24
The training facility buzzed with its usual activity. Low music pulsing from unseen speakers, boots running on the turf, bodies folding and unfolding into stretches. The team moved in practiced rhythm, long lines of muscle and motion, breath steady with familiarity.
Claire sat at her desk, scanning over a spreadsheet of stats from each player, and was taking notes on future treatment plans.
She told herself that routine was a good thing.
She needed the distraction from her personal life.
Between Jack and Noah. Noah and Jack. Her mind drifted to all the fun moments she has had with Jack.
She liked Jack. She liked Jack a lot, actually.
Then BAM, she remembers Noah and the kiss.
She placed her head down into her folded arms.
“Ugh,” she said to herself. “This sucks.”
She was confused. He said that they cannot blur the lines between player and doctor, and Claire agreed to those terms. Why did Noah break those terms? What about his friend? The blonde one from the community outreach program.
Her phone vibrated sharply in her hand.
Once.
Twice.
She barely glanced at the screen before answering.
TAMA
“Doc.”
The voice on the other end was clipped, urgent.
“We need you on the field. Now.”
Her stomach dropped. “Who?”
“Skid,” Tama said.
Claire was already moving.
She broke into a jog down the corridor, the smell of antiseptic giving way to damp grass and warm air as she pushed through the doors that led pitch-side. The sound hit her first - raised voices, yelling at each other. There was a circle of teammates around Jack who was lying on the ground.
“Stop the bleeding!” yelled Coach Reynolds.
“The doc is here!” another player yelled.
There was a sudden hush that followed when Claire bent down next to Jack who had blood gushing from his neck and cheek. His hand was covering a gaping wound and red streaked between his fingers, bright and unmistakable against his skin.
Liam broke through the crowd “I got the towel!” he yelled.
Claire’s chest tightened, not in panic, not in fear, but in focus, snapping into place. “Hey. Look at me.”
“It’s just a flesh wound, Doc,” he said wincing, “got my neck stepped on by this fucking dummy,” gesturing to Liam.
“I’m sorry, Doc.” Liam said.
“Not very fucking lucky!” Jack screamed.
“Maybe we can shake Luck by his feet, and it will reset him? Miko joked.
“Not the time for jokes, Smash,” said Coach Reynolds, putting his hand on Miko’s shoulder.
The cut was not too deep, but long, going from his ear to his jaw, the edges were jagged, and it was bleeding steadily. Messy, but not bad. He was lucky it missed his artery. She exhaled through her nose, grounding herself.
She pressed the towel gently to the wound. “You dizzy?”
“No.”
“Vision okay?”
“Yeah.”
Good. Her pulse steadied.
“Alright,” Claire said, firm but calm. “You’re coming with me, Hayworth.”
She, and Toby, helped Jack to his feet. He leaned heavier than he meant to, Claire noticed, Toby adjusting without comment, muscle memory guiding his steps to the Med Box.
It was as if Toby, in his large size, had been the foundation for a hurt teammate before.
Noah glanced over at Claire, and it seemed as if he wanted to say something, but she was already running through the checklist in her head as she led the guys through the tunnel.
Clean the site, numb the wound, remove debris, sterilization, suture, dress, after care.
Behind them, training resumed in muted fragments, but Claire barely registered it. This was the part she trusted. The part where everything else - Noah, his advances, the knot in her chest - fell away.
In the Med Box, fluorescent lights flickered on, bright and clinical. Claire guided Jack onto the table, gloves snapping onto her hands as she reached for supplies. Toby left and secured the door behind them, leaving the doctor to treat her patient in private.
“This is going to sting,” she warned gently. “But we’ll have you sorted.”
Jack nodded, eyes closing with a breath out, as she went to work. Claire didn’t waver. She never did when it mattered. She moved with confidence born of repetition, every motion economical, sure.
Jack watched her from the table.
The sting of anesthetic barely registered compared to the calm she projected.
She spoke softly as she cleaned the wound, explaining each step without condescension, without rushing.
Her brow furrowed slightly as she examined the cut, hair slipping loose near her face, completely unaware of how closely he was watching her.
