Page 12 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Interesting.

And sweet.

He seems to be upset on my behalf, and yet yesterday he was the one who thought I was a stripper here to entertain him.

Good thing I didn’t take the bait, then. I was ready to kiss you senseless just to call your bluff and prove you were a stripper.

His words come back to me—the ones that repeated through my mind at random times yesterday, which then led to my Google search on him. My hands touch him now, but my mind recalls the charity calendar I found—him in all his gorgeous, naked glory.

Another comment somewhere in the locker room.

Another bristle by him.

And the irony isn’t lost on me. He’s getting pissed on my behalf, and I’m thinking of what he looks like naked. Well, almost naked. My imagination fills in exactly what is beneath the baseball glove.

And, of course, now I blush.

“Where did you leave off with your previous trainer?” I ask to try and break the tension that’s becoming more and more evident in the tightening of his muscles.

“We were throwing the ball.”

“All out?”

“At about fifty, sixty percent.”

“Hitting any?”

“A bit, at about seventy percent.”

“Okay.” I draw the word out, pleased he speaks my lingo. “Tell me how it felt when you did those things.”

“Frustrating.”

“If you’re going to make love to me Wylder, you’re gonna need to do a helluva lot more than that to get me off.” His head whips up, shocked hazel eyes meeting my gray ones, and I know I’ve got his attention now. I continue. “Explain. Why was it frustrating? Did it hurt? Was there a pinch, or was it just tight from not being used? Or was it mental? It’s bound to feel different, so is it the fear of reinjuring yourself that’s holding you back?”

He struggles with what to say, his eyes narrowing as he looks away. I lower the wand and wipe the excess gel from his shoulder. “How about all of the above?” he finally says.

“That’s a fair answer. I tell you what—how about we stretch it today, go through some new exercises that you might not have done yet, and then tomorrow we take it to the field and get a ball in that hand of yours?”

“Really?” He sounds like a little boy finding out he gets to play after sitting on the bench for the last six innings. It breaks my heart and fills it simultaneously.

“Really.” I walk around to the back of him and begin to move his arm to feel for any clicking or popping with the movement in his rotator cuff. “Let’s get started then.”

“So, I think it’s on the right track,” I say with a conclusive nod, needing to step away from him and the connection that our bodies have had for the better part of ninety minutes.

I’ve worked his arm every which way and now have a better grasp on what I need to do to strengthen it. How to make a plan of attack.

“It might be a bit sore later and tomorrow. Your hissing tells me I pushed you a little further than your previous trainer did, but I’m pleased with how solid the repair feels. We just need to get you back into the routine slowly, and then the motions will begin to feel natural again.”

“Does that mean I get to throw a ball tomorrow?”

“It does, indeed.” His smile is lightning-quick in response, and completely disarming.

I’ve seen Easton-the-skeptic’s smile. I’ve even seen the Easton-thinks-he’s-being-played smile. But Easton’s I-get-to do-what-I-love-tomorrow smile is bright enough to light up the room.

“Easton. My man. You doing good?” Luckily we’re interrupted so I stop staring at him. J.P. Gaston, another player, walks into our training room. He grabs hands with Easton in some kind of handshake and pulls him in for a manly hug before slapping him on the back in greeting.

“Hanging in there. Way to kick ass last night. Your bat’s on fire, man.”