this internship situation is, I see Nash all the time.
The bad part is, I see Nash all the time. Even when I’m trying to do things like focus on homework and training plans. His presence is beyond distracting, both when he is and isn’t physically present.
In the middle of prepping for next week’s training, I glance up from my clipboard to find Nash exiting the locker room area. He hoists his book bag onto his shoulder, trying and failing to hide a wince as he does. No surprise there; his shoulder has been bothering him all week. He can try to compensate, but movement patterns don’t lie.
“Is it your shoulder again?” I call over. “Let me see.” Christina has left for the day, and no one else is around, which makes it a good time to check out what’s going on with him.
He avoids my eyes and throws me a dismissive wave, heading for the door. “It’s all good, Vi. I’ll see you at the game tonight.”
“Obviously, it’s not.” Stupid, stubborn man. I’m not sure whether I’m more irritated or concerned. He has a unique knack for evoking both emotions in me.
When it becomes clear he’s going to blow me off, I throw down my pen and march over to the door, blocking the exit. Straight out of his own playbook, like he did the day he walked me to the transit station.
Nash comes to a halt, which is fortunate because he could plow me over without even feeling it. He cocks a dark eyebrow as he peers down at me, a combination of amusement and annoyance across his handsome face. We remain planted in the doorway, locked in an unspoken stalemate. He could pick me up and move me out of the way in zero-point-two seconds if he wanted. But for some reason, he doesn’t.
Clutching his elbow, I steer him through the room, over to the therapy table. Or he lets me steer him, rather, because there is no way I could drag this enormous human being anywhere against his will. He takes one step for every two I do.
Once we reach the table, I give him a shove that sends me more off-balance than it does him. “Sit down.”
He complies, easing down onto the upholstered surface with a smirk. “I like when you play rough.”
Even with him seated, the height difference between us is an impediment. The last athlete on this table must have been far shorter than him because the table is raised higher than normal. Or maybe Preston was using this area with someone; he’s pretty tall. I grab the remote, lowering the table a few inches so I can see properly.
“Show me.” I cross my arms, nodding at Nash’s shoulder.
He reaches over and rolls up the sleeve of his black T-shirt, exposing his muscular upper arm. In this case, it doesn’t provide enough access for me to observe what’s really going on. I think he knows that, too.
I sigh. “I need to see all of your shoulder. Just take off your shirt, Nash. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
With a shrug, he grabs the back of his shirt and yanks it off, wincing slightly. Miles of sculpted muscle beneath smooth, taut skin greet me. His hair is still slightly damp from a post-practice shower, recently applied cologne floating over to me and wearing away at my self-restraint. Freshly showered Nash is my favorite kind.
Stay professional, Violet.
Trying to stay on task, I run him through a few basic tests, most of which he fails to varying degrees. Then I manipulate his shoulder to confirm my suspicions. He tenses almost instantly.
“Does that hurt?”
He inhales sharply, talking through gritted teeth. “What do you think?”
My ubiquitous worry about him climbs up a notch. Nash has a high pain threshold. If he is showing that he’s in pain, it’s an eight out of ten at least.
“Your AC joint is getting worse, you know.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Fine like it was last year?” The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t want to fight about it. This isn’t a matter of me needing to be right; I want him to listen before he ends up sidelined again. Because for some reason, I still care about Nash, and I know how important his hockey career is to him.
On brand as ever, he ignores my question and lobs a curveball at me instead. “You dating Preston?”
I not-so-accidentally let my thumb slip onto a pressure point in response to that question.
“Ouch,” he hisses, leaning away. “How are you so tiny, yet so violent?”
“Pressure points,” I murmur, making a point not to glance up at him as I extend his elbow.
“Are you avoiding my question?”
I arch an eyebrow, meeting his eyes before returning my attention to his rotator cuff. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I’m not. Why, are you dating that brunette who was all over you at the pub after the game?”
Fair’s fair, I guess.
