by Cassie Cole
“Back in high school.”
“Any weird side effects?” I asked. Some weight lifters didn’t handle creatine well.
But Lance shook his head.
“Then I’d like to put you on a short-term creatine cycle,” I explained. “Two weeks loading, then a five-week growth phase. That will help you build some extra muscle for the first half of the season, after which we’ll take you off and let you focus on the rest of the season. That will help with your explosiveness, especially in conjunction with the heavy squats you’ve been doing in the gym.”
“Fuck yeah,” Lance said, extending his fist for me to bump. “That’s the shit I’m talking about, Babs! Get shredded!”
“I’ll give you my credit card to buy the stuff,” Danny said as he reached into his wallet.
“Good. I’ll swing by the campus store tonight, though I don’t want you starting any of this until after the game tomorrow. And along those lines, how do you guys feel? Anything physical bothering you that needs to be addressed before the game?”
Lance reached under the table and winced. “My hammy has been a little tight.”
“Yeah, cause you guys haven’t been stretching properly,” I muttered.
“I’ll be alright,” he said. “I just need to work out before the game.”
“What you need is deep tissue physical therapy. It won’t fix the problem, but it’ll increase blood flow to the hamstring muscles, stimulating recovery.”
Lance grinned, and a second later I realized why.
“Don’t say it.”
“Increased blood flow, huh?” Lance said with a perfectly straight face.
“Don’t make it weird.”
Feña shook his head while chuckling. Lance pretended to be confused. “What’s weird about you putting your hands all over my chiseled athlete’s body?”
I shoved my notebook away and stood. “I’m going to the campus store before it closes. I’ll meet you back at your place.”
“I’m looking forward to your fingers digging into my muscular, gift-from-the-gods body,” Lance called after me, embarrassingly loud. “Gonna make sure you really get in there deep.”
I couldn’t help but laugh as I left the study hall.
14
Roberta
I made it to the campus grocery store five minutes before they closed. The cashier girl glared at me, but I grabbed a basket and ignored her.
The nutrition aisle wasn’t very comprehensive, but it had everything I needed. Two tubs of whey powder, one vanilla and one chocolate since I didn’t know what flavors they would prefer. A separate tub of casein powder, which was a slower-burning protein that I wanted them to take right before bed, to keep their muscles repairing adequately while they slept. A bottle of BCAA powder, which was way overpriced here, but I didn’t want to wait for cheaper branch-chain amino acids to ship in the mail. Finally, a big bottle of fish oil tablets and a small tub of creatine.
“All checked out before closing time,” I cheerfully told the cashier, but she still grumpily scanned my items.
While walking back to their house with my bags in hand, I thought about what I’d told them. They’d listened intently, asking questions here and there. Lance protested a little bit, but that was more about the convenience of tracking his food rather than doubting me specifically.
Ultimately, they trusted me. Like I was a subject matter expert. Granted, I was an expert, but I wasn’t used to being treated like one.
I had to admit: it was exhilarating. Especially considering these were elite athletes competing at the highest level. I had full control over their workouts, nutrition, and general physical health. I felt my ego swelling at the thought.
So long as I don’t let the pressure get to me.
Danny helped me unpack the supplies back at their place. He hefted the tub of blueberry-flavored casein. “This looks tasty. You sure I can’t have a shake now?”
“One of the top rules in sports medicine is never do anything new on game day.”
“It’s not game day,” Lance pointed out.
“Close enough. The last thing you want is to have some weird allergic reaction and spend the night in the hospital. Better for that to happen on the Sunday after a game.”
Lance’s face twisted into what was very close to a pout. “It’s no fun to get a bunch of new treats and then have to wait to take them.”
I tossed him the bottle of fish oil pills. “You can have two of these tonight. And every night before bed. Now, stop whining and go take a shower so I can work on your hamstring.”
He disappeared down the hall. Moments later I heard the water start running.
I turned back to the other two. “Do either of you have anything that needs attention? Now’s the time to ask.”
Feña’s dark eyes looked at me from across the room. “You do not need to do this. You are already doing so much. And if it makes you uncomfortable…”
“I’m a professional. I would make a bad kinesiologist if I became uncomfortable just by touching athletes. Besides, I want to make sure I do everything necessary to meet the work requirements. No shortcuts that would give them an excuse to deny me the six credits. Every single detail is going in here.” I hefted my notebook for them.
Danny gave me half a smile. “You really ought to type all of that into a computer. It would suck to spill coffee on it or something.”
“I’ll do that when I have the time,” I said. By which I meant never. Or at least, not until the semester was over.
Rather than tease me more about it, Danny grabbed his right arm. “Actually, my tricep is kind of sore. I think it was those quick-release drills Coach had me doing.”
I motioned Danny over to the table. We sat down and I took hold of his long, muscular arm. A tingle went up my spine at putting my hands on his gorgeous body again. His skin was warm and smooth, and the muscle underneath was tantalizingly dense.
Okay. Maybe it’s not 100% professional.
