Chapter 15
Sam
I’M FINISHING UP some paperwork before calling it a night when I hear the door to the workout room open. Which is nothing new. Plenty of players and staff use the facilities after hours; we have an always-open policy and a lot of security cameras, so I don’t think anything about it.
That is, until I clock the cadence of the person’s steps. They’re injured. It’s easy enough to tell: the rhythm isn’t steady, and one foot lands much heavier than the other. Guess my night isn’t over.
Pushing back the chair, I rise from the desk and make my way out of the PT rooms and into the larger facility, then stop short. “Colin?”
He’s facing me, gripping onto a racked yoke bar like his life depends on it. Knuckles white, jaw clenched. When his eyes meet mine, they’re filled with pain and reticence – a look I know well.
“How’d you hurt yourself?” I ask.
He looks away. “I’m fine,” he grits out.
I laugh, moving closer to him. “No, you’re not. Whatever you are, it’s not ‘fine.’ What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, that’s a lie,” I tell him, closing the distance. “As much as I wish I didn’t, I know your expressions. And this one,” I wave my hand at his face, “is screaming ‘I’m in pain but I don’t want anyone to know.’”
A flicker of something flashes in his eyes. “You know my expressions, Nash?”
My belly warms at the use of the last name. I’ve always associated it with affection and camaraderie, and despite everything between us, I can’t fight the smile. “Shut up and tell me what’s wrong.”
He sighs. “It’s my hip.”
I cross my arms and nod, letting my gaze travel over him shamelessly. “Your right one, yes?”
“Yeah.”
He’s in track pants, something I’ve never seen him in. He’s so committed to the khakis that I was beginning to think it was all he owned. Besides those slutty running shorts of his, that is.
I bite my lip at the memory. After my brother had practically swooned at the visual of his coach and sister being cordial to each other, we’d enjoyed a nice run in the park, circling the pond a few times before taking a short trail that led into whatever passed for “forest” in Atlanta.
Colin had pushed Ollie for the last mile, and I held back solely so that I could ogle my husband.
The view did not disappoint.
“Was it that last mile that did it yesterday?” I tease, only half kidding.
He levels me with a look that I’m certain he thinks is intimidating. It’s not. It’s unfairly hot, actually. Not that I’ll tell him that. “No.”
“Then what made it flare up?”
He blushes. Actually blushes, the tops of his cheeks going ruddy above his beard. It’s ridiculous. “I…had an accident.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Elaborate.”
“I’d rather not.”
The way he says it makes me second-guess everything. “Oh,” I blurt, embarrassed. “Right. Of course.” He literally injured himself having sex. I’m an idiot.
He must read the expression on my face because his own morphs into one of horror. “Oh my God. No. Nothing like that. I’ve just…” He blows out a breath before pinning me in place with his eyes. Those beautiful, unrelenting eyes.
I stop breathing.
“I’ve had a string of bad luck. Since…Vegas. And last night I tripped walking around my living room.”
Exhaling, I fight the smile that threatens to erupt. “You tripped in your living room? On what?”
He mumbles something I don’t hear.
“What?” I step even closer. I could touch him if I wanted. Professionally, of course.
“Nothing,” he says, louder this time. “I tripped on nothing.”
“Literally nothing?” I clarify.
“Literally,” he deadpans.
I laugh softly. “Karma’s a real bitch, isn’t she?”
His eyes darken, the green deepening to the farthest reaches of the forest. “I don’t know, Sam. I’m beginning to think I’m getting everything I deserve.”
I clear my throat. “Right. Well.” I clap my hands in a desperate attempt to bring some professionalism to this conversation. “Let’s get you on my table and let me take a look.”
His eyes flare. “You?”
I throw my arms wide. “Do you see anyone else?” I turn and gesture for him to follow me, not giving him a chance to answer.
“I never see anyone but you down here, you know.”
“And your point?”
“Given that I oversee him, I’d like to know where your boss is.”
I don’t bother answering because I’m not one to get anyone into trouble. But Colin’s not wrong. My boss is rarely around. Once he understood what I brought to the table, he made himself scarce.
I lead Colin into the PT rooms, picking the one farthest from the workout space so that no one knows he’s back here. I know without asking that he wants privacy – he’s supposed to be infallible, and seeing their coach in any kind of prone position isn’t what any player wants.
