Hands On Recovery

Chapter 4: The Armor was Cracking

Brandon POV

The O'Hare Hilton smelled like stale carpet cleaner, cold air conditioning, and late-night exhaustion. By 1:30 AM, the marble lobby was a blur of oversized black and gold tracksuits, bleary-eyed coaching staff, and the relentless clatter of rolling luggage against polished tile. Three hours of tarmac delays had frayed everyone's nerves, leaving the entire traveling roster desperate for sleep.

"We only have one suite left on the executive floor with an extra-long mattress," the front desk clerk said, her eyes heavy as she tapped at her monitor with a slow, apologetic rhythm. "The rest of the team's room block was handed out when your flight got delayed."

Brandon leaned his broad forearms against the high counter, his tall frame slouching just enough to betray the bone-deep fatigue settling into his muscles. The faint scent of dark espresso and warm skin radiated off him, wrapping around Clara in the quiet space between them. "You’re telling me the starting point guard and the team specialist are down to one room?"

"It’s an executive king suite," the clerk offered weakly, gesturing vaguely toward the elevator bank. "There's a pullout sofa in the front sitting room."

Clara rubbed the bridge of her nose, her tablet tucked tightly under her arm like a shield. Every clinical boundary she had spent three years building screamed that sharing a suite with Brandon Vance was an absolute recipe for disaster. But staring at the dark shadows of fatigue under his eyes, she knew picking a fight in a public hotel lobby at nearly two in the morning was a losing battle.

"We'll take it," Clara said smoothly, stepping up beside him and placing her corporate card on the marble counter before he could protest further. He stared at her, surprised that she didn’t put up more of a fight. Could it be that she wanted to share a room with him tonight?

The clerk swiped the card with visible relief, handing over two magnetic sleeves. Brandon snatched them up, his long, broad fingers deliberately brushing against Clara’s palm as he took both keys.

"I'm on the pull-out," Brandon growled softly under his breath as they turned toward the elevators, his deep voice dropping into a raspy thread that sent a subtle shiver cascading down Clara's spine. His smoldering gaze flicked down to her face. "Unless you think my frame on a sofa is going to shred my hamstring before Friday."

"You take the king bed, Brandon," Clara replied, her spine snapping straight as the heavy elevator doors slid open. "I'm the clinician. I make the calls."

Brandon stepped into the quiet, dimly lit elevator cabin, leaning back against the brass handrail and blocking half the room with his presence. His eyes locked onto hers with an intense, unyielding heat. "We'll see about that, doc."

Once inside, Brandon saw sofa. Clara was tiny, but not tiny enough to fit that ridiculous sofa that was really an oversized armchair.

"You're not sleeping on that couch," Brandon insisted in the quiet suite. "The bed is huge, Clara. We can share the space.” “I promise I don’t bite” he stated, though he wasn’t sure if that was a promise he could keep.

Clara POV

The suite was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the distant noise of runway traffic outside. Brandon dropped his heavy duffel bag near the closet and immediately unzipped his travel jacket, tossing it onto the arm of the plush leather couch in the corner.

Clara was already unzipping her travel kit on the coffee table, arranging her tools with practiced precision. She avoided looking up to meet the eyes she could feel boring a hole into the back of her skull.

"You're not sleeping on this couch," Brandon said, pressing down on the cushion with his hand. "It’s four feet long and sags in the middle. You'll wake up with a ruined back, and then who's going to clear me for morning practice?"

"I work in athletic health, Brandon. I can handle a couch," Clara said, not looking up as she set out a tube of massage lotion. "Besides, the star player gets the big bed. It’s basic team protocol."

Brandon walked over, stopping right in front of her until she was forced to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. The soft blue light from the city skyline cut across his jawline, highlighting the dark intensity in his eyes.

"The rules didn't account for tonight," Brandon murmured, his voice dropping low. He reached out, his thumb gently catching the strap of her overnight bag and lifting it off her shoulder to set it on the floor. "The bed is huge, Clara. I think we can manage to share the space without causing a scandal."

Clara’s breath hitched, her eyes dropping to his lips before snapping back to his eyes. "And if one of the players sees you coming out of my room in the morning?"

"They are on a different floor from us, remember” Brandon said, the corner of his mouth curving into that rare, devastating smirk. "Noone will see us.”

Clara stared at him, her pulse drumming against her ribs. For three years, she had built a fortress around herself, holding onto every angry memory and every cold remark she thought he’d ever directed at her family. But standing this close to him, with the quiet rustle of the city twenty stories below and the lingering heat from the plane ride still between them, the armor was cracking.