Chapter nineteen:Professional Lines(Sienna Vance)

POV: Sienna Vance

The rain had been beating against the tall, arched windows of the private recovery suite in Zakopane for two straight hours, turning the spruce trees outside into dark, blurred shadows.

He lay face down on the padded massage table, his broad shoulders filling almost the entire width of the frame. On the field, he was an untouchable titan, the franchise quarterback whose contract carried the weight of an entire organization. In this room, stripped down to his athletic shorts, he was my patient.

Or at least, that’s the lie I kept telling myself every time I stepped across the threshold.

"You’re flinching before I’ve even touched you, Jaxson," I said, my voice steady, professional, and devoid of the nervous flutter currently hammering against my ribs. I reached for the bottle of warming Arnica oil, popping the cap with a sharp snap that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Jaxson didn’t turn his head, but I saw the muscles along his spine ripple as he tightened his jaw. "I don't flinch, Vance. You're just taking your sweet time."

His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that scraped over my nerve endings like sandpaper. Even with his face pressed into the padded headrest, he projected a cold, unyielding authority. That was his defense mechanism the stern, unapproachable wall he built to keep the rest of the world at arm's length.

"I'm prepping the tissue," I replied, pouring a quarter-sized pool of oil into my palms and rubbing them together to generate heat. "Your secondary strain in the right hamstrings isn't going to fix itself. If we don't break up these adhesions today, you won't be cleared for full-contact drills by Friday."

"Then break them," he grunted.

I took a slow, deep breath, anchoring my feet into the hardwood floor. I had to maintain control. The moment I lost my focus, the boundary between physical therapist and whatever dangerous, unspoken thing was brewing between us would evaporate completely.

I stepped closer to the table, positioning myself at his hip. The heat radiating off his skin hit me first a raw, furnace-like warmth. I placed both hands firmly on his upper thigh, just above the belly of the hamstring muscle.

Jaxson’s entire body went taut. A low, sharp intake of air hissed through his teeth.

"Breathe through it," I commanded gently, though my own pulse was suddenly racing. "If you fight the pressure, you're only going to bruise."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered, his fingers gripping the edges of the vinyl table until his knuckles turned ghostly white. "You're not the one digging your thumbs into raw nerves."

I didn't answer. Instead, I leaned my weight forward, using my forearms to apply a long, sweeping stroke down the length of his hamstrings. The muscle under my palms felt like woven steel cables. Every knot was a testament to how hard he pushed himself, how little regard he had for his own physical limits when there was something to prove.

As I worked the tissue, shifting from broad strokes to targeted thumb pressure on a deep-seated trigger point, the room seemed to shrink. The scent of sweet almond oil and wintergreen filled the space between us, thick and heavy.

"Right there," he grunted, his shoulders hitching. A fine sheen of sweat broke out across his shoulder blades, glistening under the low halogen lighting. "Jesus, Sienna..."

The sound of my name on his lips spoken not with his usual harsh, commanding edge, but with a raw, unshielded vulnerability sent a jolt straight down my spine. My fingers faltered for a fraction of a second before I forced myself to press deeper into the knot.

"I told you," I whispered, leaning in closer than I should have to apply the necessary leverage. "Secondary tension. You've been compensating for the knee stability by overworking the biceps femoris. You're holding half your stress right here."

"I hold my stress where I want," he growled, though the fight was leaving his voice, replaced by a heavy, ragged exhaustion.

I moved my hands in a slow circular motions over the stubborn knot. My knees were practically pressed against the side of the table, bringing my torso inches from his back. I could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin, smelling the crisp, masculine scent of cedarwood and rain that belonged entirely to him.

It was torture. Pure, self-inflicted torture. For weeks, we had been walking this razor-thin wire two people bound by a contract that strictly forbade the very thing that made the air between us catch fire whenever we were alone in a room. I was supposed to fix his body so he could play; he was supposed to keep his distance so I could keep my job.

Instead, every session felt like a slow motion collapse of my resolve.

"You need to let go, Jaxson," I whispered, my voice dropping an octave as I pressed both thumbs directly into the center of the spasm. "Stop fighting me. Let me do my job."

"You think this is me fighting you?" he asked, his voice barely a murmur above the sound of the rain outside.

"Isn't it?" I asked, my hands trembling slightly against his thigh. I couldn't look away. I was trapped in the gravity of his gaze.

"If I stopped fighting you, Sienna," he said, his tone thick with a warning that felt more like a promise, "

“we wouldn't be talking about muscle tension."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The professional lines I had spent months drawing, redrawing, and defending felt like thin chalk marks being washed away in a downpour. I meant to pull back, to step away from the table, grab a towel, and put five feet of safe, sterile distance between us.

Instead, I stayed. My palms rested gently on his skin, no longer applying therapeutic pressure, but simply feeling the heavy, syncopated rhythm of his breath.

"Jaxson..." I breathed, uncertain whether it was a plea for him to stop or a confession that I didn't want him to.

With a slow, deliberate movement that commanded total control, Jaxson pushed himself up onto one forearm. The shift in movement brought his face level with mine. The physical power he possessed was terrifying, but the way he looked at me in that moment was far more dangerous.

He didn't say a word. His gaze drifted down to my lips, lingering there until my breath hitched in my chest, before rising back up to hold my eyes.

Slowly, carefully, as if testing whether I would flinch away, he raised his free hand. His large, calloused fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a violent shockwave of electricity through my body. I froze, unable to move, unable to breathe.

His thumb traced the line of my jawline, warm and rough, before his hand slid up toward the back of my head.

"You keep your hair tied up like a shield," he murmured softly, his voice a low, magnetic hum that pulled me in. "Every single day. Strict. Professional. Perfect."

"Jaxson, don't"

He didn't listen. With a subtle flick of his fingers, he gently unclipped the practical plastic jaw-clamp holding my hair in place.

The heavy, dark chestnut waves tumbled down instantly, cascading over my shoulders, framing my face, and brushing against the bare skin of his arm.

The air left the room entirely.

Jaxson’s hand lingered in my hair, his fingers tangled in the loose strands, holding me just inches from his face. His dark eyes flared with an unhidden, predatory hunger that made my knees go weak.

"Now," he whispered, his thumb pressing lightly against my lower lip, "tell me to go back to being professional."