Chapter 11 – Brianna
“You need to be doing these exercises at home, too,” I caution Penn, one of the forwards on the Manhattan Mayhem starting lineup who’s currently sprawled across my treatment table at the facility like he’s lounging on a beach instead of rehabbing a sprained wrist with me.
I continue palpating the joint, my fingers pressing along the tendons, feeling for any lingering tightness or instability.
It’s healing, but not fast enough. And it won’t get better if he doesn’t put in the work outside this room.
I’m also going to request that he sit out for one more week.
I know he won’t. Their home opener is this weekend, and all the guys are eager to show off for their fans.
I’ve become used to this with athletes. All I can do is pass the recommendation to Coach and hope someone listens.
Picking up the resistance ball we’ve been using, I hold it out to him. “Do the squeezing exercises again but this time slower and with more control.”
Penn grins as he takes it, and that grin tells me everything.
Whatever he’s about to say is going to be completely unhinged.
I’ve learned that much about him after working with him the past year during my internship.
He’s the team’s resident flirt, the guy with a joke for every occasion, always pushing boundaries, never caring if he makes people uncomfortable.
Luckily for him, I see past the fast mouth to who he really is.
I’ve always been able to see past the personas people project and into their hearts.
When you finally get past the womanizing and the cocky smirks, I see a guy who genuinely looks out for his teammates.
I’ve noticed the way that he quietly supports the rookies who are struggling.
The way he checks on people when he thinks no one is watching.
And despite his reputation, I’m convinced he secretly craves real love.
You can’t fake that kind of hunger. At least not forever.
He works the ball, fingers squeezing, and I note the improvement in his flexion. Still not where it needs to be, but better than it was two weeks ago when he took that nasty fall.
“Good,” I say. “Take that ball home with you. Keep working on it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he teases, flashing another grin. Then, predictably, he adds, “Trust me, my wrist has been getting plenty of work with something thicker at home.”
I know exactly what he's implying. I'm not about to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I throw it right back.
“Your dick isn’t the same circumference as this ball,” I say dryly. “This ball is thicker, and probably longer. Offers significantly more resistance.”
His laughter explodes through the room, full-bodied and obnoxious. And then there’s a deep chuckle from the doorway. A sound I’ve come to crave. The one I hardly ever get to hear anymore since he realized whose daughter I am and decided that silence and distance were the safest option for us.
I turn my head slowly. Seth is leaning against the doorframe with his arms loosely crossed, a ghost of a smile at the edge of his mouth.
He looks ridiculously, unfairly good. Warm-up pants with the Mayhem logo stamped on the side, a fitted jersey stretched across his broad chest, hair still too long, still in desperate need of a cut.
I hope he never gets it. I know that's a stupid thing to hope for, but I hope it anyway. I loved running my fingers through it.
His hazel eyes find mine like he’s been looking for me. I tell my stupid heart to slow down because that’s ridiculous. The man’s been avoiding me like I’m contagious.
“Little Tremblay!” Penn calls out, clearly delighted to see Seth.
The nickname is cute considering he played with Seth’s older brother—but not cute considering there isn’t a single thing little about Seth. I would know.
Seth’s smirk lingers as he steps further into the room, nodding at Penn but never once breaking eye contact with me. I paste on my most professional smile and try not to overthink the fact that he isn’t running away from me yet.
“How can I help you, Seth?”
Please don't say it. Please don't be here to tell me that you've reconsidered, that you've thought more clearly about this and that you'd prefer your daughter not spend time with the girl you had a one-night stand with before you knew who she was.
Because I haven’t heard from him in two days.
And in those two days, all I’ve done is wonder about Sawyer.
If she’s upset that I didn’t come over on Sunday to work on her defense like I had promised.
If she’s doing those stretches that I suggested and whether she liked the leftover seafood pasta.
I texted her, made up some lame excuse about why I couldn’t come, but text responses don’t tell you if someone’s hurt because you didn’t show.
And the last thing I want is to disappoint her.
