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"I see someone who pushes too hard," I whisper. "Doesn't know when to stop."

"Maybe I just haven't found the right motivation to take it easy."

We're standing too close. Way too close for a professional interaction. But I can't seem to make myself step back.

"What kind of motivation would work?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His eyes darken. "The kind that makes stopping worth it."

The air between us crackles with electricity. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, can see the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.

One step closer and I'd be able to feel his heartbeat—crossing a line I can't uncross.

Before I can process what that means, he's walking away, leaving me standing there with my fake clipboard and very real need to find a cold shower.

I watch him grab his gear bag and head toward the exit, not looking back once. The recovery room suddenly feels too big without his presence, too quiet without the sound of his controlled breathing.

This is getting out of hand. I look down at my clipboard. The page is blank except for today's date andRecovery Session Observationswritten at the top. Professional. Clean. Nothing that betrays the fact that I just spent twenty minutes mentally undressing a client. I click my pen and write:Player flexibility levels adequate. Recommend continued focus on hip flexor mobility. There. That's what happened here. Purely professional assessment.

My phone buzzes with a text from Griffin: "How's the job going? Any problems?" I stare at the message for a long moment, then type back: "Everything's under control." Another lie to add to the growing pile. But some truths are too dangerous to admit. Even to myself.

Chapter twelve

Katarina

Twenty-three minutes late. I've been sitting here stewing since our recovery room encounter yesterday, replaying every loaded look and double meaning.

The way he asked "what else do you see?" like he was daring me to admit I want him…the way I almost did.

Which makes this disrespect even worse.

He had me questioning every professional boundary I've built, and now he can't even be bothered to show up on time? Like I'm some intern he can blow off whenever he feels like it.

One more second and I'm writing NO-SHOW in red Sharpie and mailing it straight to Satan's inbox.

My phone buzzes. Of course. Only one person has the nerve to interrupt me mid–murder fantasy.

I swipe. “What?”

“Wow,” Griffin drawls. “Nice to hear from you too. You always this pleasant or is it just for me?”

I tap my pen against the desk like a caffeinated woodpecker.

“Jesus, Griffin. You gonna micromanage my job too?”

“I’m just calling to say I was a dick last night. But fuck it. You're in a mood.”

“REALLY? What’s the difference? You’re always a dick. That’s your brand, isn’t it?”

There’s a pause. And I swear I can hear his teeth grinding.

“So,” he says, way too casual. “Cyclones still a disaster, or are they pretending to hold it together this week?”

I glance at the empty doorway. No Liam. Still.

“They’re... surviving. I’ve finally convinced half the team that pizza doesn’t count as carb-loading.”

“Miracle worker,” he deadpans. “Bet that took charts and crayons.”