10. Natalie
Natalie
“You're in a good mood today,” I say as Ethan lies on the treatment table.
His leg is extended while I guide him through a series of stretches, and he hasn’t scowled at me once in the last sentence.
“Am I?”
“You haven't grunted at a single one of my questions. That's cheerful for you.”
He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Maybe I'm just tired of being an asshole.”
“That would be a refreshing change.”
He laughs again. The sound is low and rusty, like he doesn't use it often, but it transforms his whole face. The hard lines soften, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and for just a moment, he looks like a completely different person.
My heart stutters in my chest.
“How was your weekend?” he asks.
I let in a sharp inhale of breath. In all our sessions, he's never asked me anything personal. Our conversations have been limited to his knee, his pain levels, and the occasional weather comment.
“It was good,” I say, recovering quickly. “Quiet. I did some exploring around the neighborhood and found a coffee shop with the best croissants I've ever tasted.”
“Which one?”
“It's called Early Mornings. Little place on Fifth, near the bookstore.”
“I know it. Their espresso is decent, too.”
“I'll have to try that next time.”
We lapse into silence, but these days, it's different from the painful quiet of those first weeks. When we go silent, it’s comfortable and easy.
I adjust the angle of his leg and guide him into a deeper stretch. My hands slide up his thigh to stabilize the movement, and I lean in closer to check his alignment. His muscles are looser today and more responsive. The progress is undeniable.
“You're doing really well,” I tell him. “Your flexibility has improved significantly over the past few weeks.”
“Thanks to you.”
I glance up at him, surprised by the compliment. His eyes meet mine and hold. There's no sarcasm in his expression. There’s just gratitude.
“I mean it,” he says. “I know I wasn't easy to work with at the beginning. I appreciate you sticking with me.”
My cheeks warm, and I look away, focusing back on his leg. “That's my job.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
In my career, I've received gratitude from hundreds of patients. Cards, flowers, and tearful hugs at the end of long recoveries. It's one of the best parts of the job.
But none of those thank-yous have ever made my pulse quicken or my skin flush or my stomach flip the way Ethan's just did. Two simple words from his mouth, and I'm glowing like he handed me a trophy.
I guide his knee through another rotation, my fingers pressing into the muscle of his thigh. His skin is warm under my palms, and I'm suddenly very aware of how close I'm standing and how intimate this position is.
My hip is almost brushing against the table, and if I leaned forward just a few more inches, I would be pressed against his side.
“Let's try a deeper stretch,” I say in a slightly shaky voice. “I'm going to push your knee toward your chest. Tell me when you feel resistance.”
I lean over him to guide the movement, one hand on his knee and one on his thigh. My hair falls forward, and I tuck it behind my ear. The motion brings my face closer to his, and I catch the scent of his soap. Clean, masculine and woodsy.
I push his knee higher, and he exhales slowly. The position requires me to brace myself against the table, which means I'm practically hovering over him now. His breath is warm on my neck.
That's when I notice the bulge in his shorts.
The thin fabric of his athletic shorts does nothing to hide what's happening beneath them. He's hard. Not just hard but huge, the thick ridge of his erection straining against the material.
I freeze for just a second, but it’s long enough for him to realize that I've noticed.
“Shit.” He shifts on the table and tries to angle his hips away from me. His hand moves to cover himself, but it's too late. I've already seen. “Sorry. It's just a physical response. It doesn't mean anything.”
“It's fine,” I manage to say. My voice is higher than usual. “It happens. Totally normal.”
It's not fine.
All I can think about is the size of him. The sheer thickness of what's straining against those shorts. My imagination runs wild with images I have no business entertaining.
What would he look like without those shorts? Would my hand be able to wrap around his dick? How would he taste on my tongue? Oh my God. And the sound. Would he groan the way he does during stretches if I wrapped my lips around him and took him deep into my mouth?
Heat floods between my legs, and I press my thighs together involuntarily.
“We should move on to the next exercise,” I say, stepping back from the table so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.
Ethan sits up and swings his legs over the side of the table. He's still visibly hard, and he grabs his towel from the chair nearby, draping it across his lap. Neither of us acknowledges it.
The rest of the session is torture.
I guide him through the exercises, keeping my hands on neutral areas and my eyes fixed firmly on his knee. But my body is betraying me with every passing minute.
My nipples are tight against my sports bra, and there's a persistent ache between my legs that won't go away. Every time he shifts or moves or makes a sound, I imagine those sounds in a different context. In bed. In the shower. With my mouth wrapped around his cock while he groans my name.
By the time we finish, I'm so aroused I can barely think straight. My panties are damp and my skin is flushed and I need to get out of this room before I do something I'll regret.
“Good session,” I say, backing toward the door. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
I don't wait for his response. I turn and walk out as fast as my legs will carry me, my heart pounding and my body throbbing with need.
When I reach my office, I close the door and lean against it, pressing my palms to my burning cheeks.
I want him.
I want him so much it scares me. And based on what I just saw, he still wants me too.
What the hell am I supposed to do about it?
I spend the next hour trying to focus on work.
My computer screen is filled with browser tabs about the NHL season schedule, playoff structures, and rehabilitation timelines for ACL injuries. I've been researching obsessively since I arrived, trying to understand the world Ethan lives in.
The regular season starts in October, and training camp begins in September. That gives us roughly three months to get him skating again. It's an aggressive timeline, but it's not impossible.
I'm deep in an article about return-to-play protocols when my office door swings open.
