Then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him.
I sink back in my chair, exhaling a long, slow breath. My notepad falls to my lap, and I cover my face with my hands.
"How am I going to do this when all I can think about is having sex with him again?" I whisper to my empty office. "Girl, you've got to get yourself together..."
But the memory of his mouth, his hands, his voice keeps playing in my mind, drowning out the voice of reason. I've never crossed ethical lines like this before in my work. Never even thought about it.
What scares me most isn't that I've already crossed the line.
It's that I desperately want to cross it again.
Later, it’s nearly 6 p.m. and the training facility is mostly empty. I should have gone home an hour ago, but these player assessment reports won't write themselves. I stare at Nate'sfile on my computer screen, cursor blinking accusingly. How can I summarize our interactions in clinical terms when there's nothing clinical about the way my body responds to him?
I type a sentence, delete it, type another. Nothing captures the reality without revealing too much. I can't exactly write, "Patient maintains good eye contact except when he's staring at my lips."
A knock startles me. Three sharp raps against my door.
"Yes?" My voice comes out high and thin.
The door opens, and there he is. Nate. He's changed from his training clothes into jeans and a dark gray henley that clings to his chest. His hair is tousled, and he has a sly smile on his lips.
"Sorry to bother you so late." His voice is low, almost hesitant. "I think I might have left my jacket in here earlier."
I glance around my office. There's no jacket.
"I don't think it’s in here." I stand, smoothing my skirt. "Maybe you left it in the locker room?"
He steps inside, closing the door behind him.
"Possibly,” he says.
And then, "I’m surprised you’re still here."
"Reports." I gesture vaguely at my computer.
He nods, takes a step closer. "Anything interesting in my file?"
"That would be confidential." I try to smile, but my lips feel stiff.
"Right." Another step. "Professional boundaries."
The air between us feels charged, vibrating with potential energy. My office suddenly seems too small, too warm.
"I should really finish up." I turn back to my computer, but I can't focus on the screen. I'm too aware of him.
"Don't let me interrupt." His voice comes from just behind me now. "I'll just look around for that jacket."
I hear him moving, opening the small closet, checking behind the chairs. He’s just putting on a show. We both know there's no jacket.
When I look away from my computer, he's standing by my bookshelf, examining the titles. I stand and move toward the bookcase, with the intention of moving him back toward the door.
"Sports psychology, performance anxiety, team dynamics." He runs a finger along the spines. "Heavy reading."
"It's my job." My voice sounds strange.
"You're good at it." He turns to face me. "You've helped me. I want you to know that."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I've had patients thank me before, but this feels different.
