Chapter 14 Jacob
Jacob
I like to think I’m pretty fucking good at reading people, which is a skill you don’t really get a choice about when you work with athletes, because they have this collective, deeply ingrained habit of lying through their teeth about pain as long as they think it might keep them in the game.
You learn fast how to watch instead of listen, how to read the way someone favors a side or tightens their jaw or goes just a little too still when you touch a spot that actually hurts, and over the years I’ve gotten damn good at picking up on those quiet tells.
Except now?
Now my brain feels like it’s short circuiting.
Because I cannot stop replaying this weekend in my head, like my thoughts have latched onto it and refused to let go, and no matter how many times I tell myself to be normal and professional and not a fucking idiot, I keep seeing it again and again: the way I stepped between Griffin’s knees without even thinking about it, the way my hands settled automatically on his shoulder like that’s exactly where they were supposed to be, the way his body reacted under my touch in a way I absolutely did not anticipate.
I can’t get the sound he made out of my head either…that low, involuntary groan that slid right under my skin and stayed there. And I definitely can’t unsee the way his body responded in a way that made my stomach clench and my thoughts scatter in every direction at once.
Which means, for the first time in a long time, I don’t trust my own read on the situation.
Because what if it was nothing?
What if it was just a physical response, the kind that happens when a muscle finally releases or when pressure hits exactly the right spot, completely detached from attraction or intent or anything remotely sexual?
That would make sense. That would be logical. That would be the most realistic explanation, and normally I’d latch onto that and move on.
But there’s this other possibility that keeps creeping in, uninvited and dangerous, whispering that maybe it wasn’t nothing at all. Maybe my hands on him did something more than relieve pain. Maybe the reaction wasn’t just about the massage, but about me.
And that thought is exactly where everything starts to unravel.
Because that’s the line Hughie warned me not to cross in my own head, the one he gently but firmly told me not to even consider, and here I am anyway, standing knee deep in it, letting myself wonder if there was something mutual in that moment instead of shutting it down like I should have.
I know better than this. I really do.
And yet here I am, questioning my own instincts, overanalyzing a moment that should have been straightforward, and hating myself a little for the fact that I can’t seem to stop hope from flickering to life where it has absolutely no business being.
I push open the doors to the training center, the familiar scent of antiseptic and old sweat greeting me.
It’s early but I didn’t sleep for shit last night and figured I might as well be productive instead of lying in bed, reliving every second of this weekends awkward disaster like it’s some kind of highlight reel from hell.
I make my way to the training room and come to a dead stop. Like a fucking nightmare there they are, Griffin and Mack, both sitting on the treatment tables like they own the damn place.
Griffin’s got his hoodie pulled up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, those thick forearms on full display as he scrolls his phone. Mack is beside him, and in front of Mack, unfortunately, and not at all subtly checking him out, is Lauren.
She’s leaning just a little too far forward, her glossy lips forming some exaggerated laugh, manicured hand lightly brushing Mack’s bicep as she says something that, judging by the pained look on Mack’s face, is either wildly unfunny or just plain confusing.
Probably both.
He looks like a man trapped. Honestly, it’s kind of hilarious.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I announce my presence, dropping my bag by the wall and raising a brow as Lauren straightens like she’s been caught doing something illicit.
Mack immediately shifts like he’s just been granted parole.
“Jacob,” Lauren says with a tight smile, like she can’t decide whether she wants to flirt with me too or fight me for ruining her vibe.
“Mack,” I nod toward him, ignoring her entirely, “you good?”
“I’m fan-fucking-tastic,” Mack mumbles.
Griffin snorts, his eyes flicking up to mine for the briefest second and Jesus, why does my stupid stomach do that flip when he looks at me? He ducks his head, hiding a small smile.
“Lauren, did you get the ice packs from the storage room?” I ask because that was her one and only fucking job this morning.
She sighs, “I forgot.”
I give her a pointed look and she basically storms out of the training room.
“Please don’t leave me alone with her again,” Mack deadpans, hopping off the table like it burned him.
I shake my head and smile at him. He’s always been a character and I appreciate the fact that he isn’t falling for Laurens bullshit.