“No. You’re the only girlfriend I’ve ever had.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel special?”
“I don’t know, does it?” His gaze weighs down on me.
Curse my stupid, hopeful heart. I know it shouldn’t, but it does. This is top tier “pick me” girl mentality. Nash stood me up on Easter to go take a road trip with his boys—I’m not special.
I look away because it’s hard to lie to his face. “It doesn’t.”
“How’s Biscuit doing?” I ask, trying to distract Nash from the topic of Preston as well as the assessment itself.
“Great.” Nash’s smile is rueful. “Since I’ve brought him home, he’s only destroyed three shoes, one iPhone cord, and chewed half a finance textbook. You should come visit him.”
“I will. Thursday, maybe? We could take him to that dog park you mentioned.” Frowning, I check his limited range of motion again. “You need to take some time off.”
“Can’t.” He reaches over, grabbing his shirt from the end of the table. His abdominal muscles ripple as he pulls it back on, vanishing beneath the wall of black cotton. “Game tonight. But if you could tape my shoulder before then, that would do me a solid.”
A fresh onslaught of irritation sparks within me at his glib response. “You can’t keep playing like this.”
“This is Hockey 101, Vi. If you take a hit, shake it off and get back out there. If something gives you trouble, work harder until you master it. If something hurts, push through the aches and pains until they disappear.”
“And if you keep it up, you’re going to need surgery,” I counter. Where on earth did he get this ridiculous idea from that he should push through injuries instead of resting? Coach Ward would never subscribe to that kind of philosophy. “Then you’ll be out way longer than a few games.”
“I’ll deal with that if and when it happens.” Nash slides off the table, coming to loom over me again. Another wave of his cologne envelops me, adding attraction to the confusing jungle of emotions I’m trying to navigate.
Balling my hands into fists, I prop them on my waist and glare up at him. “You’re so hard-headed, you barely need a helmet.”
His broad shoulder lifts in a shrug, but he says nothing. In addition to his hockey prowess, he’s a gold medalist in stonewalling.
“I should tell Christina and Coach Ward.” I shake my head, turning away to gather up my purse and schoolbooks. My next class isn’t for an hour, but I’m too annoyed to stand still doing nothing.
“Maybe,” he says. “But you won’t.”
“How do you know?” I yank the zipper on my bookbag shut with more force than necessary, resisting the urge to pick it up and smack him with it.
“Because I know you.”
It’s the truth in this that bothers me most of all.
My grip on the bookbag strap tightens. “Don’t flatter yourself. You used to know me, but not anymore.”
In my peripheral vision, Nash steps closer, and his voice drops. “Oh, I know lots of things.”
I lift my chin to look up at him again and this time, he’s the one backing me into the therapy table. One step; two steps; three. My hamstrings hit the edge, and I come to a stop, heart rate skyrocketing.
I’m cornered.
Wordlessly, he takes the bag from my hands, setting it aside. Grabbing the backs of my thighs, he scoops me up and sets me on the table. Fortunately, he’s more gentle than I was with him.
Nash’s lips tug as he peers down at me. “This table is really low.”
“I’m really short. Or you’re really tall, depending how you look at it.” This quote from the night we met slips out before I can stop myself. Though, he probably doesn’t even remember.
“Bit of both, really.” His mouth pulls into a heart-stopping grin.
A dull ache forms in my chest, because he does.
He leans down and plants his hands on either side of my body, stapling me to the spot. It’s so quiet in the room, the only sound is our soft inhales and exhales. For the second time lately, we’re close enough to kiss, close enough that I can smell the cool mint gum on his breath. All I can think about is his lips pressed up against mine, tasting that mint on my tongue.
“What are you—” I falter. Sentences are a challenge right now. “Someone could come in.”
Nash, of course, is unfazed by this possibility. Rules have never concerned him all that much.
He tucks my hair behind my ear, tilting my face up to his with his finger. His movements are slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up his prey before coming in for the kill. Heat unfurls in my center, my body instinctively responding to him like it always has.
