Page 230 of Playing the Pucking Game

I was fifteen when she first talked about her desire to become an athletic trainer. Clark was the first to let her test out her skills, then Rett. And once she was confident with what she was doing, she asked me if I would allow her to work on me.

Fuck, that first time was hard. Pun most definitely intended.

I was a horny, almost-fifteen-year-old with zero control over when I got a boner.

But as painful as that part of my body was, where she was touching felt so fucking amazing, I couldn’t stop her.

Before long, after training and game massages from Parker became a thing.

With her confidence growing, and thanks to Clark’s connections, she found herself shadowing the doctor and PT who worked with our youth teams, and that continued into college.

Sure, it might have been Clark’s legacy that helped her get into the position she was in, but it was her skill and determination that kept her there. By the time she graduated, she was a huge part of our old college team. Of course, she still had years of training to get the qualifications she needed, but no one had any doubt that she’d end up exactly where she is now.

She works with focus and precision, loosening up my muscles, all the while ensuring nothing short of an inferno is happening beneath the surface.

“I missed having your hands on me,” I confess.

“Please, don’t,” she begs.

“I’m talking professionally, Donnelly. You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

She blushes so hard her ears turn red.

“I appreciate that.”

“It kills me that I’m going to have to move to another trainer.”

Her head lifts, her eyes locking on mine.

“Why?”

“Because while your job might be safe, treating me would be a conflict of interest.”

“I’m not letting you switch to Mitchell,” she snaps.

If I have my way, none of us will be switching to that asshole.

“Let’s just take it one day at a time,” I say softly.

She continues working, the air charged and crackling between us.

Eventually, though, like all good things, it comes to an end.

Parker sits back on her haunches and looks down at her hands resting in her lap.

She looks utterly defeated, her shoulders slumped and her pretty, red hair hanging around her like a curtain.

“Babe,” I whisper, hating that she’s hurting and that it’s because of me.

I want to be making her feel better, not worse.

“Look at me, please,” I beg.

It takes her a few seconds, but eventually, she lifts her head.

Once again, her eyes are full of unshed tears.

“I’m sorry. I never meant to make your life harder. I just…I want…” Fuck. “You.”