Page 7 of The Pact
He stands and walks over to me, heat radiating off his skin. He grabs his towel and wipes off his face, his chest still heavingunder his compression shirt. “You satisfied? Or do you want me to do some more lunges so you can watch my form?” He smirks.
I clear my throat, as if it might clear my mind. “Your form is fine, Saint. But your attitude could use some work,” I say, smirking. Then I look down at my clipboard to hide the fact that I was definitely noticing the way his shirt clung to every ripple of his abs.
“Maybe my attitude is because I’m being babied,” he says, stepping into my personal space.
He smells like sweat and that citrus soap he’s used since college. It’s a sensory attack.
“I’m cleared for full contact in three weeks, so why are we still doing the slow-motion version?”
“Because,” I say, looking up at him, refusing to yield an inch of ground, “I’m your doctor. And because your ACL doesn’t care about your timeline. It needs stability in order for you to perform at the level that is required of you.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Stability? I’ve played for the same team my entire pro career. I’ve lived in the same house for five years. I’m the definition of stable.”
Saint really is one of the most stable and reliable men I know. He’s my best friend, and we’ve stayed in touch, like we promised. See each other when we can and talk on the phone just about every day. But there’s always been a heat simmering beneath the surface that neither of us has acted on since that night eight years ago. It was easier to ignore before I officially started working for the team because our time together was limited. And lately, with his injury, we’ve been spending even more time together. And I feel like all this togetherness, being in each other’s space again, is shifting our dynamic.
We grab coffee on Tuesday mornings. He comes over to my place, and we argue over why the last superhero reboot was trash. He’s the person I called when my sister found out she waspregnant from a one-night stand. And I’m the person he calls when he’s stuck in his own head after a loss.
But we never talk about the past or the pact. Because we’re experts at playing the friend role, even when the tension grows thick and it’s a wonder we can both be in the same room.
Instead of responding to him, I change the subject, like I usually do. “Let’s get you in an ice bath. Then if you’re a good boy, I’ll buy you breakfast since you didn’t puke on me today.”
“Hmm. Breakfast?” He scratches his chin. “Is this a date, Doc?” he teases, wicked glint in his eyes.
I huff with fake annoyance. “You wish. It’s a clinical observation of your caloric intake. Don’t make it weird.”
He barks out a laugh. “But what if I want to make it weird?”
“Saint.”
“We’ve always been weird.” He leans in as he walks by me toward the locker room.
I roll my eyes and shake my head, turning to wipe down the machine he was just on when I feel a sting on my butt.
“Ouch!” I look over my shoulder and see Saint with his towel in his hand, broad smile on his face.
Then. He. Winks.
Once he’s out of sight, I exhale the breath I was holding because a sweaty, flirty Saint … is fucking sexy.
An hour later, we’re tucked into a corner booth at our favorite hole-in-the-wall diner five miles from the facility. It’s the kind of place where servers and patrons don’t care about NFL superstars or daughters of billionaires. They just want to know if you want hash browns or home fries.
Saint’s working his way through a pound of chocolate chip pancakes while I pick at a fruit bowl and try to pretend I’m not hyperaware of the way his bare knee—the good one—is inches from mine under the table.
“You’re doing it again,” he says, pointing his fork at me.
I lean back. “What am I doing?”
“The face. You’re overthinking something. Is it my knee?”
I shake my head. “The knee is fine. You’re actually ahead of schedule. Your flexion is nearly perfect.” I hesitate for a minute, the fruit in my bowl suddenly looking unappealing. “You’re doing so well that I’m thinking of handing off your final phase to one of the assistant trainers so they can get some experience with this type of injury recovery.”
The air at the table shifts. The lightheartedness evaporates, replaced by heavy silence. Saint pauses, his fork steady in his hand. But his gaze sharpens, and I feel like I’m being dissected.
“Experience with injury recovery?” he asks, voice flat. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Saint, I have an entire department to run. I have three guys with hamstring issues, not to mention evaluating Pitz.” I look away. “And because … you distract me,” I admit, trying to keep my tone teasing and light.
Distraction.Ha!That’s putting it mildly.