I’m in trouble.
His gaze pins me to the spot, and I start to get lost in the endless depths of his eyes, drinking in the subtle details that can only be seen within intimate range. Up close, the rich green is a prism of colors. Gold bursts like rays of sun around his pupil, and a darker ring of emerald frames his iris, with hints of moss and olive. They’re unlike any color I’ve ever seen, like the depths of a forest kissed with honeyed beams of sunshine.
There’s no lack of pheromones here; an inconvenient fact that’s slightly easier to ignore when everyone else is around. Now that there are no witnesses, I have a nearly overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around him and bury my face against his skin, inhaling his divine, familiar scent until my lungs explode. I know the sound he would make, too. Low and throaty, on the verge of a growl.
My hands stay glued to my lap.
A maelstrom of feelings surges through me, lust and fear rising with every passing moment until they threaten to overflow, and I break eye contact. He steadies my chin between his thumb and index finger, turning my face back to look at him. When our eyes collide again, it rocks me. Time hasn’t diminished his effect on me; if anything, it’s strengthened it. The tiny, almost imperceptible smirk that forms on his lips tells me he’s fully aware.
Nash watches me intently, tracing my bottom lip with the calloused pad of his thumb. “Like I was saying, I know lots of things.” He drags his thumb lower, caressing the delicate skin behind my left ear. “For example, I know if I kiss this spot right here, you’ll arch your neck and let out the sexiest fucking whimper I’ve ever heard.”
I don’t know about sexy, but it’s taking all my strength not to whimper.
He inclines his head, dragging a rough palm down the column of my neck. My heartbeat flutters in a way that cannot be physically healthy for a twenty-one-year-old. I’m going to need a pacemaker by the time this internship is over.
“If I bite here, you’ll moan.” He squeezes the flesh where my neck meets my shoulder. There’s a throb between my legs in response, confirming his theory. I have a couple of sweet spots, and that’s one of them. But he knows them all.
“And if I move lower . . .” His fingertips ghost along my collarbone, his touch feather-light. I draw in a breath as his hand splays, slowly drifting down the swell of my breasts. My breath hitches, and goosebumps wash over my skin. I watch him, mesmerized, slipping deeper under his spell with every passing second. He continues until he’s nearly at the neckline of my tank top, and my nipples tighten in anticipation of his touch.
Before he reaches his intended target, the door to the training room flies open and we both startle, pulling apart. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, a mixture of fear and disappointment echoing through my body.
Nash straightens, taking a giant step back, and I scoot off the treatment table just as James Anderson, a ginger-haired freshman on the team, barges in.
“Sorry, forgot my headphones in the training area.” James throws us an apologetic glance, but it seems like he thinks he was interrupting something a lot more innocent than it is. He disappears into the next room, leaving the two of us alone in the aftermath of a massive slip in judgement.
“No worries,” I call out weakly, even though he’s already gone. “Just wrapping up.”
Turning back to Nash, I pat him on the arm in a way that’s meant to be friendly but is more awkward than anything. “Well, your shoulder looks fine for now.” My voice is excessively loud, trying to legitimatize his presence in case James can overhear. “Make sure to ice it when you get home and do those stretches I showed you.”
James reappears with a pair of white earbuds in one hand and stands in the far doorway. He rakes a hand through his copper curls, eyeing us uncertainly. “I had a quick question for Violet if that’s okay. I wanted to make sure I was doing that exercise you showed me correctly because I’m not feeling it in my adductor.”
“Sure,” I say. “No problem.”
Nash clears his throat and gives me a meaningful look. “I should get going.” He grabs his bookbag, slipping it onto his good shoulder, and turns to leave.
“I mean it,” I tell him under my breath. “Ice. Stretch. Rehab exercises. Try to rest as much as possible.”
“Will do,” he says over his shoulder, but we both know he won’t.