Within moments I found a tight knot of muscle at the base of his triceps, close to the elbow. “Right there?”
“Uh huh.”
I dug my thumb into the muscle, breaking the scar tissue that had formed. Danny winced as I moved my thumb in a hard circle, keeping consistent pressure on the knot.
“Please remember our first game is tomorrow,” Feña said concernedly. “Injuring our quarterback would be a poor beginning to your time as our trainer.”
I gave Danny a sidelong glance. “I don’t know. The backup QB looked awfully competent at practice this week.”
Feña barked a laugh.
“He’s good,” Danny admitted. “But let’s not use that as an excuse to beat me up.” He sucked in his breath as one part of the knot loosened out.
“It’s supposed to hurt.”
“Our trainer last year never made it hurt this much.”
“Then they weren’t doing it right,” I said simply. “The only way to really work a knot out is to break the scar tissue and capillaries. Trust me, you’ll feel much better tomorrow.”
Feña rose from the couch. “It is time for me to sleep. Please keep your torturous groans to a minimum.”
We said our goodnights, and then Danny and I were alone.
“So,” I said while I worked on his triceps, “when are you going to take me on that date? Not that either of us have much free time, of course.”
“No kidding. I always forget how crazy the season is until it starts again.” He glanced up at me, then away again. “But I don’t know. I’ve been thinking…”
Shit, I thought. Thinking is never a good thing in this context.
“It might be best if we didn’t… You know. Do anything else. We should keep this strictly professional.”
I felt a tiny pang of disappointment stab me in the gut. “Right, professional. Since we’re so busy…”
“And it would be a bad idea to get involved with our physical trainer,” he added. He seemed uncomfortable with this discussion. “The
way I see it, you’ll be submitting all this work at the end of the semester to get credit. Right? It would undermine that if we were romantically involved in any way.”
“Oh, good point.”
He ran his free hand through his perfect blond hair. “Like, the work credit department might not grant you the credits if we were involved. If that makes sense.”
“Totally.” I pushed extra hard on his muscle knot, flattening out the last bit of tissue. He winced as I let go of his arm. “I’m glad you thought of that.”
He rubbed his arm. “It would suck to go through a semester of this only to have it rejected at the end. It would all be a waste.”
“A waste,” I repeated without emotion.
He smiled weakly at me. “Thanks for working out that knot. It feels better already.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Lance came out of the bathroom fully clothed in jeans and a shirt. “Alright, Babs. I’m squeaky clean. Where we doing this?”
“The floor in the living room works fine,” I said. “Strip down to your underwear.”
I waited for him to make a joke about that, but instead he gave me an embarrassed look.
Danny laughed and said, “Have fun with him,” while retreating to his own bedroom.
“What?” I said. “What am I missing?”
“I kind of… don’t wear underwear,” Lance said.
I gave an exasperated laugh. “This isn’t a massage parlor. Put on a pair of loose shorts or something.”
He disappeared again, and came back wearing a pair of running shorts. I led him into the living room and had him lay flat on his belly.
“No underwear, huh?” I said while crouching down next to him.
“Commando all day, every day. It’s more comfortable.”
I took a look at his body laid prone in front of me. Lance was tall and long, but his thighs were defined with thick muscle. His tan skin was smooth and warm as I reached out with my hands.
“You’ve never done it?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” I said coyly. “But it doesn’t work with most clothing. I don’t want rough denim from my skinny jeans digging into my lady-parts.”
“I hear ya,” he mumbled into the carpet.
Physical therapy was different than a normal deep-tissue massage. Whereas normal massages were generic across the whole body, PT was always confined to a specific problem area, with the goal of aiding in recovery or increasing range of movement.
I leaned forward and dug the base of my palm into Lance’s thigh. What people thought of as the hamstring was actually a cluster of three posterior thigh muscles. They were more susceptible to injury than any other muscle in the leg, especially in sports with quick sprints, like football, basketball, and soccer. Fortunately, Lance didn’t react much when I moved my palm up and down the cluster of muscles, and I didn’t feel any knots. It wasn’t a major strain. Only the biceps femoris muscle, on the inner part of the thigh, was noticeably tight.
Once I had examined the general hamstring area, I used my thumb to dig deeper into the tissue. Pressing down on the muscle to stretch it in a specific area, elongating the tissue. Lance tensed and groaned into the carpet.
“Don’t be a baby,” I said.
“I’m not!”
“You’re wincing with pain.”
“Nuh uh,” he protested, exactly like a stubborn toddler.
I moved my thumb up the muscle group. Lance’s skin grew warm underneath my touch as the blood flow increased. When I was done, that increased blood flow would remain for about 12 hours, which was perfect for recovery while sleeping.
It was impossible to ignore the fact that Lance was a beautiful athlete. His thighs were long and muscular, wonderfully proportionate to his torso. His shorts were bunched up underneath him, and I found myself glancing at the round orbs of his butt. His gluteal muscles flexed and relaxed as I worked my thumb along his muscle. I found myself transfixed by the sexy muscular show until I reached the end of his hamstring.
