Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Scottie
When You’re Not Sure as to What the Actual Fuck Just Happened?
One moment I’m very professional; the next . . .what the fuck was that?
I don’t even make it back to my office. There’s no time for that.
I detour straight into the supply closet like I’m being chased by a wild animal.
Except this isn’t a wild animal and more like my own libido, which apparently wasn’t dead—just sleeping.
Like a bear in hibernation. A very angry, very confused bear that woke up mid-spring after several years and wants to know why no one had the decency to wake him up.
Better yet, he wants to know where’s the food because he’s so hungry he could eat Jason Tate.
The Jason Tate.
And that is a no.
No.
No . . .
Fuck nope.
The door clicks shut behind me. I don’t merely lean against it—I slam my back into it like that’ll knock some sense into me. My head follows with a thunk that might’ve concussed a lesser woman.
The ceiling light decides now is the perfect time to strobe, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it explodes in the middle of my crises. Do lightbulbs explode? I don’t remember seeing one do so, but with everything going against me these days. I wouldn’t be surprised.
Great, I need to change the bulb before there’s a fire in the supply closet. Maybe I just need to report it or . . . move. Moving seems simpler. No one will find me. It’s a lot less paperwork and fewer feelings.
“For fuck’s sake, Ella,” I hiss, dragging my palms down my face. “Focus. Not on the lightbulb. Not on the damn electrical grid. Focus on the massive, throbbing problem that just rolled in on the knee brace like a fantasy wrapped in scar tissue.”
Jason. Freaking. Tate.
No. Nope. No, thank you.
“I have a better idea. Let’s do a return to sender. Better yet, let’s just abandon ship.”
I’m talking out loud now. To the rubber bands.
The paper towels. The forgotten protein bar melting in the supply drawer.
They’re the only witnesses to my spiral and, frankly, the only ones I trust not to tell HR.
Do I even have to involve HR when it’s just me and my very dirty thoughts about a client?
That’s even worse, Scottie.
“That wasn’t me,” I mutter to the roll of athletic tape judging me from the shelf. “I don’t do this. I don’t get flustered. I don’t eye-fuck clients like I’ve been living on a monastery diet of celibacy and lukewarm coffee.”
I mean, this is professional sports. I’ve seen thighs carved by the gods and glutes that could crush a watermelon.
I’ve handled athletes who make Men’s Health subscribers cry into their whey protein.
One guy cried every time we foam rolled his IT band, and I still managed to keep my mind on the goal, rehab, and not on his cock.
But Jason? He’s not a normal client. He’s a walking violation of my inner peace.
He breathed, that’s it. That’s all it took. One breath timed with the moment my hands moved over his leg, and I swear to God the man shuddered. Not from pain. No, it was from something more profound—like restraint. Like control was hanging by a thread, and I had a pair of scissors in my grip.
And those eyes?
Jesus. Those eyes didn’t just look at me. They searched. Like I was hiding the meaning of life somewhere in my sports bra.
Now my palm’s tingling like it got struck by a lust lightning bolt, and not the fun kind. No, this is the kind of nerve-ending overload that makes me want to ice my hand, cleanse the clinic—in a very spiritual way—and take a vow of celibacy all in one breath.
I’m sweating. Not the productive post-lunge glow. This is awkward stress sweat—the kind that makes your bra band try to assassinate you with a thousand paper cuts.
“This is bad,” I groan, spinning in a slow, useless circle between the cleaning supplies like I’m about to waltz with a bottle of Lysol. “This is very bad.”
Because if I’m sweating now? From one session? Imagine me after a week of rehabbing him. Imagine me trying not to notice how his muscles flex when he limps, or the way he clenches his jaw when he’s in pain, or how his voice dips an octave when he says my name like it’s a goddamn secret.
This isn’t crush-level trouble. This is ‘please God, don’t let me end up naked on the treatment table with his hard length in my mouth’ trouble.
And the worst part?
I kind of want to end up naked on the treatment table doing very, very naughty things with Jason Tate, which is a big no-no.
Though, isn’t that like a double negative that creates a yes .
. . stop trying to find loopholes, Ella.
This is a no-go. Never in this lifetime is this kind of situation going to happen.
Okay, let’s rationalize this. We’ll break it down and analyze the data as we would do for any session.First of all, Jason has made progress. Even when he’s in a heightened emotional state—fear, vulnerability, physical stimulation.
