Chapter Twelve
JUST US
Zayden
The building is empty—the parking lot was nearly deserted, and the hallways were dim. It’s just us now. Me and Tori and the hum of the HVAC, and whatever this thing is that keeps pulling us together.
She’s working on my shoulder, her hands firm and focused. I’ve done this a hundred times with a dozen different trainers. Pressure, release. Find the knot, work it out. Clinical. Routine.
Except there’s nothing clinical about the way my pulse kicks up when she touches me.
Nothing routine about the way I track her every movement—the rustle of her clothes when she shifts position, the soft exhale of her breath, the faint scent of something floral that cuts through the antiseptic smell of the training room.
Lavender, maybe. Or vanilla. Something soft and warm that makes me want to lean closer and breathe her in.
I don’t. I grip the edge of the treatment table and stare at the wall and pretend I’m not hyperaware of every single place her body is near mine.
It’s never felt like this.
Every point of contact burns. Her fingers rest on my bicep, and I have to concentrate on breathing, on not reacting, on keeping my body from doing something stupid.
She hits a tight spot near my neck, and I hiss before I can stop myself.
Her hands still. “Too much?”
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “Keep going.”
She does. I have to close my eyes because if I look at her right now—if I see her face, her lips, the way she’s biting her bottom lip in concentration—she’s going to see everything. Every thought I’ve been trying to bury. Every want I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
She shifts to work from a different angle, moving around the table, and her body presses closer. The warmth of her radiates through the thin fabric of her polo, and I can feel the soft curve of her hip brush against my arm as she reaches across me.
Then—her breast grazes my bicep. Soft. Brief. Probably accidental.
Every rational thought exits my brain.
The contact lasts maybe half a second, but it brands itself into my memory. The softness of her. The way my entire body went rigid. I stare at the far wall like it contains the secrets of the universe and try to remember how to breathe.
She doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and she’s pretending she doesn’t. Either way, I stop breathing for a solid five seconds, just sitting there like an idiot while my blood rushes south and my hands grip the edge of the table hard enough to leave marks.
Her hands slow as she finishes, smoothing over my shoulder. She doesn’t pull back. Her palm stays pressed against my skin, warm and steady, longer than it needs to.
“You’re making good progress,” she says, her voice slightly hoarse. “The inflammation is way down. Another few weeks and you should be back to full capacity.”
“Thanks to you.”
I turn to face her, swinging my legs over the side of the table. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give herself room. Just stands there, close enough that when I part my knees, she’s right there between them.
She’s looking at my shoulder. At least, that’s what she’s pretending to do. But I see the way her gaze drifts—down my chest, across my abs, back up to my face. I see her swallow.
I’m shirtless. She’s in athletic leggings that hug every curve and a fitted team polo, her ponytail loose from hours of work. A strand of hair falls across her cheek. My fingers itch to brush it back.
Her lips are slightly parted. She’s not wearing lipstick—she never does at work—but they’re pink anyway, full and soft-looking.
I shouldn’t be noticing her lips. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about what they’d feel like under mine.
“Zay—”
“I know.” I don’t move. Can’t. “I know the rules.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
Because I can’t help it. Because you’re the first person in years who makes me feel like I’m more than a jersey number and a custody agreement. Because when I’m with you, I remember what it feels like to want something for myself.
I don’t say any of that. But I think she hears it anyway.
“Tell me to back off,” I say quietly. “And I will.”
She’s supposed to say it. She’s supposed to remind me about professional boundaries and her career and all the reasons this is a terrible idea. She’s supposed to tell me no.
“I can’t.”
Two words. Barely a whisper. But they hit me like a puck to the chest.
She’s still standing between my thighs, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off her.
I lift my hand slowly, giving her time to pull away.
My knuckles brush along the side of her face, tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear, then tracing the line of her jaw.
She leans into the touch before she seems to catch herself.
Her eyes flutter closed. My thumb strokes the soft skin of her cheek.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers.
“Probably.”
Her eyes open—dark and wanting. She’s so close now I can see the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
I don’t make her close the distance. That’s on me. After another heartbeat, I lean in and press my mouth to hers.
The kiss is soft at first. Careful. Testing. Like we’re both waiting for the other to come to their senses and pull away.
She doesn’t.
Her hands land on my chest, and a quiet noise escapes her throat—half gasp, half sigh—and it undoes something in me. I slide my hand to the nape of her neck, angling her head, and the kiss deepens into something hungrier.
Her lips part under mine, and I take the invitation, my tongue sliding against hers, and the sound she makes sends heat barreling through me.
I’ve been starving for this. For her. She melts against me like she’s been waiting too, like this has been building since that first day.
My other hand finds her hip, pulling her closer, and she comes willingly, stepping between my legs where I’m sitting on the treatment table. Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair, and I groan against her mouth because this is—
Her phone buzzes on the table.
Loud. Jarring. Obnoxious.
We break apart like we’ve been shocked.
Reality crashes back in like a bucket of ice water.
We freeze—her hands still fisted in my hair, mine still gripping her hip, our mouths hovering an inch apart. Our breath mingles, ragged and hot. I can see my own shock reflected in her eyes.
What the hell were we doing?
She’s breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes wide. I’m not much better—chest heaving, heart pounding, every nerve ending in my body screaming at me to pull her back.
The phone buzzes again.
“I should—” She grabs it, not looking at the screen. “I have to go.”
“Tori—”
But she’s already moving. Grabbing her bag, shoving her phone in her pocket, avoiding my eyes like if she looks at me again she’ll do something she regrets.
“We can’t—” She stops at the door, hand on the frame. “I need to think.”
“Okay.”
She finally looks at me, and what I see there makes my chest ache: want, fear, and confusion, all tangled together.
“Okay,” she repeats, like she’s trying to convince herself. “I’ll... I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then she’s gone.
The door swings shut behind her, and I sit there in the empty training room, heart still racing, the taste of her still on my lips.
I should regret that. I should be thinking about all the ways this complicates everything—her career, the fact that we work together, and I have a daughter who can’t afford for me to screw up another relationship.
But all I can think about is the sound she made when I kissed her. The way her fingers slid over my chest.
The way she kissed me back like she’d been waiting for it just as long as I had.
I run a hand through my hair and let out a long breath.
I’m in so much trouble.
And I don’t even care.