“You’re likely going to have a small scar,” she said matter-of-factly. “But it will heal clean.”
“Will you still think I’m handsome with it?” Jack asked.
“Who said you were handsome, Jack?”
He didn’t reply with anything but a small smile.
“No smiling please, patient,” Claire commanded.
“Worth it,” Jack replied, then paused. She finally looked up at him then, meeting his gaze, there was something earnest there.
Admiration, unguarded and sincere. More than the flirtatious, dangerously charming man she has seen so far.
Claire returned to the sutures, fingers steady as she placed the first stitch.
Jack let out a small breath, watching the way she worked – how close she leaned without invading, how carefully she adjusted when he tensed, how her voice stayed calm and grounding.
Claire smoothed the tape into place. “All done,” she said softly. “You’ll be sore, but you’re fine to train in a few days, try not to get the suture wet.”
Jack didn’t move right away.
The Med Box has gone still, but the white noise suddenly seemed to be a little louder in the space between them. Claire peeled off her gloves, dropped them into the bin by the desk, and stared at Jack.
Jack’s eyes stayed on her, intent now. Close enough that she was aware of his breathing. Of the warmth lingering where her hands had been moments before.
He stood and walked over to where she was leaning on her desk. His body is taught and large. He loomed over her thin frame. Claire became acutely aware of the small details – the ticking clock on the wall, the faint echo of shouts from the field outside, the way Jack’s body is now pressed to hers.
“What are you thinking about, Doctor Ashford?” Jack asked.
Claire didn’t answer.
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about?”
“Yes, I do.” She admitted in almost a whisper, making eye contact. Aware of how close he is.
“I think I am going to kiss you now,” he said softly.
He didn’t even give her time to respond. He put his hands up to her face and crushed his lips to her lips.
Jack's mouth was warm and steady against hers. There’s a certain softness to his lips that surprised her at first. It was the kind of kiss that felt deliberate.
He paid attention to every detail of her mouth.
Jack moved slowly, teasing, testing, learning the shape of hers.
There’s a faint heat that built when his lips parted, leaning into the kiss harder.
Her hands fisted his bare chest without thinking, inviting him to push closer as his hands now moved from her face down to her neck giving it a squeeze that made the sensitive area between her legs pulse.
She gave a little moan in approval before he moved his hands sensually down to her back, pulling her into him, closer than ever before.
He lifted her slightly and placed her onto her desk, spreading her legs, his body now between her thighs. She felt him get hard between her legs, as her panties got slick from wetness.
Claire gasped softly, in between breaths, and his hand brushed over the front of her scrubs. She wished he would take her right there. Make each other orgasm until their bodies were dried up from pleasure and use.
Claire felt his groin grinding into her open legs, mouth on hers, hands familiar and sure, the kiss slipping from slow to reckless in the span of a heartbeat. She started untucking her top from her bottom when– laughter.
Voices in the hallway. Loud. Close.
Reality snapped back into place.
Claire froze, then pushed Jack’s beautiful, bare chest.
“Jack–” she hissed.
He stopped instantly, eyes dark, breath uneven, chest rising and falling. For a split second neither of them moved, the echo of the kiss still humming between them.
More voices. A door opening down the hall.
“Shit,” he muttered.
They sprang into motion at the same time.
Claire turned away, smoothing down her shirt with shaking hands, brushing her auburn hair back into place, willing her pulse to slow.
Behind her, Jack dragged a hand through his hair, grabbed his sweaty, bloody kit, and tucked his erection into the waistband of his shorts before putting the shirt back on, wincing at his shirt brushing the wound freshly stitched on his neck.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I should’ve –”
“No,” Claire cut in. “Don’t say anything.”
He just stared at her, obeying.
She cleared her throat. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Right.”
Their eyes met again as he reached to unlock the door. Something unspoken passed between them. Desire, mostly, curiosity. The awareness that lines existed, and they had just done more than dip a toe over that line. There’s no going back now.
