Flirty faceoff, p.8
Flirty Faceoff, page 8
Jamie is everything I thought I wanted—stable, kind, the perfect guy. Yet, as I walk to my car, Wes Carter invades my thoughts, challenging all my preconceived notions. Why am I so intrigued by the complexities of a man who’s supposed to be my adversary?
Stop it, Lara, I scold myself, but my heart doesn’t seem to be listening. Wes’s passion, his unexpected tenderness with the kids, has sparked something in me. And as much as I want to dismiss it, to focus on the comfort Jamie offers, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something about Wes that might just be worth exploring.
As the practice facility fades behind me, I’m left with a quiet disquiet, a question that refuses to be silenced: Why, if Jamie is perfect for me, can I not get Wes out of my head?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The dimmed lights in the therapy room cast a gentle glow over Jamie’s shoulder as I press down carefully, testing the mobility. It’s late, way past the time when the last echoes of bouncing basketballs and screeching sneakers have faded from the gymnasium halls. The clock ticks a soothing rhythm that blends with our breaths.
“Ouch.” Jamie winces, but his eyes are laughing. “I swear you find joy in my pain.”
“Only the therapeutic kind,” I retort, easing up on the pressure. My fingers probe the tender muscles, searching for knots and tension. “You wouldn’t want your shoulder to freeze up on you, would you?”
“Guess I’m at your mercy then.” His grin is boyish, charming in a way that makes my heart do somersaults.
“Always,” I say, and there’s more truth in that quip than I’d like to admit.
As I work the kinks out of Jamie’s shoulder, I can’t help but let my mind wander. Wes’s image flashes before me—the bad boy of the team, with his reckless energy and unruly charm. And yet he was playing with those kids so naturally, as if he was genuinely having a great time with them. He’s fire and ice, pushing everyone away, yet pulling them in just the same.
“Thinking hard?” Jamie’s voice pulls me back, and I realize I’ve been silent for too long.
“Sometimes too much,” I confess, forcing a smile. I don’t want to speak Wes’s name when I’m with Jamie, but I tell myself it’s purely innocent curiosity, nothing he should mind. “Wes came by earlier, actually. He was… different. Not the usual storm cloud.”
“Really?” Jamie sounds genuinely curious, and I nod.
“He stayed after practice to help clean up. Didn’t say much, just did it.” My hands pause as I remember the unexpected moment. “He has these rare instances of quiet kindness. Like he forgot to be mad at the world for a second. It makes me suspicious. Like he has something up his sleeve.”
“Probably,” Jamie murmurs, thoughtful. “He’s all about himself.”
“I don’t think so. Sure, he might seem that way.” I resume the massage, pressing into Jamie’s muscle with renewed focus. “But there’s dedication there, under all that brooding. To the game, to the team—even if he pretends otherwise.”
“It’s cutting through those layers of thorns,” Jamie says softly. “I don’t know if it’s worth it.”
“Have you tried?” I ask without thinking, glancing up to meet his gaze.
“Of course,” he replies, a depth to his tone that hints at uncharted waters beneath his calm surface. “He doesn’t let anyone get too close. He keeps his distance from all of us.”
But he didn’t keep his distance from me. He let me in on a small part of his life, and for a flicker, I feel special. The room feels smaller suddenly, the air charged with something fragile and unsaid. Jamie’s presence is warm and grounding; it steadies the tremor that Wes’s unpredictability sets off in me. One man like the eye of a storm, the other its unpredictable edge. Caught between them, I find myself adrift, wondering which way the wind will blow.
Jamie shifts, and I ease the pressure on his shoulder, watching as his brows knit. “You see something in him, don’t you? In Wes?” His voice is a mixture of curiosity and something else—something like concern or maybe even jealousy. It’s hard to read, especially with the way my own heart is tangled up.
“No, of course not,” I admit with a sigh, looking down at my hands, which are now idle on Jamie’s strong shoulder. “I guess it just intrigues me when a guy is so secretive. I have to wonder what he’s hiding.”
