Chapter 5
Lydia
The Hydrotherapy Room was, theoretically, a place of healing.
It was a cavernous, tiled space tucked deep within the bowels of the arena, filled with the low hum of filtration systems and the smell of eucalyptus and chlorine. It was designed to relax seized muscles, reduce inflammation, and speed up recovery time for the athletes.
In reality, however, being in here with Michael Holt was about as relaxing as taking a nap on a live landmine.
"Adductor Longus," I said, my voice echoing slightly off the damp tiles. "Originates where?"
"Pubic bone," Mikey grunted. His eyes were closed, his head resting back against the metal rim of the stainless-steel whirlpool tub. "Inserts into the linea aspera of the femur."
"Action?"
"Adducts the thigh." He cracked one eye open, a lazy, golden gleam cutting through the steam. "And it’s tight. You need to dig deeper, Doc."
I swallowed hard, adjusting my grip on his leg.
This was our routine now. Three days into our "Deal," and the lines between tutor, trainer, and willing victim were so blurred I couldn't even see them anymore.
Mikey was in the tub, submerged up to his waist in 104-degree water. I was sitting on the edge, my scrub pants rolled up to my knees, my arms plunged into the swirling hot water to massage out the knot in his quad.
He was wearing nothing but black compression shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination when wet. Water beaded on his chest, running in rivulets over the dense slabs of muscle and the intricate Nordic runes tattooed across his pectorals.
He looked like a sea monster rising from the deep. A very sexy, very dangerous sea monster.
"I am digging," I argued, pressing my thumbs into the dense muscle fiber of his inner thigh. "Your legs are like tree trunks, Mikey. I need a jackhammer, not thumbs."
"Use your elbow then," he murmured, his head lulling back again. A drop of sweat rolled down his throat, tracing the path of a thick vein before disappearing into the water. "Don't be gentle, Mouse. I can take it."
I can take it.
The double entendre hung in the humid air, thick and heavy.
I focused on my breathing. In. Out. I focused on the anatomy. Femur. Quadriceps. Sartorius.
If I focused on the biology, I wouldn't focus on the fact that my hands were inches away from his groin. I wouldn't focus on the fact that the water was magnifying the size of his thighs, or that the heat radiating off him was hotter than the tub itself.
"You're doing good," I said, trying to keep my voice clinical. "You got a ninety on the practice quiz yesterday. Dr. Aris is going to faint."
"I don't care about Aris," Mikey rumbled. He shifted in the water, his knee bumping against my forearm. The friction sent a spark straight up my nerve endings. "I care about the deal. Am I passing? Yes or no?"
"Yes," I said. "You're passing."
"Good." He smirked, a slow, devastating expression that made his scar crinkle. "That means I get to keep my bodyguard duties."
"You seem very excited to be a glorified bouncer."
"I'm excited to protect my investment," he corrected. He reached out, his wet hand wrapping around my ankle where it dangled over the edge of the tub. His thumb traced the bone. "You're the reason I'm going to the draft, Lydia. That makes you the most valuable thing in my life right now."
My heart stuttered. One-two. One-two.
"Don't say things like that," I whispered, looking down at his hand on my ankle. It was massive. Possessive.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm valuable. It confuses the dynamic."
"What is the dynamic?" he asked softly. He slid his hand up my calf, squeezing the muscle. "Tell me, physiologist. What are the mechanics of us?"
I jerked my leg back, splashing water onto the tile floor.
"The dynamic is that I am the trainer, and you are the athlete who is prone to failing grades and mood swings.
And right now, the athlete needs to focus on his rotator cuff because if you can't lift your arm over your head, the scouts won't care about your anatomy grade. "
I stood up, wiping my wet hands on my scrubs. My face was burning, and I blamed the steam.
"Turn around," I ordered. "Let me work on the shoulder."
Mikey chuckled—a low, dark sound—but he obeyed. He shifted in the water, turning his back to me.
I stared at his back. It was a landscape of violence and art. The muscles of his trapezius and rhomboids were so defined they looked carved from marble. The tattoos were darker here—wolves, ravens, symbols of protection and war.
I took a breath and reached out, sinking my hands into the water again to grip his shoulders.
"Relax," I commanded, feeling the tension coiled in his traps. "You're carrying the weight of the world right here."
"Heavy world," he muttered.
