Page 49 of Play For Me

“Same.” I guzzle some water, resisting the temptation to pour it over my head. From the way Coach Carla is glaring at us, I have a feeling a lecture is coming and I don’t want to sit through it in a drenched sports bra—if she gets herself on a tear, she can talk for ages.

“Oh look,” Helen says. “Your gorgeous man is here. Lucky bitch.”

I didn’t really need her to point out Solomon’s presence. I’ve been aware of him since he set foot on the field twenty minutes ago.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell her. “He’s my trainer.”

“Yeah, that means hetouchesyou.” She nudges me with her shoulder, grinning. “I bet he has good hands.”

For once, I’m relieved to be red-faced and sweating like a pig after practice—it makes it less likely she’ll notice my blush.

I’ve found that it’s essential I don’t let myself think too much about Solomon Barnes’s hands. Or his eyes. Or shoulders. Or?—

Get it together, girl,I think, running a towel over my face.

In the two weeks since I went to his grandfather’s ranch, Sol and I have settled into a fairly comfortable routine with our training. I can’t say that all the fear has magically left my body, but I no longer feel so defensive about it. And that means I find it a lot easier to let him help me.

And he does help. My legs feel a lot stronger, my joints looser. I don’t require as much time with my ice packs at night and I’ve been getting regular sports massages without freaking out anytime the masseuse gets within six inches of my knee.

I also haven’t woken up shaking with terror from a nightmare about my injury in more than a week.

And if I’ve replaced some of those nightmares with very pleasant dreams about my student athletic trainer, I’m certainly not going to admit it.

Solomon tips his head toward Coach, his usual serious expression on his face as he murmurs something to her. Coach nods, still looking grumpy about our performance at practice, and he jogs over in my direction.

“Hey,” he says, nudging me away from Helen, who shoots me a smug look before she walks off to join the others. “How do your hamstrings feel? Your extension was looking a little off.” My annoyance must show in my expression because his lips curve. He leans down closer to me and I send up a silent prayer that my extra-strength deodorant is doing its job. “I told Coach Carla I wanted to work on some stretching with you while your muscles are still warm,” he murmurs so no one else can hear.

I grin. “You got me out of the lecture, didn’t you?”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you, Ransome.”

I smother my laugh as I follow him off the field, ignoring the put-out glares from my teammates as I abandon them to Coach’s bad mood.

He leads me down past midfield and plops down on the grass, gesturing for me to join him. “Let’s start with quad stretches.”

Solomon is a good trainer. He always starts by joining me in the stretch, as if to gently demonstrate proper form, before moving to his knees to observe me. He’s really knowledgeable about everything relating to anatomy and fitness. I’ve noticed lots of girls on the team seeking him out for advice, or asking him to tape their joints—granted, some of them were clearly just flirting with him, but most of them seem really interested in what he has to say.

The training staff seems impressed by him, too. Unlike the other student trainers, they hardly seem to be overseeing him, instead letting him do his own thing with his athletes for the most part. It’s a lot of responsibility, but I haven’t seen anything to make me think he’s not up to it.

“See,” he says as I move into a forward fold. “Hamstrings look tight.”

I make a displeased noise. “I thought that was just an excuse to get me out of Coach’s ass-chewing.”

“Saving you from fifteen minutes of boredom was just a bonus. Here, lay back and lift your leg.” Then he moves to hover over me, gently taking my ankle and bringing it up, helping me to get deeper into the stretch. I stare up at the blue sky, desperate to keep my eyes from his face. He’s way too close, and his handsdofeel good, damn it.

Of course he’s completely professional. His fingers never stray from where they absolutely need to be, his touch always light. But that doesn’t stop my mind from going to crazy places. Like what it might feel like if he’d just slip down a little?—

Stop.

“Any plans this weekend?” he asks, now pushing my knee close to my chest. His voice sounds a little more scratchy than usual, but I refuse to let myself think it might mean anything.

“My cousin’s bridal shower is tomorrow,” I tell him, still avoiding his face.

“That’s exciting.”

I snort. “Not super exciting. Ever since my older cousins started getting married and having babies, this kind of thing happens all the time.” I bite back a groan when he deepens the stretch. “Besides, bridal showers suck.”

He makes an amused sound. “Can’t say I’ve ever been to one.”