Page 13 of A Game of Deception

Then she continued, “Hamstring flexibility.” But when she spoke, her voice was huskier now. She lifted my right leg, pressing it toward my chest, standing between my spread thighs. The position was intimate, vulnerable, her hands steady but her proximity undoing me.

“Decent flexibility,” she murmured, her hand on my thigh firm, almost possessive. “But you’re tight. Feel any pulling?”

“Only where it’s obvious,” I said, my voice a low growl.

A smile flickered across her lips, gone as fast as it came. “Pain, Xander. I’m talking about pain.”

“None.”

She lowered my leg but didn’t step back. Instead, she lifted my left leg, positioning it over her shoulder, bringing her face inches from mine. Her ponytail brushed my chest, and I fought the urge to tangle my fingers in it, to pull her closer.

“Discomfort?” she asked, her breath warm against my jaw, her eyes locked on mine.

“Define discomfort,” I shot back, my control fraying like a worn-out cleat.

Her smile was slow, dangerous. “Push against my shoulder.”

I did, feeling the stretch in my hamstring and the maddening heat of her body so close. When she shifted, her hip grazed my erection, deliberate and unapologetic. I sucked in a sharp breath, my hands twitching toward her.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice low, not sorry at all.

She switched to my right leg, repeating the motion, but this time her fingers brushed the front of my briefs, slow and intentional. My control snapped like a taut string.

“Tara,” I warned, my voice rough with need.

“Yes, Xander?” Her eyes were dark, her mask slipping.

Before I could answer, the door swung open, no knock, no warning. Diego, the team’s cocky striker, leaned against the frame, grinning like he’d caught us in the act. “Well, damn, Doc. This the new warm-up routine? Count me in.”

Tara spun toward the door, her professional mask slamming back into place. The transformation was instant—eyes hardening, spine straightening.

“Diego, what have I told you about knocking?” Her tone was sharp and scolding. “This is a medical examination.”

Diego’s smirk didn’t falter as his eyes traveled from my position on the table to Tara’s flushed face. “Seems like a very thorough examination.”

I sat up, swinging my legs off the table, every muscle in my body tight with frustration. Diego’s eyes flicked to my briefs, his smirkwidening into something that made me want to rearrange his perfect teeth.

“I have the test results from the practice field,” he said, waving a manila envelope. “Hank asked me to bring them directly to you. Said it was urgent.”

Bullshit. What a liar. And a bad one at that. This was a power move—marking territory, letting me know where I stood in the locker room pecking order.

Tara snatched the envelope from his hand. “You could have left these with my assistant.”

“And miss this?” Diego’s eyes lingered on me. “Welcome to Miami, superstar. Better get used to the heat.”

“That’s enough,” Tara snapped. “Out. Now.”

Diego raised his hands in mock surrender, backing toward the door. “Whatever you say, Doc.” He threw me one last look before disappearing, his message delivered:she’s off-limits.

Tara tossed the envelope onto her desk without opening it. “We’re done here.” Her voice was clipped, all business. “You can get dressed. Your test results will be filed with the coaching staff by the end of the day.”

I reached for my shorts, yanking them on with more force than necessary. “That guy’s a piece of work.”

“He’s the team’s top scorer.” Her tone gave nothing away. “And you’re the new star player threatening his position.”

I pulled my shirt over my head, feeling the heat of her gaze even as she pretended to write notes on her clipboard. Part of mewanted to grab her, finish what we’d started. The smarter part knew that was suicide.

“Same time tomorrow for the cardio assessment,” she said, not looking up.