I started to knead the muscle. It was intimate. Too intimate. The room was silent except for the bubbling of the jets. Just us. In a warm, wet box, hiding from the winter outside.
"So," I said, trying to distract myself from the texture of his wet skin. "The Northern Trip. Tuesday. Are you ready?"
"Born ready."
"It's a long drive," I mused, digging my thumbs into a knot near his spine. "Six hours to Marquette. Then another four to Houghton. That's a lot of time in a confined space."
"Scared?"
"No," I lied. "Just... aware. Thirty shifters on a bus. It's a lot of pheromones."
"You'll be fine," Mikey said. He rolled his neck, leaning into my touch. "You're sitting next to me. Window seat. I take the aisle. Nobody gets past the wall."
"The Wall," I teased. "Is that what you call yourself?"
"It's what the league calls me." He turned his head slightly, looking at me over his shoulder. His cheek brushed against my wet knuckles. "The Mauler. The Wall. The Problem."
"I like 'The Problem,'" I said softly. "It fits."
"Does it?" He turned fully now, twisting at the waist so he was facing me, but I was still behind his shoulder, my hands on his neck.
"Yeah," I whispered. "You're definitely a problem."
He went still. The water stopped sloshing. Even the jets seemed to quiet down.
He looked at me with an intensity that stripped me bare. He wasn't looking at my scrubs or my messy bun. He was looking right at the hunger I kept buried under layers of sarcasm and textbooks.
"And you like problems, don't you, Mouse?"
The nickname didn't annoy me this time. It felt like a caress.
"I like solving them," I corrected, my voice trembling.
"You can't solve me," he murmured. He reached up, his wet hand cupping my cheek, pulling my face down toward his. "I'm not a puzzle, Lydia. I'm a warning label."
The air in the room shifted. It went from humid to electric in a heartbeat.
I should have pulled away. I should have slapped his hand away and told him to face front. I should have cited the HR handbook regarding trainer-athlete boundaries.
But I didn't.
I leaned into his palm. His skin was wet and rough, his callouses scraping gently against my jaw. It felt grounding. It felt real.
"Maybe I don't read warning labels," I whispered.
Mikey’s eyes darkened, the pupils blowing wide until the amber was just a thin ring of fire.
"Then you're going to get hurt."
"Maybe I want to."
The confession hung there. I hadn't meant to say it. But it was true. I was so tired of being safe. I was so tired of being the fragile human niece who needed to be escorted across campus. I wanted to feel something sharp. I wanted to feel the danger he carried in his blood.
Mikey let out a sound that was half-groan, half-growl.
"Fuck," he cursed.
Before I could react, he moved.
He didn't pull me into the tub. He stood up.
Water cascaded off his massive body, crashing back into the pool. He rose like a titan, towering over me where I sat on the edge. He stepped out of the tub, ignoring the towel, ignoring the puddle he was creating on the floor.
He stood between my spread knees, dripping wet, radiating heat and power.
I had to crane my neck back to look at him. He was enormous. The water made his skin gleam under the fluorescent lights. His chest heaved with every breath.
"Stand up," he commanded.
I shook my head, my throat closing up. "Mikey..."
"Stand up, Lydia."
I stood.
I was soaked. My scrubs were splashed with water, clinging to my thighs. My hands were dripping.
He stepped closer, backing me up until my hips hit the cold tile wall of the room. He planted his hands on the wall on either side of my head, caging me.
He didn't touch me. Not yet. He just loomed. He let his presence wash over me, heavy and suffocating.
"You want danger?" he asked, his voice a low rumble near my ear. "You want to see what happens when you ignore the warning label?"
"Yes," I breathed.
He lowered his head, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He inhaled deeply, sniffing me. It was primal. It made my knees weak.
"You smell so sweet," he groaned. "Like sugar. Like prey."
He dragged his nose up my neck, his stubble grazing my skin. I shivered violently.
"Mikey, someone could come in," I gasped, my hands coming up to rest on his wet chest. His heart was hammering against my palms. Thud-thud-thud-thud. Fast. Hard.
"Door's locked," he mumbled against my jaw. "I checked."
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His gaze dropped to my lips, then lower.
"You're counting," he noted. "I can hear it. Your heart. It's skipping beats."
"It's... arrhythmia," I stammered, trying to find a joke. "Induced by stress."