“I think he might just want us all to think he’s got depth, when he’s just a moody, cocky bastard,” he responds, his fingers gently nudging my chin, prompting me to look at him. There’s an openness in his face that urges honesty, makes me want to delve into things better left unsaid. But this is Jamie—good guy Jamie—who’s always seen me, not the athlete or therapist, just Lara.
“Sometimes I think I can help him see the error of his ways, change him somehow so that he works better with the rest of the team.” The words spill out before I can stop them, carrying with them a weight of responsibility I didn’t realize I’d been shouldering. “But then I’m reminded that some people don’t want to be saved, or they need to save themselves.”
“True,” Jamie agrees, his touch light and reassuring. “It’s in your nature to help people, right? Just be careful, okay? People like Wes can pull you into their chaos before you know it.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing? Getting pulled in?” The question hangs between us, fraught with implications about my feelings for both men.
“Maybe.” He echoes my earlier response, his gaze searching mine. “But I trust you. You’re the strongest person I know. And if you want to keep things professional, I’m sure you will.”
My heart skips, warmth spreading through my chest at his words. Impulsively, I reach out, letting my fingers trace the line of his jaw. “Tell me something,” I say, changing gears, needing to lighten the mood. “What’s something no one else knows about Jamie Duncan?”
He chuckles, a sound that seems to vibrate through the room. “Well, for starters, I’m terrified of needles. Irony, right? A hockey player who can take a hit but can’t handle a tiny jab.”
Laughter bubbles up inside me, the tension of the moment easing. “Your secret’s safe with me,” I promise, feeling a connection to Jamie that goes beyond anything physical. It’s genuine and deep, and for a fleeting second, I let myself bask in its glow.
Then, once again, my thoughts are pulled to Wes. He’s not afraid of needles, judging from all those tattoos.
Stop it, Lara.
“Your turn,” he says softly, the intensity back in his eyes. “Share something with me, Lara.”
“Okay,” I begin, my pulse quickening under his attentive gaze. “I still dream about running sometimes. Not about winning or competing, but just… running. Feeling the wind, the speed, the freedom. It’s like flying, and when I wake up, for a moment, I forget I can’t do it anymore.”
“Sounds nice,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, our faces inches apart. His eyes hold mine, and there’s a longing in them that mirrors the ache in my own heart—an ache for dreams lost and the possibility of new ones found in each other’s presence.
Heat flushes my cheeks as Jamie’s breath fans across my skin, his gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. Time seems to slow, the sterile scent of antiseptic fading into the background, replaced by the subtle hint of his cologne—a mix of cedar and citrus that feels like it’s wrapping around me. I can feel every beat of my heart, each one pounding against my ribcage, demanding attention, demanding action.
“Jamie,” I whisper, a tremor in my voice betraying the storm of emotions inside me.
His eyes storm over. “I get it. Professional?” he murmurs.
But this is too perfect, and I’m aware I might never get another moment where I feel this certain. And maybe, just maybe, if I kiss Jamie, it will be enough to flush Wes’s kiss out of my head.
I shake my head, almost imperceptibly, surrendering to this moment. It’s all the invitation he needs.
His lips find mine in a gentle collision, a stark contrast to the tumultuous feelings raging within us. The kiss is soft at first, cautious—as if we’re both testing the waters of this new, uncharted territory between us. But the caution quickly melts away under the heat of our connection, and the kiss deepens, growing more insistent, more urgent. Our bodies lean into each other as if drawn by a magnetic force we’re powerless to resist. My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palms.
For a moment, there is nothing else—no therapy room, no late night, no complicated love triangle—just Jamie and me and the overwhelming sense of rightness that floods through my veins. I lose myself in the kiss, in the intensity of the connection that crackles like electricity between us.
As I step back from Jamie, reality crashes over me like a wave, cold and jarring. Thoughts of Wes surge forward, unbidden, his beautiful face and moments of unexpected tenderness flashing through my mind. Guilt gnaws at my stomach, tangling with the remnants of desire that still pulse through my body. Jamie’s eyes search mine, filled with questions I’m not ready to answer.
