Orla
As usual I was the first one to arrive at the physio suite, even earlier than Ben and Cara, my two hand-picked juniors for the tour.
I’d trained them both when they were university students, trusted their instincts, and more importantly, they didn’t bring chaos with them.
Just steady hands and common sense. They were good buffers...
good distractions. Exactly what I needed after shutting a hotel-room door in Tyler Reed’s face last night and pretending it hadn’t rattled me.
The hotel had assigned us two interconnecting rooms to work from, surprisingly spacious and within good distance to the state of the art private gym downstairs. More than enough room for all three of us and for me to hide behind professionalism if I needed to.
I leaned my body back against the coated treatment bed. My hand massaging the back of my neck which still ached from traveling. I was halfway through firing back a text to Gwen, who wanted to know every detail of my whereabouts and company by the hour, when the knock came.
“It’s open,” I called, far too aware of how my heart had picked up its pace.
As always, he walked in like he owned the place. Rumpled bed hair, that unfair scrape of stubble framing a mouth he had no right making look that good, and a plain white T-shirt clinging in ways that should’ve been immoral to notice.
His signature cocky, pure Tyler Reed grin faltered the second I didn’t match it. And God help me, the tiny drop in his smile made something in my chest splinter. It really was like kicking a puppy. A six-foot tall, infuriatingly gorgeous puppy who was far too good at getting under my skin.
“Morning, Doc,” he drawled, voice warm and gravelly from sleep.
I didn’t answer. I turned back to the treatment table, fussing with a fresh towel I’d already folded twice.
“Lie down,” I said flatly.
He obeyed, lowering himself onto the bed, and the flicker of disappointment in his eyes nearly undid me.
I pushed the leg of his shorts higher and got to work. The swelling was down, thankfully, and he was still tender, but it was manageable. His thigh tensed beneath my palms, alive under my touch and he flinched, a sharp breath catching in his throat.
“Sorry, just relax,” I ordered.
“Trying,” he muttered, voice rougher now.
“Still sore?”
“A little. Not as bad as yesterday.”
His hand shifted against the table, brushing my hip. It wasn't quite deliberate, but it wasn't an accident either. Heat spiked through me, straight to the base of my spine. I stepped back so fast it made him blink and moved to the other leg to compare, pretending that was part of the plan.
The silence grew until he finally murmured, “So… you sleep okay?”
I could tell he was trying to fill the awkward silence.
I couldn’t blame him. Whatever I was trying to achieve with this stiff, clinical distance was backfiring, only making the air in the room feel thicker and more forced.
I was trying to act all ‘team lead’ when in fact, I was just making things worse for myself.
“Fine,” I clipped out. “You?”
“Can’t complain.” Then quieter he said, “Except for the part where my physio won’t look me in the eye.”
My eyes lifted to his, but not a glare this time. More a warning with the edges worn down.
“Do you want to do this properly or not?”
He gave me that infuriating grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
I ground my teeth, forcing professionalism into every movement. “Focus on the exercises I showed you in London. No pushing and no shortcuts.”
“Will I get a sticker if I do them all?”
I tried to bite back a laugh, I really did, but it slipped out reluctantly, completely traitorous.
His grin softened immediately, the cocky tilt easing into something warmer. “Better,” he said gently, like my laugh was the prize he’d been chasing all morning.
I shook my head, still smiling despite myself, guiding him through the stretch sequence, palms braced on his hips and shoulders.
My insistence at professionalism was bordering on torture.
His breath hitched every time I adjusted him, and mine wasn’t much steadier.
It was its own kind of torment, touching him like he was mine and pretending he wasn’t.
Now and then, I’d catch him staring at my lips.
When we finished, he sat up, towel slung around his neck, I could see something clawing its way out “Same time tomorrow?”
I tried my damnedest to keep it cool and distant. Instead, my voice came out needier than I meant. “Yes.”
He lingered, a little before grabbing his grey zip up hoodie. He started to put it on slowly, hesitating a little at the second arm.
“So… you still jet-lagged?”
“Completely,” I admitted before I could stop myself. “Woke up at three convinced it was morning.”
Damn it, he was disarming me.
“Same,” he said with a grin. “Watched three hours of late-night infomercials. Know a disturbing amount about vacuum sealers now.”
A reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. “Tragic.”
“You should’ve texted,” he said quietly. “Could’ve kept each other company—as friends, obviously.” His tone was light, but the look in his eyes was anything but.
I sighed. “You don’t give up, do you?”
He smiled then, completely boyish and hopeless.
And because I was weak, because that look was killing me, I gave him a small one back. Just enough to let him breathe.
“Guess I’ll see you later,” he murmured before leaving and closing the door behind him.
His presence lingered long after. The warmth of where he’d been, the electricity he always seemed to leave in the air; it lit something I didn’t want to name.
I pressed a hand to my chest, my heart pounding somewhere underneath it.
For fuck’s sake, Orla. How many times do you need to tell yourself to pull yourself together?