"Induced by me," he corrected. "Say it."
"Induced by you."
"Good girl."
The praise hit me like a physical blow. My stomach flipped. My thighs clenched.
He smiled—a dark, knowing thing. He knew. He knew exactly what those two words did to me.
"You like that?" he whispered, moving closer until his hips pressed against mine. Through the thin fabric of my scrubs and his wet compression shorts, I could feel him. He was hard. heavy. "You like being a good girl for the monster?"
"Mikey," I whined, the sound embarrassing and needy.
"Tell me what you want," he demanded. He took one of my hands from his chest and guided it down. Down his wet abs. Over the V of his hips.
He stopped my hand just above the waistband of his shorts.
"Do you want to touch?" he asked. "You're the doctor. You like tactile learning. Do you want to feel this anatomy?"
I stared at my hand on his skin. I wanted it so bad my teeth ached.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Then take it."
I slid my hand down.
I traced the ridge of him through the wet fabric. He hissed, his head falling back against the wall, his hips bucking involuntarily into my hand.
"Fuck," he breathed. "So responsive. Just from a touch."
He reached down with his other hand and grabbed the waistband of my scrub pants.
"My turn," he said.
He didn't wait for permission. He knew he had it. He slid his hand inside my waistband, pushing past the elastic of my underwear.
His hand was large, rough, and wet. When he touched my skin—my bare stomach, then lower—I gasped, my head slamming back against the tiles.
"Cold?" he teased, but his fingers were hot. Searing.
He found me.
I wasn't just wet from the splashes. I was soaked for him.
"Jesus, Lydia," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "Look at you. Drowning for me."
He didn't tease. He didn't hesitate. He took over.
His fingers moved with a rhythm that wasn't tentative. It was possessive. He stroked me with a confidence that spoke of experience, but with a reverence that felt new.
"Mikey," I cried out, grabbing his shoulders to keep from falling. My legs were turning to jelly.
"I've got you," he growled, his other arm wrapping around my waist, holding me up against him. "I've got you, Mouse. Let go."
He picked up the pace.
It was messy. It was wet. It was the most overwhelming sensation of my life. The contrast of the cold wall against my back, his hot, wet body against my front, and the rough, relentless friction of his hand...
"You take it so well," he praised, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of my neck. "So eager. Such a good girl."
"Please," I sobbed, my hips moving to meet his hand. "Please, Mikey."
"Please what?" he taunted gently. "Please stop?"
"No," I gasped. "Don't stop. Never stop."
"I won't," he promised. "I'm right here. I'm watching you."
He pulled back to look at me. He watched my face as I unraveled. He watched my eyes roll back. He watched my lip bitten raw.
And when I broke—when the pleasure spiked so high it turned into white light behind my eyelids—he didn't look away.
I screamed his name, muffled only by his hand coming up to cover my mouth, swallowing the sound.
He held me through the aftershocks, his hand still working, milking every last drop of reaction from me until I was limp in his arms, breathing raggedly against his neck.
Silence returned to the room. The jets bubbled. The hum continued.
But the world had changed.
Mikey slowly withdrew his hand. He didn't wipe it. He brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean while holding my gaze.
It was the dirtiest, most claiming thing I had ever seen.
"Lesson's over, Doc," he rasped, his voice deep and satisfied.
He stepped back, giving me space I didn't want. He looked down at his own arousal, still straining against his shorts, unsatisfied but seemingly unbothered.
"Mikey," I whispered, feeling bereft. "You didn't..."
"I'm fine," he said, his voice tight. "This..." He gestured between us. "This was about you. About showing you that you aren't made of glass."
He reached out and tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was gentle now. The violence was gone, replaced by that terrifying softness.
"You didn't break, Lydia," he said softly. "You burned."
He turned and walked back to the bench, grabbing his towel.
"Get dressed," he called over his shoulder. "I'll walk you to the dorms. If anyone asks, you slipped by the pool."
I stood against the wall, my legs shaking, my heart hammering a rhythm I couldn't count anymore.
I didn't break.
I looked at his broad back, at the scars and the runes and the power.
I didn't break.
But as I slid down the wall to sit on the damp floor, pressing my hand to my chest, I realized the truth.
I hadn't broken. But I had definitely fallen.
And I had a terrible feeling there was no bottom to this.