~ CHAPTER FOUR ~
994 Words
The physio room smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol, fresh towels, and the faint tang of sweat that clung to the freshly washed jerseys. It was bright, clinical, too sterile to feel welcoming. Avery liked it that way. Control was easier in a room without chaos, without ego.
She adjusted her gloves, rolling a strip of tape between her fingers. Notes from the morning’s session were neatly stacked on the counter, organized with her usual precision. Every detail mattered: muscle tension, previous injuries, player quirks.
A knock at the door broke her concentration.
“Come in,” she said, voice crisp, professional.
The door opened slowly. Zayne leaned against the frame, water bottle dangling from one hand, towel slung casually over his shoulder. Shirtless. Jersey already peeled off, revealing toned abs and shoulders sculpted under artificial lighting. His presence seemed to warp the sterile room into something charged, almost electric.
“Morning,” he said, voice low, casual, but there was a sharp edge to it like he was testing her already.
Avery didn’t flinch. “Morning. Let’s start with hamstrings. You’ve got tightness on the left.”
Zayne rolled his eyes, stepping forward to the table. “And you’re sure you know what you’re doing?” His smirk was playful but dangerous, challenging.
Avery set the tape on the counter, ignoring him. “I’ve been a professional for years. You’ll be fine.”
He climbed onto the table, long legs stretching out, toes flexing against the mat. He leaned back, letting his hands rest behind his head, letting her assess him fully. It wasn’t subtle the way he put himself on display, deliberate, testing her.
Avery’s eyes didn’t leave the muscle fibers she was checking, but she noticed the subtle twitch in his jaw. The smirk didn’t reach his eyes. He was controlled, arrogant but there was heat underneath, impatient energy he tried to hide.
She placed her hands on his legs, starting with light pressure, rolling his hamstrings. Her touch was precise, deliberate. Professional.
Zayne inhaled sharply. He wasn’t used to being handled this way someone’s hands tracing his body with authority instead of flirtation or fawning. The sensation was sharp, unexpected. He flexed subtly, testing the boundaries, gauging her reaction.
Avery felt the tension radiate off him. Not just muscle tension something deeper, more primal. And she kept her composure.
“Relax your shoulders,” she instructed, pressing into the tight fibers along his back. “Don’t fight it.”
He leaned in closer, elbows brushing the mat, voice low enough to be near her ear. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, tone teasing, dangerous.
Avery’s fingers paused for just a moment, but her face stayed neutral. “You’re not special,” she said flatly, returning to the muscle she was massaging.
He froze, that smirk fading for a fraction of a second. The words hit him harder than a slap. He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing, trying to read her expression. She wasn’t intimidated, she wasn’t impressed, she wasn’t playing the game he thought he controlled.
“You think you’re untouchable,” he said, a little more force creeping into his voice. “That nothing gets to you. That I’m like every other guy who can be pushed aside.”
“Professional boundaries,” Avery replied evenly. “And I know exactly what I’m doing.”
The words were a scalpel. Precise, cutting, dismissive. Zayne had expected her to react, to blush, to flinch. Nothing.
The air in the room felt heavier, charged, like a storm waiting to break. Every movement her hands pressing into his hamstrings, the brush of her fingertips along his skin was a controlled temptation. He could smell her, feel her proximity, see the calm precision in every touch.
And he hated that he couldn’t push her over.
⸻
Avery
Keep it professional.
Do not react.
Do not give him an inch.
Every instinct screamed that he was dangerous magnetically so. But she reminded herself she was not here to play games. Not to chase attention. Not to be another trophy in his collection. She was here to work, to heal, to observe, to manage.
His presence was… combustible, yes. But her focus sharpened. Hands, eyes, mind—everything had a function. No room for distraction.
⸻
Zayne
She’s acts untouchable. And that just makes me want to do things to her , things she normally won’t do .
Every other girl had been easy. A flick of tongue, a whisper of words, a touch, and they melted. Avery? She held steady, flat, precise. And it drove him insane. Insatiable. Hungry.
He shifted slightly on the table, testing limits, wanting to see a reaction. Anything. But she remained cool, calculating, untouchable.
That only made the desire burn hotter.
⸻
Avery moved on to his shoulders, rolling out knots, pressing into tight traps. Zayne’s breathing changed, subtle but deliberate. Not discomfort, exactly something sharper, hotter, that made him flush in a way he tried to hide.
“Your hands… are… precise,” he muttered, voice low, almost a growl.
Avery raised an eyebrow. “That’s what being a professional means. You should try it sometime.”
He chuckled, dark, and leaned closer, testing the air between them. “You enjoy having control, don’t you?”
Avery kept her face neutral, ignoring the low hum of tension crawling through the room. “It’s my job.”
“But not just your job,” he said softly. “You like it when I can’t do what I want.”
She smirked faintly, tapping a muscle with her fingers. “Exactly.”
And just like that, the room became a battlefield. Neither moved fully, neither gave in but the tension was palpable. Every touch, every word, every glance was loaded. Every second stretched with potential, charged with fire.
Zayne knew it, Avery knew it. And neither would give the other the satisfaction of surrender.
- Writer
