Hot & Heavy (Lightning 2)
“You have no idea.”
I expect her to bring me into her office so we can talk, but instead she takes me straight to one of the practice rooms. It’s a lot homier than I expected, with multicolored cubbies against one wall and bohemian-looking fabric draped over the windows and numerous other surfaces. There’s a huge pile of pillows in one corner of the room, standing candles in another. And lining the back is the equipment—yoga blocks, straps, Pilates rings and a bunch of other stuff I don’t have a clue how to use.
“Take off your hoodie and anything you have underneath it.”
“I thought we were here to talk about my back.” I shoot her an amused look even as I comply.
She doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s a close thing. I wonder what it will take to get her to do it again, then decide I want to find out. Turns out, I really love pulling Sage’s pigtails.
I reach for the waistband of my athletic shorts, start to pull those down, too.
“Whoa, whoa. What are you doing?” she demands, hands on hips.
I give her my most innocent look. “You told me to take everything off.”
“On the top. I said to take everything under your jacket off. You don’t need to be naked to do yoga.”
“Yeah, but I bet it’s more fun if you are.”
“Yes, well, we’ll never know.”
She doesn’t know it, but she just issued a major challenge. I’ve never been great at accepting boundaries—or the impossible. I always love to push, always love to see just how far I can move the boundaries before they disappear completely.
Not with women, because I totally respect a woman’s right to say no. But I heard the way her breath hitched as I brushed past her a minute ago, can see the way she’s looking at my chest even now, when she’s trying so hard not to.
“Which side is the injury on?” she asks, after I’ve tossed my hoodie and T-shirt to the side.
“My right.” I hate admitting it, just like I hate admitting any weakness. But yoga therapy is ostensibly what I’m here for.
“And you’re right-handed?” she asks, moving behind me.
“I am.” I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about having her behind me that makes me feel like I’m on display, and not in a good way. Something about having her look at me like this—from a training perspective and not a sexy one—that makes me feel vulnerable.
And I don’t do vulnerable. Not with my trainers and sure as hell not with the women I’m sleeping with.
“How’d you injure it?”
“I was cliff diving.”
“I know that. But how specifically?”
She’s still not touching me, still just standing there looking at my back, and I’m starting to feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. I’ve been playing ball my whole life—high school, then college, and now pro for eight years. In that time, I’ve had a million different trainers, doctors, and physical therapists look at my body, but it’s never felt like this before.
I have to use a lot more willpower than usual to keep from turning around. To keep from looking into her eyes and trying to figure out what she’s thinking—about my back, about my physique, about the scars that are as much a part of me as my skin and bones.
“I hit the water the wrong way and dislocated my shoulder.”
“Dislocated shoulder? Emerson told me you strained your back.”
I try not to read into the obvious concern in her voice. “I didn’t spread that around.”
“You mean you lied.”
“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell Hunter everything. When I dislocated the shoulder, it messed with the muscles in front down to my pecs and all the way down my back. They weren’t torn, just overextended, pulled, bruised. I’ve babied them, done PT and weight training, the whole nine yards.
“And I can use them just fine—I mean, everything works like it’s supposed to and my doc says there’s no long-term damage. But he thinks yoga might stop the last of the pain, help me perform as well as I possibly can on the field.”
“How long ago did this