he said against my skin, “how many times I’ve imagined you doing this.”
“On the exam table?”
“Sometimes.”
“During treatment?”
“All the time.”
“You hid it well.”
“No, I didn’t.”
His hands tightened and pulled me down more firmly. The deeper pressure stole the rest of my teasing.
My head tipped forward and he caught my mouth in a kiss.
His name left my mouth, quietly.
He looked up at me like he had been waiting all season to hear it said that way.
“Again,” he said.
I did.
His hand slid up my back and held me closer. His other remained firm at my hip, guiding me through each movement while I fought to stay quiet.
Footsteps stopped outside the room.
Someone tried the handle.
“Locked,” a voice called.
I went completely still.
The player’s hands froze on me. I covered his mouth with my hand.
The footsteps moved away.
I waited until they disappeared, then I looked down at him.
The need between us returned immediately, sharper after the interruption. I braced my hands against his chest.
The feeling built steadily, increased by each movement and the way his eyes remained fixed on me.
He watched with the focus he used during faceoffs.
Reading every breath.
Every shift.
Every sign that I was getting close.
“Your legs are shaking,” he murmured.
“I’m fine.”
His hand moved between us, circling my clit with his fingers as I bounced on top of him.
The added pressure made my breath break.
He smiled.
“There.”
I moved harder.
His head fell back again.
“Fuck,” I said.
The tension inside me climbed quickly now. My thighs began to burn. My rhythm faltered. His hands supported me, taking more of my weight and guiding me through the last movements.
“Come, baby,” he said.
The words, spoken so quietly, pushed me over.
It hit me in a hard wave.
My hands gripped his shoulders as my body tightened above him. I buried my face against his neck to muffle the cries that escaped me.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
He broke soon after.
His breathing turned rough, body tensing beneath me as he pulled me down onto him and held me close.
For several seconds, the room went silent except for our breathing.
Eventually, I lifted my head. His hair was damp against his forehead. His chest raised up and down as he tried to steady his breath. The embarrassed man who had stared at the ceiling twenty minutes earlier was gone.
He looked unbearably pleased.
“You cannot smile like that,” I whispered.
He kissed me once. Softly. Then his expression changed.
“What happens now?”
I climbed carefully from the table and began finding my clothes.
“Now I ice your thigh.”
He stared.
“You’re joking.”
“I am absolutely not joking. You still have a contusion.”
“I think the swelling went down.”
I looked at him.
“Do not make me regret this.”
He smiled.
“No promises.”
I pulled my pants on and retrieved an ice bag from the freezer.
He watched me wrap it against his thigh.
The shift back into my professional role should have felt strange.
Instead, it was almost comforting.
I secured the compression wrap and stepped back.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He pulled on his shirt and gathered the rest of his equipment.
At the door, he paused.
“You’re reassessing me tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Ten.”
“Could we make it nine?”
“Why?”
“I might need a longer appointment.”