“Coach sent me in to get my hamstring looked at,” Seth says, voice low, completely neutral.
My brows pull together. He's still new to the team and I haven't been briefed on any prior injuries. "Sure. Tell me what happened." I nod toward the table. "You can hop up. Penn was just leaving."
Penn laughs as he hops off, taking the resistance ball with him. “Bye, Bri. Don’t worry, I’ll behave.”
“Good.”
He pauses in the doorway and smiles at me. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Are you single?”
I wince internally.
Seth tenses beside me, his mouth pressing into a firm, unimpressed line.
Gone is the playful smirk he had on seconds ago.
And shit, it shouldn’t matter. Seth is probably here to fire me.
We had sex once, kissed another time, and since then?
Nothing but broody radio silence. Plus, he’s right.
My dad owns this team. I shouldn’t mix my career with personal.
Not that it stopped me that night with Seth.
Not that it would probably stop me from another go with him if I didn’t think he regretted breathing the same air as me.
I clear my throat. “I am.”
“How about a date then?”
“I don’t think dating a player is a good idea.”
Penn’s grin stretches wider. “I’ll get transferred.” His tone is mock-serious, but his eyes are sparkling.
I burst out laughing because we both know he’d never do that. “I’ll think about it,” I tease, shooting him a wink.
He gives a dramatic salute before ducking out, closing the door behind him. And now, it’s just me and Seth. And suddenly, the air feels a hell of a lot heavier. I turn back to Seth and try to keep my expression clinical. He’s watching me with a look now. That one that’s always unreadable.
"So," he says, quietly enough that the words stay between us despite us being alone, "dating a player on your father's team is off limits. But fucking one isn't?"
It's not a question. It's barely even an accusation.
It's just a fact that he's laying down on the table between us. I press a gentle hand to his lower back, guiding him to lay on his stomach. Partially so I can examine his hamstring. Mostly so I don’t have to look at his face while I answer that question.
“You weren’t a player for the Mayhem that Halloween night.”
He exhales sharply, shifting against the table as my hands find the back of his thigh. “But you didn’t know that yet.”
I hesitate. “No. I didn’t.”
Another sigh, deeper this time. His head shakes against the table, like he’s processing and annoyed with my answer. “So, you thought I was a player, and yet you slept with me anyway.”
“Yes.”
He huffs.
“Would it have changed anything for you if you’d known who my father was?” I ask. “Would you have walked away?”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then his head turns and eyes find mine and there it is, the brown in his eyes looks richer, warmer, like milk chocolate, and the flecks of green seem like gems. When his eyes are like this, they remind me of a teddy bear’s fur.
The one that I grew up sleeping with as a little girl.
The one that I’d clutch to when I wondered where my dad was, why he didn’t love me enough to stay home with me and my mom.
Because that’s what Seth is, underneath all his defenses and gruffness.
Beneath the sharp tone and his attempts at keeping distance between us.
He’s a teddy bear where it matters. I see it in the way he cares for Sawyer.
I hear it in the way she talks about him.
I sensed it by the way he touched me that night—making sure I came first, always checking in.
Those are two things that my ex never did.
He might have a darker, sadder side to him, but inside, he just wants to be held.
He closes his eyes for a beat, then tilts his face away. “No. I still would have done it.”
I try not to focus on that. I try to ignore what his admission means.
I clear my throat. “Okay, I’m going to start the examination now.”
He lets out a grunt but keeps his face turned away from me.
I check for swelling, bruising, anything concerning, but everything looks good. My fingers press carefully into the muscle on his thighs, and he makes no sound at all.
“How does this feel?”
He grunts. “Fine.”
That tells me nothing.
“I need you to be more specific than that. Tell me when something changes. Tell me if you feel any pressure, pain or tightness.”
I get another grunt from him as my fingers start to move deeper in my assessment.
I’ve done this for years, first in school, several internships, and now as part of the Mayhem’s training team.
But working on Seth feels different because now I’m working on someone I’ve seen naked. And fuck, his body is built for this.