Hands On Recovery

Brandon POV If Brandon had a dollar for every time Clara breathing across the training room gave him a migraine, he could afford to buy out his contract, pay off the league penalty, and retire to a mountain cabin without cell service. She sat at the desk across the room, click, click, clicking her retractable ballpoint pen in a rhythmic sequence that felt less like writing up reports and more like a targeted psychological strike on his preseason focus. "You're doing it on purpose," Brandon said without looking up from his ice bath. "Doing what?" Clara asked, her voice dripping with artificial innocence as she adjusted her clipboards. "Tracking how long you stay in the ice?" "Clicking that pen like a Morse code message to the referee staff." "It's a daily log, Brandon. And if the head ref wanted to speak to me, he wouldn't use Morse code. He’d send a formal memo about your technical fouls." Clara was stewing in quiet contempt when Delilah bounced into the room full of joy and sunshine, like a rubber ball suddenly let loose by a wayward child. The air in the room instantly felt lighter. She was the team’s lead athletic performance specialist and Clara’s best friend. She was hilariously short compared to the basketball players she worked with, covered in freckles, with long strawberry-blonde curls spilling over an oversized vintage knit sweater. Delilah set a steaming mug of chamomile tea next to Clara's elbow. "Leave her alone, Vance," Delilah chirped, wafting a smudge stick of lavender incense near the doorway. "Her energy is aligned; your muscle tension isn't. Drink some water and breathe." Before Brandon could respond, Tariq and Griz burst through the double doors, bringing pure chaos into the quiet room. At 6 foot eight inches, they were both loud, funny and hard to miss. "Clara! Tell Griz he can't wear Crocs with socks to the medical check!" Tariq whined, slumping dramatically against the wall. "It's visually offensive." "They're sport-mode, Tariq! Superior arch support!" Griz barked back, grinning broadly as he slid a box of warm glazed donuts onto Clara’s desk. "Brought you the sweet ones, doc. Keep Vance away from 'em—he’s on that tragic low-carb kick." "Are any of you actually planning on stretching today?" Brandon groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Relax, Captain Serious," a smooth voice drawled in a deep Texan accent. Jaxon, the league's most infamous playboy guard, slid into the room in a tailored designer tracksuit. He leaned against the frame, his dark eyes locking straight onto Delilah. "Looking like an autumn meadow today, flower child." Delilah didn't even glance up from her tablet. "Keep walking, Jax. Your cologne is destroying my sinus passages and your body mass is disrupting the chi of the room." Jaxon smirked, a flash of genuine amusement breaking through his usual cool facade. He loved that she couldn't care less about his devastatingly handsome face or the perfect physique that every other woman was so eager to touch. Just then, the starting guard, Josh, quietly walked into the room. He bypassed the guys and stepped up right next to Clara’s chair, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. Clara burst into a bright, sudden laugh, reaching out to pat Josh’s forearm with an easy, warm familiarity. Brandon’s jaw clenched so hard his back teeth clicked. All Brandon saw was his starting guard leaning close to Clara, too damn close, making her laugh in a way Brandon had spent three years trying to achieve. What the heck was he always saying to get a smile out of her, when Brandon himself could barely get direct eye contact from her after all these years? Clara POV Clara hated Brandon Vance. She hated his spotless locker, his large six-foot-two frame engineered for court dominance, and the fact that his post-workout smoothies always smelled infuriatingly like fresh espresso and vanilla. More than anything, she hated that he was right about the management meeting. "If we clear your leg for full play without testing your lateral cut speed," Clara said, leaning over his training table, "we look like amateurs in front of General Manager Hayes." Brandon didn't flinch. He leaned up from his stretch, bringing his face inches from hers, the dark, piercing intensity of his eyes catching the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. "And if we bench me for another week, we lose home court advantage. I don't sit out games, Clara." Josh stepped up beside the table, throwing an arm casually over Clara's shoulder with a wink. "Listen to the doc, Vance. She’s the only one keeping your knees from exploding." Brandon’s eyes flicked to Josh’s arm resting on Clara’s shoulder, his expression darkening instantly into a storm of silent, dangerous irritation. His