I shouldn’t notice how broad his shoulders are.

I shouldn’t notice the faint dusting of hair that disappears under the waistband of his shorts. But I do.

This is just physical therapy. That’s what I tell myself as I pick up my tablet, as I scroll to the protocol for today’s session.

Ten weeks to get him playoff-ready. Ten weeks to prove my program works. Ten weeks of my hands on his body.

“Lie back,” I say, keeping my tone clinical. Professional. My heart doesn’t get the message—it’s thudding against my ribs, betraying me.

He stretches out on the table, his injured leg angled just enough to expose the deep, angry bruise along the inside of his thigh.

I take a slow breath, moving closer. My palms are warm, but his skin is warmer—solid muscle under smooth heat.

Focus. Range of motion. Tension points. Tissue release. I run through the checklist in my head, but every time my fingers press into him, I feel him… really feel him… and it’s like touching something dangerous I have no business wanting.

His eyes are on me, steady, unblinking. Watching. The way he does on the ice before a face-off—assessing, calculating.

It makes my skin prickle, and not from the cold packs stacked in the corner.

“You’re tense,” I murmur, my fingers working along the inner line of the muscle.

“You’re the one making me tense,” he says, his voice a low rumble that slides over me like velvet.

I swallow hard, keeping my gaze locked on my hands. My fingers trace higher, following the tightness in the muscle, careful, methodical.

My knuckles brush heat and my pulse stutters.

The air changes. Thickens. His breathing shifts, slow but deliberate, as if he’s holding himself perfectly still.

“Let me know if it’s too much pressure,” I say, my voice quieter now.

“Not too much,” he replies. “Not even close.”

I work higher, needing to reach the origin of the strain, but that means skimming dangerously close to the line—both medically and otherwise.

My fingertips slide up another inch, finding the knot I knew would be there.

He moves before I can finish the pass.

His hand closes around my wrist, firm but not hurting, heat wrapping around me in an instant.

My gaze jerks up, and he’s looking at me like he’s reading every thought I’ve been trying to bury since the day he walked into my guesthouse.

I can feel his pulse where his fingers circle mine. Strong. Steady.

The grip isn’t about stopping me—it’s about holding me right here, in this moment, in this charged air that smells like eucalyptus and something I can’t name.

My breath catches. My heart beats faster, a heavy, insistent thud.

He leans forward, just enough that I feel the heat of him against my bare forearm.

His voice drops to something deeper, rougher, that rakes straight down my spine.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”