Page 65 of Play For Me

There’s a pause before she nods. Her voice is soft when she speaks again. “I do trust you.”

Those murmured words hit me straight in the chest and I almost lose my rhythm with the massage. I wipe my palms on a towel to steady myself. “But I need you to trust your body too. Swelling and soreness is your body telling you that you need some extra help. Okay?”

She nods once and we slip into silence as I continue to massage her quads then her calves, reducing the tightness in her muscles. Then we do some gentle range-of-motion work, mostly consisting of me bending and straightening her leg, attention switching between her face and knee to watch for any discomfort.

“Okay, let’s get some cold on it,” I finally say. I bring over the Game Ready, a cold compression machine we use in place of ice. I adjust the cuff around her leg and the machine hums softly as I set the pressure.

“You’ll feel it tighten, then cool,” I explain, even though I know she’s used this a hundred times. “If it gets uncomfortable, call me over.”

She settles back, watching me with an expression I try hard not to decode. It feels impossible not to let my eyes drift to her lips, not to think about our kiss.

Professional. I have to stay professional.

“Thanks,” she finally says, quiet. “It helps, having you take care of it.”

I step back just enough to give myself space, but not so far that she thinks I’m pulling away. “My job is to get you ready to play tomorrow.”

She smiles. “Yeah. Your job.”

The room settles into a hush, broken only by the faint hum of the cold-compression pump. The too-bright overhead lights splash yellow against the conference room’s gray walls, and the low murmur of hotel noise out in the hallway feels far away. Cecelia’s breathing slows in sync with the machine’s rhythm, and I feel the quiet stretch between us—comfortable, but edged with that familiar weight. Not an awkward silence, but one that holds awareness with each breath.

I’m always so damn aware of her.

I force myself to ignore it, to move, to work. I focus on checking the machine settings and organizing my supplies, even counting rolls of tape that do not need to be counted.

Anything so I won’t have to think about how much I want to just sit beside her instead.

I leavethe makeshift treatment room when Cecelia does. Part of me thinks it would be smarter to stay behind, to let her head up to her room on her own. But when she seems to hover by the door, as if waiting for me, I just can’t make myself do it.

It’s probably pathetic how badly I want to walk her to her door, just to spend five extra minutes with her.

Cecelia keeps the conversation light and constant, and I get the feeling she’s doing it on purpose. Maybe she felt that heavy sense of awareness in the treatment room. too. Maybe chatter is her solution to ease the tension I feel snapping between us.

Or maybe I’m overthinking everything like I always do.

We’re waiting for the elevators when she gets a text. She looks down at the phone screen before grinning up at me.

“Cards in Helen’s room,” she says. “The other student trainer is up there. Wanna join?”

Do I want to sit next to Cecelia on a hotel room bed and watch the way her face lights up with the excitement of competition, the same way it had at her cousin’s party? Yes, I do. Very much.

“Don’t you have curfew, Ransome?”

She rolls her eyes. “We’re not talking about a rager, dude. We’re going to sit in someone’s room and play cards.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I notice you didn’t answer my question.”

“You’re such a Boy Scout.” When I don’t say anything, her eyes go wide. “Oh my God, are youactuallya Boy Scout?”

“Iwasa Cub Scout, thank you very much. Went all the way through Webelos in fifth grade. Earned more badges than anyone else at my school.”

She giggles and the sound is so cute I don’t even care it’s at my expense. “Were you a Girl Scout?”

She gives me a look so incredulous I can’t help but laugh. “Do I look like I was ever a Girl Scout?”

“You look like someone who would have gotten kicked out of Girl Scouts pretty much immediately.”

She opens her mouth to respond—probably to give me a verbal ass kicking—but the elevator arrives. The doors open and just like that, every good, happy feeling drains from my body.