Hands On Recovery

Chapter 3: The Quiet Darkness Miles above the Ground

Brandon POV

In the front-office conference room, General Manager Hayes rubbed his temples.

"So Vance can sprint straight, but cuts awkwardly?" Hayes asked.

"He's pushing it," Clara stated. "If he plays forty minutes in Chicago on Friday without hands-on care, he’ll pull a muscle."

"Which is why," Hayes countered, "you're getting on the plane with the team tonight, Clara."

Brandon’s head snapped up. "She doesn't travel on regular season road trips."

"The main crew isn't keeping your leg working," Hayes snapped. "Clara goes. End of discussion."

Hayes slapped the Manila folder shut, the heavy sound echoing off the wood paneling. "Good. Meeting adjourned. Get your gear, Vance. Don't let me down in Chicago."

Brandon didn't move right away. His dark gaze was glued to Clara, to the subtle, white-knuckled pressure of her fingers against her digital pen, and the tiny, almost imperceptible hitch in her breathing. She was pulling her iron clad professionalism over herself like a shield, but he saw right through it.

He hadn't protested about her traveling because he wanted to protect her workload. He had argued against it because the thought of all of those hours beside her was a direct threat to whatever razor thin restraint he had left.

As Hayes turned back to his desktop, Clara gathered her tablet with swift, practiced efficiency and marched out into the quiet executive corridor. Brandon was right behind her, his long strides easily closing the gap before she reached the elevators. He reached around her, slamming his broad palm flat against the wall right beside her head, cutting off her exit and trapping her in the warm shadow of his frame.

Clara froze, her spine snapping straight as she turned her head to glare at him. But the sharp remark died in her throat the moment she met his eyes.

"Hands on care, doc?" Brandon asked softly, his deep voice dropping into a dangerous, velvet purr that seemed to vibrate straight through the carpet beneath their feet. He leaned down, his face stopping mere inches from hers. He was so close that he could see the tiny gold flecks in her green eyes and feel the sudden, frantic rise of her chest. "Is that what you put in the slide deck?"

"It's standard therapy protocol for a high-grade hamstring strain," she said, her voice tight, though her lower lip gave a traitorous, microscopic quiver that didn't escape his notice. "Don't flatter yourself, Vance."

"Six hours on a plane," Brandon murmured, ignoring her sharp retort completely as his dark gaze dropped to her mouth, watching the quick breath filter past her lips. The heavy, warm scent of espresso and vanilla washed over her, closing off the rest of the hallway until it was just the two of them. "And late night sessions in Chicago. No clinic distractions. No peanut gallery to help you."

He leaned half an inch closer, his thumb rising to brush the soft edge of her jawline with excruciating slowness, sending a visible shudder through her shoulders before his hand dropped back to his side.

"You think you're ready for six days of me without your facility walls to hide behind, Clara?" he whispered, his eyes locking back onto hers with a burning, possessive intensity. He started to lean into her, in some desperate need, when the elevators opened.

“Josh! Turns out I will be coming with you guys to the next game” quipped Clara, a bit too eagerly. He gave her a bright smile which enraged Brandon.

Before he could get another word out, both of them sauntered off with talks about what clothes to pack and places to eat while they were there. “You would think it was their honeymoon” huffed Brandon, as he stormed off to take the stairs over having to hear their insufferable laughter in the elevator.

Clara POV

The charter jet was quiet under dim blue lights. Near the back lounge, Clara was scanning Brandon’s hamstring.

"Hold still," Clara whispered, applying cooling gel.

Turbulence hit suddenly. Clara gasped, dropping low to steady herself, her chest coming down against Brandon’s back. Brandon turned his head sideways, dark eyes inches from hers.

"Clara," he murmured, his hand settling around her waist.

Before she could speak, footsteps echoed down the aisle. Josh walked back to grab a juice from the galley, pausing when he saw them. He gave Clara a quick, knowing wink and a silent thumb's up, keeping quiet so the rest of the team wouldn't notice.

Brandon saw the quiet exchange and misread it completely—his grip on Clara’s waist tightened, a dark flicker of jealousy crossing his features. "What was that about?"

"Nothing," Clara whispered, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "We should pause."

Brandon didn't release her. Instead, the heavy heat of his hand flared through the thin fabric of her shirt, his large fingers spanning her waist with a slow, possessive pressure that made her breath catch in her throat. The dim blue cabin lighting carved sharp shadows across his high cheekbones, framing an expression dark with silent, brooding frustration.

"It didn't look like nothing," Brandon murmured, his low voice a husky thread beneath the steady rumble of the jet engines. He turned further into her space, his chest expanding against her shoulder as he shifted on the leather lounge bench. "Every time he steps into a room, you look at him like he's your sanctuary. And every time someone else gets anywhere near you, you put up a brick wall."

"Josh is a friend, Brandon. That's all," she insisted, her voice trembling slightly despite her desperate effort to sound authoritative. She tried to ease herself back, but her knees felt weak, trapped in the magnetic pull of his heat. "I'm your clinician. My job is to make sure your hamstring doesn't shred on the court on Friday, not to manage your mood swings."

"Then do your job, doc," Brandon rasped, his gaze dropping to the rapid pulse point beating at the base of her throat. His thumb traced an agonizingly slow arc against the side of her hip before his grip finally slackened, though he made no effort to step out of her personal space. "Scan the leg. But don't sit here and pretend that the way you look at him is the same way you look at the rest of us."

Clara swallowed hard, her cold fingers shaking as she reapplied the wand to his thigh. The gel was freezing, yet the moment it touched his skin, heat seemed to radiate straight back up her arm. She could feel his dark eyes fixed on her face, tracking every quick breath, every microscopic twitch of her jaw as she focused blindly on the tablet screen.

He was right, and that was the most terrifying part. She didn't look at Josh the way she looked at Brandon. With Josh, there was safety, trust, and shared secrets. Secrets she had sworn never to reveal to anyone, least of all his teammates. With Brandon Vance, there was pure, unadulterated fire—a dangerous, intoxicating current that threatened to melt down every boundary she had built over three long years.

"Hold still," she whispered again, her clinical composure hanging by a thread as the aircraft swayed through another gentle pocket of air, keeping them locked together in the quiet darkness miles above the ground.