“You look like you need a break,” Avery announces.
She's standing in the doorway with her purse over her shoulder and a gorgeous smile on her face. Now wonder Liam fell for her.
“I'm working.”
“You're staring at your computer with that little crease between your eyebrows that means you're overthinking something.” She walks over and closes my laptop. “You should eat. And talk to another human being who isn't a grumpy hockey player.” She pulls me out of my chair. “Let's go.”
Fifteen minutes later, we're seated at a little Italian place a few blocks from the arena. The lunch rush hasn't started yet, and we have a quiet corner booth to ourselves. Avery orders a glass of wine even though it's barely noon and raises an eyebrow when I do the same.
“Rough morning?”
“Not rough. Just intense.”
“Ethan giving you trouble?”
“No, actually. He was pleasant today.”
Avery's eyebrows shoot up. “Pleasant? Ethan Ward? Are we talking about the same person?”
I laugh. “I know.”
She takes a sip of her wine and studies me over the rim of the glass. “So what's with the overthinking face?”
I fidget with my napkin. “I don't have an overthinking face.”
“You absolutely do. Spill.”
I really need to speak to someone who will put sense into my head. Avery is my cousin and one of my closest friends. Plus, she's the only person in this city who knows the full disaster of my life.
“Something happened a few weeks ago with Ethan.”
Avery sets down her glass. “What kind of something?”
“The kind of something that should not have happened.” I take a long drink of wine and then tell her everything. The locker room kiss, making out, and then Apollo’s interruption.
By the time I finish, Avery's eyes are so wide, they look like they’ll pop out of their sockets. “Holy shit, Nat.”
“I know,” I say miserably.
“I mean, holy shit.”
“I know.”
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then she leans forward. “Okay. So you made out with your incredibly hot patient. It's not the end of the world.”
“It's unprofessional and inappropriate. It's everything I swore I would never do.”
“It's also human.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You're not a robot. You're a woman who went through a traumatic breakup, moved to a new city, and is now spending every day touching a very attractive man. Things happen.”
“They can't happen again.”
“Why not?”
“Because he's my patient. Avery, I've been in New York for less than two months, and I'm already making the same mistakes I made with Brody.”
Avery frowns. “This is nothing like Brody. Brody was a manipulative asshole who cheated on you. Ethan is a grumpy hockey player who kissed you in a moment of vulnerability. Those are very different things.”
“It doesn't matter. I'm not ready for anything. I'm still too wounded from everything that happened.” I push my salad around my plate. “Besides, Ethan hasn't shown any interest since.” Lie, but I’m not going to tell her about him getting hard earlier. I don’t think that’s something Ethan would want people knowing.
“We've gone back to being professional. Whatever happened was a one-time thing.”
Avery tilts her head. “You know, that's interesting. Liam says Ethan never shows interest in anyone. When the guys go out, he's the one nursing a single beer while the rest of them flirt with every woman in sight. He's turned down more puck bunnies than anyone on the team.”
All air leaves my lungs. The image I had of hockey players, the partying and the groupies and the revolving door of women, doesn't fit with the man I've been working with.
“Maybe he's just private,” I say.
“Maybe.” Avery shrugs. “Or maybe he was waiting for someone worth being interested in.”
My stomach flutters, and I take a long sip of wine to hide my reaction. The thought that Ethan Ward, who could have any woman he wanted, chose to kiss me in that locker room suddenly carries a different meaning.
“He kissed you, Nat,” Avery says. “A man who never looks twice at anyone else kissed you.”
My heart pounds against my ribs. I want to dismiss it. I want to say it was just a moment of weakness, that he would have kissed anyone. But I can't make myself believe that anymore
I force a smile. “Can we please talk about something else? How is work?”
“Quiet. Most of the players are still on vacation, so I'm just doing background stuff. Social media planning, off-season press releases, that sort of thing.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Nothing exciting. Tell me about you. Have you made any friends besides the WAG crew?”
“Actually, yes. There's a woman named Ivory Brock who works as a physical therapist for the rest of the team. She's really nice and easy to talk to.”
“I’ve met her a couple of times,” Avery says. “You should bring her next time we all go out.”
“I will,” I say, feeling guilty because I already invited her without asking first.
“The more the merrier.” Avery grins. “Speaking of going out, what are you wearing to the party after the Skills Showcase?”
I groan. “I haven't even thought about it.”
“That’s unacceptable. We're going shopping this weekend. I saw this boutique in SoHo that has the most gorgeous dresses. You need something that makes you look like the confident, successful woman you are.”
“I don't need a new dress.”
“Everyone needs a new dress. It's good for the soul.” She pulls out her phone and starts typing. “Saturday. Noon. I'm picking you up, and we're not leaving until you find something perfect.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you're very bossy?”
“All the time. It's part of my charm,” Avery quips.
We finish our lunch and walk back toward the arena together. The sun is warm on my face, and the city seems a little less overwhelming than it did this morning.
“For what it's worth,” Avery says as we reach the entrance, “I think you're being too hard on yourself. What happened with Ethan wasn't a crime. It was two people connecting in a moment of honesty. That's not something to be ashamed of.”
“I'm not ashamed. I'm just careful.”
“There's a difference between careful and closed off.” She kisses my cheek. “Think about it.”
Careful and closed off.
Is that what I've become?
Avery is right. I’m being too hard on myself. It’s okay to admit that I want Ethan, even if nothing can ever come of it.