“Anyway,” Mack says, clapping his hands like he’s trying to clear the air. “Which of us is getting tortured first?”
I smirk and reach for a roll of tape. “Line up, boys. Let’s play ‘whose joints hate them most today.’”
Griffin doesn’t even wait for me to finish speaking before he’s hopping off the table and rolling his hoodie off in one fluid movement, the hem dragging up to reveal a stretch of toned, tanned stomach and the faintest trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his sweatpants.
I absolutely do not stare at it. I have enough self-control for that. Mostly.
“I got dibs,” he says like it’s nothing, moving toward me with his usual easy confidence that fills whatever room he’s in. He plants himself right in front of me like a damn golden retriever demanding attention and completely unaware of how much damage he's doing just by existing.
Mack grumbles something under his breath, but I barely hear him because Griffin is turning and settling on the table with his broad back to me, his shoulder already bare and stretched just so.
He looks back at me over his shoulder with that lazy, lopsided grin of his, like he knows exactly what kind of effect he has and is weaponizing it.
Which is so fucking unfair. Because I’m only one man. One man with a hopeless, quiet crush on someone very, very off-limits.
“You said you’d take another look at the shoulder,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply, definitely not blushing. I am a professional. This is my job. I’ve worked on dozens of shoulders. None of them belonged to Griffin Thatcher. None of them smelled like citrus soap and warm skin.
Fuck my life, I need to get it together.
I wash my hands and move toward him, focusing on the way his skin gleams slightly under the overhead light.
I press my fingers to his skin and it’s like touching live wire.
My cock literally chooses this moment to throb like it’s begging for attention and I have to think of old smelly socks and grandmas to keep myself from getting a fucking boner in the training room.
I knead my fingers gently along his deltoid, working out the tension, and try to breathe like a normal human being while my fingertips explore every inch of that thick muscle. He sighs, deep and content, and I swear I feel it vibrate right through his spine into me.
“You’ve got to stop taking hits like that,” I murmur, my voice doing that soft thing it does when I forget to keep it detached. “Your shoulder is pissed.”
Griffin chuckles, head tilted forward as he leans into my touch. “I didn’t exactly ask for a bodycheck from a six-foot brick wall.”
I laugh quietly, fingers trailing just a little lower, innocently and completely professionally, but I feel the moment it happens.
The slight shift in the air. The sharp inhale.
The subtle, involuntary jerk of his hips.
My fingers freeze on his skin, my stomach dropping to somewhere around my knees.
I’m trying, I really am, to pretend none of this is happening. To stay professional. To keep my hands where they belong and my brain out of the gutter. Because God knows I didn’t send that memo to my nervous system.
I’m kneading into the muscle near his trap like I’m supposed to, but inside it’s one thought after another after another that I absolutely do not want to be having right now, especially on a Monday morning in a training room packed with potential witnesses who would definitely call me out for a nervous breakdown.
And just when I’m about to convince myself that I can be a fully functioning adult, fully detached and fully professional, in walks Hughie.
Bless his stupidly calm, emotionally stunted soul.
He strides in halfway, eyes flicking between me and Griffin’s posture with that concerned big brother gaze.
“Hey, I need my ankle handled,” Hughie says, voice low and steady.
I blink so hard my brain almost screws up.
My smile in response is forced enough to curdle milk. “Uh, yeah, Griff, you are good to go.”
Griffin looks like he might argue with that, like maybe he was about to ask for a minute more of my attention, or maybe he was just about to say something, but the way his eyes flicker with that tiny hint of disappointment tells me he’s not sure what the words would even be.
And then, as if a switch flipped, he nods.
“Cool,” he says. “Are we… getting together to work on the project again today?”
And there it is.
The question that detonates something deeper and more inconvenient than an active volcano in my chest.
My throat tightens for a second, a stupid second, because this is school, this is work, this is nothing emotional, nothing significant, nothing that should even remotely feel like potential romantic catastrophe.
I force the words out, “No, uh, that’s fine. I’ll just put it together once you email me your portion.”