That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
I’ve flipped the switch to warm the table by the time Colin appears in the doorway, his gaze darting everywhere but me.
“I should wait till tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll be –”
“You will not wait and you will not be fine,” I interrupt, then pat the mattress. “Get up. Now.”
We stare at each other, the silence growing thick, before he relents and steps forward. He favors his right leg so much it hurts to watch him. He sits on the table, then reluctantly lowers himself down when I make a get on with it gesture.
Once he’s settled, I step close. “May I touch you?”
His gaze snaps to mine and heats.
“Strictly professional,” I tell him. “Promise. I won’t hurt you.”
“You’re a physical therapist,” he says, his voice raspy. “I’m in pain. Isn’t it your job to hurt me?”
I smirk. “Maybe a little.”
I start by placing my palms on his upper thigh.
His muscles are hot, a dead giveaway that they’re working harder than they should be.
I press lightly, aiming to get a sense of how much it hurts and what his tolerance threshold is.
Experience has taught me that while men are generally much bigger babies than women when it comes to how much pain they can take, rugby players are different animals.
The name of the game is how much one person can endure, so many of them have trained themselves to block out the worst of it.
In some ways, this makes my job easier. In other ways, it makes it infinitely worse, because they’ll push through an injury that would have leveled a normal person, and in doing so, they make the injury much, much worse.
I watch Colin’s face carefully, monitoring it for any indication that I’ve found the main source of his discomfort. I palpate the area below his hip, slowly making my way to the muscles surrounding the bone, but his expression never changes.
“Either you’re a master of hiding your pain, or I’ve not found it yet,” I murmur, keeping my voice low as I work. “Which is it?”
“Little of both,” he answers, his voice soft but tending toward strained.
I have him turn sideways and work my hands toward his glutes, my focus almost entirely on the fact that he’s injured and not on the fact that I’ve got my hands on his ass.
His very nice ass.
Which is nothing I should be thinking about.
“Fuck,” he grits right as I hit a knot half the size of my fist.
“Found it,” I chuckle, then feel around to get a sense of exactly how bad it is.
“That you did,” he says, exhaling roughly as I guide his leg into a bend with one hand and press into the knot with my other.
“The good news is it’s not your hip,” I assess. “Just one giant knot on your ass.”
“Sure it doesn’t have your name on it?” he asks, a small smile on his face. “Ow, fuck!”
I might have dug my knuckle in a little harder than was necessary. “Hmm?”
He growls an exhale. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
I guide his knee back down. “Turn fully onto your stomach.”
He hesitates.
I grin. “I’m going to use the massage gun to loosen you up, then some localized pressure to release the knot.”
“That’s therapist speak for you’re about to make me hurt.”
I hold the gun up and flip it on, sending the ball into vibration mode. “Maybe.”
Half an hour later, during which Colin has alternated between a meditative state and howling in agony, I decide we’re done for the night.
“Go home and sit on a heating pad,” I instruct him. “We’ll see how it’s improved tomorrow night.”
He sits up, then pushes off the table and stands, looking down at me. “Thank you.”
“Feel better?”
It should be a regular question with a regular answer. But the energy in the room shifts as he nods, his gaze snagging on my lips.
In that moment, I know without question that he wants to kiss me. And for the life of me, I can’t make myself move.
We’re inches apart, breathing in sync. Then his eyes lift to meet mine. “Sam.” His voice is low.
“We shouldn’t.”
His hand comes to rest on my hip, warm and sure. Like it belongs there. “You’re right. We absolutely should not.”
I tip my chin up as his other hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, then cups my cheek.
I should stop him.
He should stop himself.
Colin does no such thing. Instead, he leans down, and my eyes flutter closed as our mouths meet. His beard is soft on my skin, his lips firm and warm against mine. His hand flexes on my hip, holding me tighter as I wrap my arms around his neck, stepping into the kiss like a woman starved.
His tongue flicks against my lips, and when I open for him, he claims me with a groan that I answer just as eagerly.
I’m slammed back to a dance floor, lit by blue neon light, as he kissed me for the first time. It all comes flooding back, the memory swirling with my current reality, where we’re kissing as if our lives depend on it.
Fuck, he’s good at this. The best. Kissing him incriminates every other man I’ve ever kissed before now, because Colin is the master.
This man, who consistently stays in control no matter what, is controlling this kiss in the absolute best way.
If this is what happens when I let him take the lead, then what else might happen?