“How is he?” Coach Reynolds asked Claire in his office. Tama and Ben the lawyer was sitting in the room ready to discuss Jack and his well-being. Tania, in the corner, with her face saying everything that Claire needed to know: the coaches were worried.
The office smelled faintly of cigar. There was a large monitor mounted to the wall, and a sleek metal desk affixed to the center of the room. Behind the coach was a large glass window that overlooked the indoor turf below.
Claire noticed that the turf was empty. The team must be outside or in the gym. She looked at her watch. 4pm. They were in the locker room, probably showering, talking about the crazy circumstance they found themselves in today. Jack, and his beautiful, enthusiastic lips, would likely be there.
“Claire?” she heard, snapping out of the daydream.
“I would recommend benching him for at least a week until the wound completely heals.”
“Can we cover the stitches with gauze?”
“No, you need to let them breathe and not run the risk of infection.”
“Fuck!” Coach Reynolds yelled, pacing back and forth.
“We can call in another player,” said Tama calmly.
“We will have to,” Coach said reluctantly, “Jack will miss Paris.”
“When is Paris?” asked Claire to the group.
Tama quickly replied, “One week.”
“I will have to see the progress after a couple days. I will know more then.” Claire explained to the group that stitches on the face should get removed after about 5 days to prevent scarring.
“That’s good news!” Tama said, “See coach. It’ll be fine. Doc will check on him in a couple days.”
Coach Reynolds did not seem convinced, however, at peace with the solution that Claire presented.
Jack hated not being in boots.
He stood at the edge of the pitch in sweats instead of a kit, arms folded, mouth twitching as the team ran drills in front of him. Every instinct in his body wanted to be out there. He wanted to chase, hit, sprint, and tackle. The cut along his jaw pulled faintly when he scowled.
Claire appeared beside him; a medical clipboard tucked under her arm.
“You’re not sulking very quietly,” she said.
“I’m injured. It’s my right to sulk as loud as I want,” he replied.
“You’re benched because your throat got stepped on,” she countered calmly. “And because that wound will reopen the second sweat gets under the sutures.”
He opened his mouth to argue.
She lifted a finger. “Doctor’s orders.”
Jack sighed dramatically. “Cruel woman.”
She gestured toward the low concrete step near the sideline. “Sit before you start pacing like a caged lion.”
He obeyed, dropping down with exaggerated resignation. Claire sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed. Not accidentally.
For a moment, neither spoke. The rhythm of practice filled the air. Jack tracked every movement, muscle twitching with phantom motion.
“You’re going to rip those stitches out just watching,” she said softly.
“Better than sitting in a box,” he muttered.
Claire glanced at the wound, then back at him. “Five days. Then we reassess. That’s not exile. It’s recovery.”
He turned his head slightly, studying her. “You always sound like you believe what you say.”
“I do.”
“That’s dangerous.”
She huffed a quiet laugh.
Their shoulders touched. Stayed touching.
From across the field, Noah noticed.
At first, it was just a flicker of awareness – Claire on the sideline instead of the med area. Then he saw Jack sitting beside her. Too close. Their heads angled toward each other. The way Jack leaned in when she spoke. The way she didn’t move away. The way she smiled at him.
Noah’s chest tightened.
He missed a pass.
“Cap!” The coach barked.
Noah just stared at the coach. He didn’t respond, didn’t apologize, just forced himself back into motion. But his eyes kept drifting. Every laugh Jack drew from her landed like a bruise. Every inch of space they didn’t leave between them felt intentional.
On the sideline, Jack followed Noah’s movement.
“Your captain’s glaring holes in the grass,” she murmured.
Jack didn’t look up. “He’s focused.”
“On me?”
He hesitated.
“On us,” he corrected. Jack’s mouth curved, not smug, changing the subject. “You sit this close to all your patients?”
“Don’t,” she warned.
“I’m just saying,” he replied quietly, staring at her with a cheeky smile, “I don’t mind being benched if this is what I get to do.”
She exhaled; eyes fixed on the field. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.”
Across the pitch, Noah watched Claire laugh at something Jack said.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
It did.