I back away. “Please…please don’t tell…if Coach finds out that I…”
Jamie looks into my eyes with concern. The tension hangs heavy in the air until, without warning, my foot catches on a rogue therapy ball left out from our earlier session. My balance falters, and I stumble backward, a startled yelp escaping my lips.
Jamie’s reflexes kick in—he reaches out, steadying me, but it’s too late to prevent the flail that has me grasping for anything to break my fall. Instead of the hard floor, my hands land on Jamie’s shoulders, pulling him into my clumsy dance.
Laughter erupts from both of us, uncontrollable and infectious. It bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, a release valve for the tension that had been building all evening. My laughter mingles with Jamie’s, two melodies intertwining in a moment of pure, unadulterated relief.
“Smooth move, Bennett,” he teases, eyes twinkling with mirth as he helps me regain my footing.
“Occupational hazard,” I counter, still chuckling, grateful for the respite from the emotional whirlwind. For a fleeting second, the room is filled with nothing but our shared amusement, the echo of our laughter a temporary balm for my racing heart and conflicted soul.
Regaining my composure, I stand straight, cheeks flushed from the fall—and from something else entirely. Jamie’s hands linger on my arms, light but grounding, and I’m acutely aware of the warmth radiating from his touch.
“Looks like you’ve discovered a new therapy exercise,” Jamie quips, the corners of his mouth upturned in that heart-melting smile. “We’ll call it the ‘Love Tumble.’ Patented by Lara Bennett.”
I can’t help but laugh again, the sound softer this time, infused with the remnants of our earlier connection. There’s an ease to Jamie, a gentle humor that wraps around me like a comforting blanket. It’s moments like these that draw me to him, that make me forget the tangled web of emotions just outside this room.
“Only if it’s guaranteed to fix more than just shoulder injuries,” I say, playing along. His laughter joins mine, a harmonious duet that fills the empty therapy room. For a moment, it’s as if we’re the only two people in the world—no Wes, no complications, just us.
“Guaranteed to heal the heart, too,” he adds, winking at me. The playful glint in his eyes sends a ripple of joy through me, washing away the confusion that had been clouding my mind.
“Is that so?” I ask, my voice laced with a teasing tone of its own. I notice how close we still are, his face mere inches from mine, the memory of our kiss lingering like a promise between us.
“Absolutely,” he replies, confidence etched into his handsome features. “But don’t worry. This secret is just between us. As long as you want it to be, okay?”
His words hang in the air, charged with unspoken possibilities. There’s a silent acknowledgment of the growing attraction we both feel. A part of me wants to explore that attraction, to see where this unexpected path might lead. Jamie’s presence is reassuring, his sincerity evident in every word and gesture. For now, I let myself melt into the happiness he offers, allowing his light to chase away the shadows of doubt—at least temporarily.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I adjust the resistance band wrapped around T-Rex’s leg, my eyes focused on the slight tremble in his muscles. “Good, now remember to keep your core engaged and push against the tension—just like that,” I coach, pride swelling within me as I watch him execute the movement flawlessly. This is why I’m here, why after my own dreams crashed and burned, I’ve dedicated my life to guiding others through their recovery.
“Got it, Lara,” he grunts, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.
“Three more reps,” I encourage, though my attention flickers as my phone vibrates. Sliding it from my pocket, I glimpse Pat’s name lighting up the screen with an urgency that can’t be ignored. The message reads: Interviewer coming your way asking about team injuries. Handle it.
“Take a minute to rest,” I tell T-Rex before stepping away, tucking my hair into a tighter ponytail. Whatever Pat needs, it’s part of the job—even if dealing with the press is my least favorite aspect.
“Are you Lara Bennett?” A voice cuts through the buzz of the gym, assertive and laden with intent.
