I frowned sadly. “I could never ask you to do that.”

“There will be no asking, and I will not take no for an answer.” He gave me a small shake to emphasize his words, his forehead wrinkling with frustration. “But, Eilish, you need to put aside your fears and think of your son. Bryan has changed. He’s not the degenerate carouser he once was. I wouldn’t be bringing this up so much if I thought there was a chance Bryan would try to take Patrick, or if I thought Bryan might relapse and be a bad influence. The man has changed. Truly.”

My face crumpled as I nodded and tucked my chin to my chest. “I believe you.”

“Good.” Sean gathered a large breath, then pulled me back into his embrace, adding, “Because Patrick deserves to know his father, and Bryan deserves to know his son.”

***

Step one, find Bryan Leech.

Step two, give Bryan Leech a massage.

Step three, improve Bryan Leech’s range of motion and performance outcomes.

Simple, right?

Then why was I still staring in the mirror, giving myself a pep talk?

“You can do this. It won’t be at all weird, so what if you kissed him and he brushed you off? You can be normal. You’ll just walk over to him and say, ‘Bryan, I understand your knee continues to give you concern. If you’d like me to do so, I’ll be happy to administer a deep-tissue massage and stone therapy.’ And then he’ll say . . . he’ll say . . .”

. . . crackers.

“It doesn’t matter what he says,” I assured myself, lifting my chin. “Don’t be so ridiculous. You’re a professional. Act like it.” Slamming the locker door, I turned on my heel and marched out of the women’s locker room to the stairs. I was flying on a cloud of determination.

I would touch Bryan Leech and remain unaffected. I would help him and I would keep my hormones under control.

I would.

I will.

I hadn’t decided what to do about Patrick yet, but excluding Bryan from treatment was completely out of the question. I was disappointed with myself, with my selfishness. I had a job to do and he didn’t deserve to be punished for my unrequited feelings.

That stopped now.

Jogging down the stairs and out the door leading to the player’s hallway, I rehearsed what I would say.

I would say, Hello, Bryan. I have a bit of time before the end of the day. Perhaps I could take a look at your knee.

Or, I might say, Bryan, let’s have a look at your knee. I hear it’s still giving you trouble.

Or maybe, Bryan, I understand you’re having a bit of trouble with your knee. If you have time before the end of the day—

“Eilish.”

I stopped short, almost colliding with William Moore. Automatically, his beefy hands reached to steady me.

“William. Sorry. Sorry about that.” I backed up a step and out of his grip, counting three other players behind him, and swallowed with some difficulty when I realized Bryan was one of them.

“You okay?” William asked, dipping his chin to catch my eye.

I nodded, looking beyond him, and pointed at Bryan. “You.”

Bryan stiffened, his eyes widening. “Me?”

“Yes. You. Meniscus tear. Follow me,” I said, turned away from him, and promptly grimaced.

Real smooth, E.

Real professional.

Great job.

That wasn’t weird at all.

Chapter Nine

ECassChoosesPikachu: On the agenda for tonight: a cold shower.

SeanCassinova to ECassChoosesPikachu: You really should get your pipes looked at. I know a sturdy plumber if you’re interested…

*Eilish*

Leading the way to the training room, I didn’t wait to see if he’d followed. I was too busy berating myself for speaking like Tarzan.

So much for rehearsing.

But Bryan did follow. I heard his footsteps echo mine, and it sent a shiver of anticipation racing down my spine, a shiver I promptly repressed.

Yes. I would soon be touching him. But I couldn’t think of Bryan as my Bryan, the object of my nighttime fantasies, the owner of the enchanted penis, and definitely someone I actually liked.

No.

That would never do.

Instead, I had to think of him as Bryan Leech, fullback, thirty, meniscus tear complicated by tendinosis, no scope, neutral gait.

Once inside the training room, I navigated to the space I’d been using for most of my therapy sessions and motioned to the table, taking a deep breath before instructing with forced calm, “Please lie down, face up.”

I sensed Bryan hesitate so I glanced at him, finding him watching me with a peculiar kind of intensity. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Uh, yes. Sure.” I nodded, then quickly added, “Would you like to tell me about the original injury?”

“No. It’s not that.” Bryan’s gaze narrowed on me. He was frowning, but it was a thoughtful frown rather than an upset frown. “I think we should clear the air. I know you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Oh.” I swallowed with effort, wringing my hands. He’d caught me off guard. I wasn’t prepared to talk about this. “About that—”

“I’d like to apologize for—”

“Like I said,” I waved his apology away, “it wasn’t your fault. I was confused, I was mixed up, tired.”

“But, that’s just it. You weren’t confused.” His gaze softened as it moved over me.

An untenable stabbing pierced my heart because the softness looked like pity, or at least that’s what it looked like to me.