Page 8 of The Pact
Every time I touch him, my pulse jumps. Every time he laughs, I melt. And even though I’ve never taken our pact seriously, I can’t help but think about thesingleandmiserablepart. I’m not miserable, but I’m tired of hookups, flings, and men my mother tries to set me up with. Males I’ve grown upwith, who are now just man-babies with mommy issues. Rich, spoiled, and completely unappealing to me. I don’t need their money. I need a partner, not a project that I don’t have time for. But the truth is, I’m not getting any younger.
“A distraction, huh?” He leans forward, his muscular forearms resting on the laminate table. “I’m your best pupil. I’m part of the reason your recovery stats for the team last year were high. I’m truly a model patient.” He leans back and smiles, putting a hand on his chest.
“You distract me because you want to do things your way,” I lie.
“What are you even talking about? I listen to every word you say,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly, teasing tone that makes my stomach flutter. “I’ve been listening to you for the better part of eleven years. Even when you aren’t talking.”
I look away, focusing on a grease stain on the wall. The tension grows so thick that I can practically see it between us. And I know he won’t break eye contact. He just sits forward again, back into my space.
“I have to get back to my office,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady as I slide out of the booth. “I have a nine a.m. meeting.”
“Presley.”
He hardly ever uses my full name. It’s usually Doc or Pres.
“Come on. Let’s go,” I say. “We’ll work out again at two p.m. Wear the heavy brace. We’ll be doing lateral work on the indoor field.”
He doesn’t respond, just slides out of the booth, leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and follows me out the door.
The ride back to the facility is quiet. I know it’s becauseI’mquiet.
Seriously, I don’t know what has gotten into me lately. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been with a man in months. More likely, it’s the fact that since Saint’s surgery, I’ve spent an exorbitant amount of time watching him sweat and flex in various positions in the gym. And I can’t lie—my mind has wandered into fantasy territory more than once. Just like it has today.
Every time I adjust his positioning or my hand brushes his damp skin to check his muscle, it feels like an electric shock. I’m supposed to be a professional, the woman who’s spent years earning my place in this male-dominated world. But around him, I feel anything but professional. Because the thoughts running through my head are nowhere near the friend zone.
I’m sure that’s all it is. I’m just horny.
It’s not like I’m in love with Saint. Sure, he’s the most amazing man. Funny, smart, successful, and gorgeous. But he’s … Saint. He’s my friend, and even if I were in love with him, we’d never work.
Yes, I’m a confident woman, along with sexy, accomplished, and smart as fuck, and I know I turn heads. But he’s a baller, and I’m his team doctor. We could never survive anything more than what we are now.
So, no. This isn’t love I’m thinking about.
But the orgasm clause in our pact?
I. Can’t. Stop. Thinking. About. It.
From Saint. Specifically.
I lower the window and let the cool air blow on my face to help tame my erratic heart and clenching thighs.
Jesus, Presley. Get control of your hormones.
The stream of wind is blowing his intoxicating scent of musk and all-American male my way, and if I don’t pull myself together, I might just mount my best friend right here in the back seat of a Lincoln.
As soon as the car pulls into the back lot near the locker room, I am out the door and walking into the building, then down the corridor that leads to my office. The entire walk, I can feel Saint’s eyes on me.
I close my office door and lock it, just in case he decides to follow me, so I can compose myself for our training session.
Pretty sure he got the hint because I hear the door to the locker room slam shut a few minutes later.
At one fifty-five on the dot, I walk into the indoor field, where we’ll complete our session. It’s June, and the air in here is hot, so I turn on the AC and the giant fans.
Saint is already on the field. He’s quiet, his face set in a hard line, similar to the one he wears during game days. I see a white disk peek out between his lips. He sucks it back into his mouth, then crunches.
Life Savers mints. He loves anything mint.
“Okay,” I say, voice tight. My eyes glued to my tablet. “Let’s do lateral movements. Try a slow sidestep across the turf. I wantto see how the ligament holds under pressure. If you have any discomfort, stop immediately.”