Turning, I meet the gaze of the woman advancing toward me. I cringe. I’d hoped it was Cassidy from the Sun Beacon. She’s about the only reporter I can tolerate since she’s T-Rex’s girlfriend and has a nice, soft touch. But this woman is clearly anything but soft. Her stance screams tenacity, her eyes sharp and calculating behind sleek frames. Sarah Thompson, the name tag clipped to her blazer announces.
“That’s me,” I reply, bracing myself for what’s to come.
The reporter turns to her cameraman and makes sure he’s in position before starting. “Sarah Thompson, Daily Sports Watch. I have a few questions about the recent injuries on the team,” she says, but her eyes hold a different curiosity. “But first, there are rumors swirling about your relationship with Wes Carter. Can you comment on that?”
The question hits like a rogue wave, and I steady myself. How can anyone possibly know…did the players leak that gossip? And even if they did, what business is it of anyone else? “My relationship with all the players is strictly professional. I’m here to ensure they’re in top physical condition.”
“Of course.” Sarah nods, her expression unchanging. “But there’s talk of some… heated interactions with Wes Carter. He’s quite the favorite, especially among the ladies, so of course, our listeners want to know. Anything you’d care to clarify for the fans?”
“Look, it’s not true. As for Wes, we have a… complex working dynamic. That’s all there is to it.” I’m careful with my words, knowing how easily they can be twisted.
“Complex? How so?” she probes, her pen poised over her notepad like a predator ready to pounce.
“Let’s just say that he’s had some challenging injuries that we’ve had to work past,” I deflect, feeling the weight of her scrutiny. “Now, if you have questions about the team’s health, I’d be happy to discuss our rehabilitation programs.”
Sarah purses her lips, evidently not satisfied, but she scribbles a note. “We’ll circle back to that. For now, let’s talk about those programs.”
I shift in my seat, feeling the cushion’s support beneath me as I redirect Sarah’s attention to the heart of my work. “The team’s success is a collective effort,” I say with conviction. “Their resilience is remarkable, and it’s an honor to facilitate their recovery.”
Sarah leans in closer, her gaze sharp and questioning. “That’s commendable, Lara. But the public is curious about more than just your professional achievements. They want to know about you—specifically, your personal connections.”
Back to that. The muscles in my back tense, a familiar discomfort as I recognize the turn this conversation is taking. My responses become more clipped, my patience wearing thin. “My focus here is on the players’ well-being. Their ability to return to the ice is what matters most.” I stand, signaling that the interview has reached its natural conclusion.
“Of course,” she says, rising with a smoothness that contradicts her relentlessness. “But surely—”
“Thank you for your time, Sarah,” I interject, hoping my tone conveys the finality I’m desperate for. I’m really hoping most of this interview ends up on the cutting room floor after editing, because it’s not exactly the kind of juicy headlines that will glue people to their screens. Is it? Then again, Wes is very controversial, a player, a man known for making headlines. Maybe his romantic entanglements are of interest to fans. “If there are no further questions about my work, I need to get back to my patients.”
“Very well,” she concedes, though the gleam in her eye tells me she’s far from done.
Just as I feel the weight of the interview lifting, the door swings open and Wes strides in, his presence filling the room like a sudden storm. “Hey, Lara, tell the lovely reporter about our passionate fling,” he calls out, his voice carrying an edge of mischief.
At that moment, it hits me like a thunderbolt. Was he the one who told reporters? Heat floods my cheeks as I turn to him, words stumbling over each other in their haste to correct his narrative. “Wes, that’s not true,” I manage, but the damage is done.
Sarah’s eyes light up, her pen ready to record every syllable. “A fling, you say? How does this fit into the ‘complex dynamic’ you mentioned earlier?”
“Nothing fits because there’s nothing going on,” I say firmly, trying to recover the situation. “Wes enjoys making jokes in poor taste.”
“Is that what it is? A joke?” Sarah’s question hangs in the air like an accusation, and Wes winks at me, a silent challenge that sends my heart racing for all the wrong reasons.