jaw flexed, a shadow passing over his sharp features that went far deeper than pre-game jitters. "I didn't ask for a peanut gallery, Josh," Brandon gritted out, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling warning. "He's just looking out for you, Brandon," Clara snapped, stepping forward to block Brandon's intimidating glare, her own shoulder brushing against Josh as she subtly asserted her role as his protector—though Brandon misread the gesture entirely. "Twenty minutes. If you interrupt my presentation to Hayes, I'm ordering another three days in the cold tank." Josh held up two hands in mock surrender, slipping his arm off Clara's shoulder with a soft chuckle that only Clara recognized as a nervous disguise. He caught Clara’s eye for a fraction of a second—a quiet, silent thank you passing between them, locked tight under the vault of his secret—before sliding toward the door. "Catch you in the video room, Vance. Don't let her freeze you solid." Once the heavy glass door clicked shut behind Josh, the silence in the sports med suite slammed down hard enough to ring in Clara's ears. Brandon didn't return to his hamstring stretch. Instead, he stood up slowly, his tall frame looming over her, erasing every bit of comfortable breathing room left in the room. The scent of vanilla and warm skin rolled off him in waves, thick enough to make Clara’s pulse skip an uncalled for beat. "You're awfully quick to take his side," Brandon murmured, stepping closer until the toes of his high-top sneakers almost touched her athletic shoes. His dark gaze dropped to the spot on her shoulder where Josh's arm had just rested, his brow pulling down into a tight, frustrated line. "I take the side of logic, Vance," Clara replied, refusing to back down, though her heart was slamming against her ribs like a trapped bird. "And right now, logic says you need to focus on your physical evaluation, not picking fights with your starting backcourt." Brandon’s eyes snapped back up to hers, burning with an unyielding, intense fire that rendered her completely breathless. "My backcourt needs to keep his hands to himself." "Josh is my friend," she stated firmly, squaring her jaw. "He's a distraction," Brandon countered, his voice dropping to a raspy, quiet thread that vibrated straight down her spine. He reached past her workspace, grabbing his warm-up jacket off the chair behind her, his chest brushing her arm as he moved. "And if you think three days in the cold tank is going to keep me from playing on Friday, doc... you're vastly underestimating how stubborn I can be." He zipped the pullover up with a sharp, decisive motion, holding her gaze for one long, agonizing beat before turning toward the corridor. "See you in Hayes' office. Try not to let your spreadsheet freeze like the rest of you." Clara stood rooted to the spot, her jaw slightly slack and her pulse hammering wildly against her ribs as the heavy glass door swung shut behind his broad back. She was completely blindsided by the sudden, raw display of emotion, the dark possessiveness burning in his eyes, the suffocating heat radiating off his chest, and that lingering, deliberate drag of his thumb across the delicate skin of her wrist. “What the heck was that?” she muttered to the empty room, her voice shaking just enough to infuriate her. Brandon Vance barely tolerated her. For three relentless years, he had kept his distance, treating her clinical evaluations like a necessary evil and viewing her as nothing more than a persistent obstacle between him and the hardwood. He was supposed to be the stoic, iron willed captain who cared about nothing except his stats and his recovery logs. A sudden, burning surge of territorial jealousy over Josh? A raspy, low whisper against her ear that sent a shiver straight down her spine? None of it was in the script. None of it made sense. And why, she berated herself, pressing her cold palms against her flushed cheeks, was she so utterly besotted by his parting remark? Try not to let your spreadsheet freeze like the rest of you. Sure, she kept herself guarded. She was clinical, precise, and unyielding. She was a woman who had spent three long years forging a fortress of icy professionalism so thick that no arrogant superstar could ever walk past her or break her heart again. She had worn that coldness like armor ever since the summer he crushed Toby’s spirit. But hearing Brandon call her frozen hit a nerve that ran straight down to her core. It wasn't just because he had called out her defenses. It was because, for one terrifying, breathtaking minute, his heat had melted every single layer of ice she possessed, leaving her feeling utterly exposed, dangerously alive, and completely defenseless against a man she was supposed to hate.