He breaks the kiss and angles my neck for better access, nipping at the skin and following it with a tender suckle. I inhale a sharp hiss, the brush of his tongue against my skin heating me like a firework.
“More.” The word comes out like a groan.
His lips find mine again and he intensifies the kiss, turning us and backing me toward the massage table.
Wordlessly, he lifts me and sits me on the table, stepping between my spread legs as I pull him closer. But it still isn’t enough. The angle isn’t enough. I don’t know what I want, only that this isn’t it.
I push him, and he releases the kiss with a breathless, “What is it?”
I stand, the move forcing him backward as I look up at him, not knowing what I need. I can’t explain it.
His eyes darken as he licks his lips. I follow the movement. “Let me kiss you again, Sam.”
A spark of doubt flares to life, but I tamp it down and reach for him once more. He takes me in his arms with a moan, and I nearly come apart at the sound. This is what I need. Him unraveling. It’s not his control I want; it’s him undone.
My hands are everywhere, exploring the planes of his chest beneath the too-big T-shirt, then swinging around to feel his back.
When I let one hand travel to the waistband of his track pants, he doesn’t stop me.
So I dip in, marveling at the thickness of him.
It’s exactly like I remembered. Or at least I think I remember.
He hisses as I squeeze him lightly, pulling his mouth away to nuzzle at my neck as his own hand moves to grasp my breast. Even through the sports bra and shirt, the heat of his touch is searing. His thumb drags across my nipple, and I arch into his touch, palming his dick as I go.
“Fuck, Sam,” he breathes.
“Yeah,” I agree, baring my neck for more of his mouth.
He drags his hand down the front of my shirt, not bothering to hesitate as he moves lower. He cups me between my legs, and I jerk at the sensation. A low chuckle escapes him. “There she is,” he murmurs.
I capture his mouth again, his beard scraping my skin in the process. His kisses are drugging, intoxicating things. Addictive. My core tightens as his palm presses against me, and I grind against him shamelessly.
My phone pings, and he breaks the kiss, both of us breathing hard as his forehead rests on mine. “Sam.”
I quirk a smile. “You keep saying that.”
He lets his hand drop away, and I want to protest at the loss of it. Instead, I squeeze him again, then let my fingers trail along the shaft.
He jerks his hips back with a resigned groan, a wry smile on his lips as I pull my hand out of his pants.
Instead of saying anything, he takes my mouth in his once more, and I lose myself to the kiss.
The man is an expert and I don’t care anymore.
If he was trying to bring me to my knees, metaphorical, literal or otherwise, he’s done it. Unquestionably.
“No,” I wheedle as his hands slide back into total safe for work category.
“We can’t. Not here,” he says, pulling back to look me in the eye. “Because when I make you come for the first time, Samantha, you’re going to remember it.”
My body flushes as I realize the depth of what he’s saying. We didn’t do anything in Vegas.
He studies me. “I couldn’t…not then. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But you deserved – deserve – so much more.”
I nod, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth just to watch his reaction.
He curses. “We can’t do this.”
My eyes fly to his. Something has shifted in the past millisecond, because his gaze has shuttered. “Do what, exactly?”
He steps away. “This. Us. I have to stay focused. Scott was very clear: get a championship or I’m fired. This is – I can’t.” He rakes a hand through his hair, barely meeting my eyes before focusing anywhere but on me. “I can’t afford to lose this job.”
My entire body flushes again, only this time it’s in a sickening adrenaline rush of realization. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want me. The feeling is followed immediately by an all-encompassing anger at myself for allowing whatever this little session was to even happen.
“Get out.” I barely recognize the cold voice that comes out of me.
“Sam.”
The tone is too similar to the way he said it earlier, and it nearly breaks something crucial inside me. I shake my head and will the tears to stay down. “Get. Out.”
He studies me again, and it’s infuriating. Because I know he sees everything. The same way I see everything about him. And right now, it’s painfully clear that I’ve let myself be fooled twice.
I can’t bear it. I want to scream at him, hurl myself at him and hurt him the same way he’s hurt me. But I won’t say another word. Clenching my hands into fists, I stand my ground. I won’t speak, and more importantly, I won’t leave. I’ve spent two months running from him, avoiding him.
Not anymore. That stops now. I lift my chin, daring him to say something.
He nods, then turns to leave.
It’s not until I’ve heard the door to the workout room close that I exhale.