Page 12

Chapter eleven

Katarina

T he recovery session wasn't supposed to include me.

But here I am, clipboard in hand, watching the team's post-practice cooldown routine while pretending this is about collecting data on hydration needs.

It's not.

Truth is, it's not just about Liam Steele stripped down to compression shorts and a tank top, the same Liam Steele Griffin warned me to stay away from—it's that I'm now imagining peeling those shorts off with my teeth.

He's foam rolling his quads with the kind of focused intensity that makes my mouth go dry, and I'm pretty sure Griffin would rather see me dating a serial killer.

"You're supposed to be taking notes," I mutter to myself, but my pen hasn't moved in five minutes.

The recovery room smells like Tiger Balm and male sweat. Players sprawled across mats, working knots out of muscles that have been abused for the past two hours. Some joke around. Others focus on their bodies with scientific precision. Liam falls into the second category.

He's isolated himself in the far corner, working methodically through stretches that showcase every line of muscle I've been trying not to think about. When he transitions from foam rolling to hip flexor stretches, I grip my pen hard enough to crack it.

The stretch forces him into a low lunge, one leg extended behind him, the other bent just enough to pull his compression shorts tight across his ass. His tank top rides up, exposing a strip of golden skin sliver of his lower abs—the kind that form that impossible V just above his waistband.

It’s barely a flash, but it fries a circuit in my brain.

My gaze snaps up—cheeks flaring—and I clamp my attention on the chart, desperate to keep my mind from sliding south of that V. I really shouldn't be watching this closely

What is wrong with you Kat?

Griffin would lose his mind if he knew I was even in the same room as Liam, let alone watching him stretch while I'm thinking about how those hip flexors would feel wrapped around my waist while he pounds into me.

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.

"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 and Recovery Session Observations written 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.