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But when he rocks forward, deepening the stretch with a low grunt that sounds borderline obscene, my thighs clench and my core ignites.

This is professional suicide. I'm the team nutritionist, not some puck bunny drooling over abs in the recovery room. I have a job to do. Standards to maintain. A reputation that took years to build and could disappear in seconds if anyone realizes I'm mentally undressing one of my clients.

But God, the way he moves. Every stretch deliberate and controlled, muscles shifting beneath skin that looks like it's never seen a day without sun. His breathing is steady, focused, and I find myself matching his rhythm without realizing it.

"Enjoying the show?"

I spin around to find Aiden behind me, towel draped around his neck, eyebrow raised in amusement.

"I'm collecting data on recovery protocols," I say quickly. "Stretching affects nutrient absorption rates."

"Sure it does." His grin tells me he's not buying my professional bullshit for a second. "Just remember—that one's complicated. More than most."

Before I can ask what he means, Aiden heads toward the showers, leaving me alone with my fraudulent clipboard and increasingly unprofessional thoughts.

I try to focus on the other players. Really. Brody's working through shoulder rotations that suggest he needs more anti-inflammatory foods in his diet. Jax is favoring his left ankle—probably needs ice and compression protocols. These are things I can fix. Problems I can solve with meal plans and supplement schedules.

But my eyes keep drifting back to Liam.

He transitions to a different stretch—seated, one leg straight, the other bent, reaching forward until his chest nearly touches his thigh. The position emphasizes the broad line of his shoulders, the way his muscles shift beneath sun-kissed skin.

He's flexible. Really flexible.

And my brain immediately goes places it shouldn't, imagining all the ways that flexibility could be... useful.

I bite my lip hard.This is ridiculous. I'm a grown ass woman with a graduate degree and a professional reputation. I shouldn't be fantasizing about a client's flexibility like some damn horny teenager.

But when he moves into a spinal twist, arms stretching in opposite directions, and that tank top pulls tight across his chest makes my pulse jump.

I need to leave. Right now. Before I do something stupid like walk over there and ask if he needs help with his stretching routine.

"You're staring."

His voice cuts through my inappropriate fantasies. I look up to find him watching me, still in that forward fold but head turned in my direction.

Embarrassment crawls up my neck. "I'm observing recovery techniques."

"Right." He straightens slowly, vertebra by vertebra, until he's sitting upright. "And what's your professional assessment?"

There's something in his tone—teasing but not mocking. Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking and finds it amusing rather than offensive.

"Your hip flexors are tight," I manage. "Probably from overcompensating for an old injury."

It's a guess based on the way he favored his left side during the stretch, but his expression shifts to something more serious.

"Good eye." He stands, grabbing his water bottle. "Took a bad hit two seasons ago. Still gives me trouble sometimes."

The admission surprises me. Most athletes, especially the cocky ones, don't readily admit to weakness. But there's something honest in the way he says it, like he's testing whether I actually know what I'm talking about or if I'm just another pretty face with a clipboard.

He closes the distance until I can taste the air between us—salt and cedar and something that makes my thighs clench.

"What else do you see?" he asks quietly.

The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning that has nothing to do with professional assessment and everything to do with the way his eyes are currently focused on my mouth.

I should step back. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember that this man is Griffin's enemy and my client and absolutely off-limits for about fifty different reasons.

Instead, I find myself leaning slightly forward.