You’re in a heightened state because you haven’t had sex since . . . well, that data isn’t important at all. This is about the patient and not me.
But is it really not about my state of mind? I mean, I stopped dating when my body gave out, when my career shattered. That’s a very long time. Between then and now, I went back to get a master’s degree and a PhD and started several businesses, including this clinic.
Doing all that seemed easier because dating during and after that felt like a performance review you already knew you’d failed.
Every “What do you do?” was a landmine—every “What happened?” a trigger.
Every date ended with me pretending I wasn’t still mourning a version of myself I didn’t know how to let go of.
I drop onto a box of resistance bands like it’s a goddamn fainting couch.
My ass makes the plastic creak like I’m auditioning for a sitcom about burned-out trainers and the patients who undo them. I’m sweating. Not in a sexy, dewy, rom-com heroine way—more in a “what if I die right now and they find me covered in resistance bands and shame,” kind of way.
My pulse? Yeah, that bitch is doing burpees. My hands? Useless. They’re clammy and twitching like they’ve got a mind of their own, replaying every single moment from the past hour like a greatest hits reel of “Welcome to Your Professional Downfall.”
This isn’t like me. This is not who I am.
I am Scottie Marie Fucking Crawford.
Olympic medalist. Rehab director. Ex-captain of the U.S.
National Team. I’ve sprinted on a torn calf with fifty-two thousand people watching me, pretending I wasn’t about to collapse on live television.
I’ve taken elbows to the sternum from women built like brick shithouses and still made my penalty shot.
I’ve been tackled midair by a teammate trying to celebrate too early and didn’t even flinch. Okay, fine—I flinched. But I won.
I do not lose my grip on reality because one stupidly hot hockey player looked at me like I was the reason he still believes in miracles.
Fuck me, I sound unhinged even in my head. I rub my face like I can scrub the moment off my skin. That moment. The moment.
That precise blink in time—his knee lifted. No compensation. No delay. No hint of strain.
I should’ve whooped. Should’ve punched the air like an over caffeinated coach on a caffeine drip.
I froze.
His gaze didn’t track his leg. It locked onto me.
There it was. That flash. Stupid. Dangerous. Nowhere in the treatment manual. A look that didn’t say ‘good job, doc.’ It whispered something far worse.
You’re not the finish line. You’re the reason I want to keep running.
Nope. Absolutely not.
Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s my follicular phase conspiring with the scent of pine sweat and menthol gel. Or maybe it’s just been a while—like, a Netflix subscription could’ve expired and renewed four times kind of while.
But also . . . no.
It’s not just the heat in my stomach. Or the full-body awareness that kicked in the second I touched his leg, and he made that noise—that noise—like he was holding back more than pain. Like he was holding in something, and maybe I wasn’t the only one pretending not to feel it.
“Fuck, Scottie,” I mutter into my palms, “get a grip.”
But the only grip I want is his.
On my waist.
On my hips.
In my hair.
Nope. Nope. Do. Not go there.
I shoot up from the box like I’ve been electrocuted.
The bands scatter across the floor like they’re trying to flee with my dignity.
Too late. That left the building somewhere between his low grunt and the moment he called me Scottie, soft and reverent like my name meant something besides ‘high-functioning disaster in leggings.’
This is fine. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.
I just need a cold shower, a glass of wine, and maybe an exorcism.
Or a lobotomy.
Either way, I’m not surviving this man with my sanity intact.
I scrub a hand down my face.
What do I even do now? Pretend it didn’t happen? Pretend I didn’t feel the heat between us like a live current? Pretend his thigh didn’t twitch when I touched him, and his eyes didn’t dip to my mouth like he was considering biting it.
That was not clinical.
That was not nothing.
That was . . .
Shit, I don’t know what that was.
And the worst part?
A piece of me liked it—all of it. The attention, the spark, but also the moment where someone wasn’t just looking at me like a coach or a therapist or a woman who’s got her shit together, but like I was still someone wanting.
Still someone wanted.
That piece?
It’s loud now.
I hear a knock on the hallway door—probably Camille, George, or Em looking for me.
I take a breath, then another.
Compose. Lock it down. Reset.
I stand, dust off my leggings, and reach for my clipboard like a shield.
But even as I walk out, heart calm, face neutral, every part of me that Jason touched still buzzes with something I don’t want to name.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.