“Alright, roll over,” I said, hoping my face wasn’t flushed.
He obeyed. I giggled when I saw his face.
“What?”
“You’ve got carpet indentation all along the right side of your face. It looks like ground beef.”
Lance frowned at me. “Making fun of the client isn’t very professional.”
“Neither is making jokes about blood stimulation,” I pointed out. “Don’t dish it if you can’t take it, hamburger face.”
Despite his efforts to hold it in, he did chuckle at that. “I’m gonna mention this in my Yelp review.”
I got down on my knees next to him. While he laid flat on his back, I grabbed his leg and raised it in the air. “Keep your knee locked,” I instructed. “You ought to feel this in the hamstring. Tell me if I go too far.”
“That’s good,” he said as I gently pushed his leg. He was almost totally vertical now.
“Can I say something without you making a joke about it?”
“No promises.”
“You’re more flexible than I expected. Most men with large quadriceps muscles can’t extend their leg this far.”
A grin split his handsome face. He opened his mouth.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, cutting him off. “You’re flexible in other ways too.”
His smile disappeared like it was wiped away by a tidal wave. “The joke’s funnier if I say it.”
“Add it to my Yelp review.” I pushed a little harder on his leg. “How’s that?”
“Close to my limit,” he admitted. I could hear the tension in his voice.
I lowered the leg a bit, then pushed back again, gently bouncing it back and forth. That kind of stretching could be dangerous if an individual tried it themselves, but I was trained to know exactly how much to do.
I was aware of the bulge at the front of Lance’s shorts, but was professional enough to ignore it. Especially since his shorts were a little bunched up and obfuscated what I saw. But as I pushed his leg more vertical, Lance’s bulge noticeably shifted in his shorts. My eyes glanced down automatically. The outline of his huge cock slid against his shorts, falling across to rest against his other thigh. I got the impression it wasn’t fully hard, but it was thick. Like a damn extra-large stick of Toblerone chocolate.
Remembering myself, I pulled my gaze away. Lance had his eyes closed while I stretched his leg. He hadn’t noticed, thankfully.
Be professional, Roberta.
Yet I couldn’t help myself. I had this chiseled athlete on the floor in front of me, with my hands wrapped around his muscular leg. His thigh was as hard as marble, which made me imagine how the rest of his body would feel beneath my roaming fingertips.
And my gaze kept drifting back to the bulge in his shorts…
“Alright,” I said, lowering his leg to the ground and jumping to my feet. “That should do it. If it’s tender in the morning, ice it. But don’t take any NSAIDs.”
Lance sat upright. “N-whats?”
“Nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs. Aspirin or Ibuprofen. That’ll limit blood flow to the region, which could give you a greater risk of injury during the game tomorrow.”
“You got it.” He smiled warmly at me. “Thanks for all this, Babs. We’re going to have a good time with you as our trainer this season.”
Hopefully not too good of a time, I thought as I gathered my things and left.
15
Danny
It didn’t matter how many games I’d played, or for how many years. The first football game of the season was always nerve-wracking.
We’d been practicing for months already, to one degree or another. Summer workouts began in June and lasted three months. New recruits right out of high school joined the team and we integrated them into the corp of veteran student athletes. We had a great team this year, with lots of juniors and seniors. Practices had gone smoothly. Everyone was at the top of their game. If Appleton was ever going to make it deep into the playo
ffs, this was the year it might happen.
But none of that was truly tested until the first game. We felt prepared, but you never really knew how you would do until you stepped onto the field and lined up against an opponent who was doing everything in their power to stop you.
The locker room before the game was a buzz of activity and testosterone. High-fives and cheering and ass-slaps as the team dressed for the game. Since today was a home game, we were wearing our home whites. White jerseys with orange lettering, and matching orange pants. As I pulled the jersey from the hanger in my locker, I felt the woven fabric. The jerseys were new, starched and sharp between my fingertips. The number 8 stood out in raised stitching, and next to it was a small letter C. It was in block lettering, simple and clean, but it meant more to me than everything else in my locker.
Captain.
As captain of the football team, everything rested on my shoulders. As I pulled the jersey on over my football pads, it was extra heavy with the weight of responsibility. Being a leader meant ensuring everyone was as ready as they could be, and motivated. It also meant taking the blame when things went wrong.
My phone buzzed inside my locker.
Roberta: Good luck today! Break a leg. But not literally. Like, in the theater sense. I’ll be watching down by the northern goal line.
I smiled to myself. I’d wondered if she was going to come or not. I hadn’t seen her since she worked on my arm last night.
And since I’d told her we should probably just be friends.
I put it out of my head as I made my way along each locker, shaking hands and patting shoulders. It was important to me to say a few words to each member of the team, both to old friends and faces which were new this year. Because that’s what a leader did.
When I reached Lance, he spread his arms wide. “You ready to kick some ass?”
