Scoring. Kristin Hardy

“Vegetarian pizza.”

      “You ever eat anything that’s not all sprouts and tofu, Florence?”

      “I’m supposed to be setting a good example for you. Pepperoni’s full of fat and nitrites.”

      “Puts hair on your chest. Tomorrow’s your day off. You can go back to setting a good example when we’re back on the clock.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Pepperoni and beer, or I don’t help you move.”

      She eyed him as he stared blandly back, then her face relaxed into a smile. “Pepperoni and beer it is.”

      BECKA WIPED down the training tables with alcohol, glancing at the whirlpool to check that the water was draining properly. The noise of the locker room gradually died away as the players finished changing and headed back to the dorms.

      Sammy stepped into the training room. “I’m heading out for the night. You all set here?”

      “Sure thing, chief.”

      “How’s Sal’s ankle looking?”

      “We were lucky that it didn’t turn out to be a break. He can start doing some basic stretching and strength exercises in a week, but right now he’s got to stay off it and let it rest.”

      “He’s really hot to work with Duvall while he’s here.”

      The thought of Mace was like a splinter under her skin. Despite what he’d said earlier, Mace had apparently made no plans to move on yet, which could mean almost anything. She frowned. “I’m sure Sal will get a chance to work with another instructor. If he tries to push this now, he’ll only keep himself sidelined longer.”

      “You’re the expert. He’s on the bench until you give the word.”

      “Thanks. Have a good night, Sammy.”

      He waved and ducked out of the room.

      The outside door shut with a rattling clunk and Becka listened to the silence rush in. There was something soothing about being in the clubhouse after everyone had gone home. During the day, it was crowded with bodies and noise, the rising scents of leather and exertion. Now, a quiet peace settled over the rooms. Finally, she could relax. She wasn’t shy about being the lone woman in an organization of men—actually, she kind of liked it—but sometimes it was nice to have a break from all the testosterone. She rolled her head in a circle and rubbed her shoulders, easing the tight muscles of her trapezius.

      “I’ll rub yours if you rub mine.”

      She caught a breath at the sudden voice, whirling to see Mace standing at the doorway. “Don’t ever sneak up on me like that,” she burst out at him. “You took ten years off my life.”

      “Sorry. I thought you knew I was still here.”

      “I assumed you’d left like everyone else. I usually have the clubhouse to myself by this time.”

      He stepped closer to her. “I guess you’re going to have to get used to sharing, then, aren’t you?”

      “What are you doing here? I thought you were quitting.” She refused to back up, even as her pulse began thudding.

      “I haven’t decided.” He stared at her a moment. “That batting practice today kind of did a number on my back. I was hoping I could get you to work on it for a little.” He reached out and traced a finger down the side of her neck to her shoulders. “We could trade. I give as good as I get.”

      Becka jerked back from his touch. “Don’t tell me that line has actually worked for you in the past, Duvall,” she said, trying for scathing, trying to ignore the shiver of butterflies in her stomach. “I’d expect better from such a big-league player.”

      His smile turned wolfish. “Just for the record, I don’t bother using lines. I’ve always favored the direct approach.” His hands dropped down to the buttons on his shirt. “You’re missing out if you don’t want me to rub your neck, though. Guess I’ll just let you work on me.”

      Becka gave him a dismissive glance. “Sorry, we’re closed for the day.”

      “Not ’til the team’s gone home, you aren’t, and until something changes, I’m a member of the team.”

      “I give you a rubdown tonight and you quit tomorrow.”

      “Who knows? Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I haven’t decided.”

      She stared at him for a moment. “Fine. Get your shirt off and get on the table. But next time, you tell me you want treatment before I get everything all cleaned up.”

      “Sure thing. You’ll be happy to know you’ve got me thinking, by the way.”

      Becka snapped a cover over the table, then opened the metal door of the supplies cupboard to get to the massage oils inside. He wanted a rubdown, fine, she’d give him a rubdown and send him on his way, just like she did all the players. She snatched a clean towel off the linen shelves, then swung around.

      And the shock went through her entire system. Mace stood with his shirt off, looking at her inquiringly. For an instant, everything stopped while she stared at the corrugated muscles of his belly, trying to remember how to breathe.

      As a physical therapist, she had studied the human body exhaustively. She had been around athletes of various levels for years, both clothed and unclothed, but nothing had prepared her for the way Mace Duvall looked with his shirt off. Flat ridges of muscle defined his abs and pecs. The taut, cannonball lines of his shoulders and arms spoke of power and control, of energy coiled into muscle built by effort and determination. The sun had darkened his skin, bleaching the light dusting of hair that ran in a suggestive trail down his belly to disappear in the waistband of his jeans.

      He gave her an amused look. “Face up or face down?”

      “Huh?” she said blankly.

      “You want me face up or face down?”

      Her brain simply refused to work. “Uh, where do you want me to work on you?”

      His grin widened. “You really want me to answer that?”

      Becka flushed, unable to keep her own eyes from straying to follow his gaze. “On the table, Duvall, or I’m out of here.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said smartly and laid down, folding his hands under his chin.

      She took her time moving to the head of the table, trying to compose herself. Trying to convince herself that touching him would be just like touching any other patient she’d ever had. Becka squeezed the massage oil on her hands and rubbed them together for a moment. As friction heated the oil, the scent of citrus wove into the air around her. She took a deep breath to clear her head, then lowered her hands to his shoulders, hesitating for just a moment before she touched his bare skin.

      The warmth surprised her. It was as though he was stoked by some inner fire. She caught her breath for an instant and pressed downward, sliding her hands from his shoulders to the small of his back in one smooth motion. Her palms registered the texture of his skin, the cords of muscle that lay beneath. He was hard and rugged, smooth and streamlined, powerful, all hardened sinew and coiled strength.

      Her practiced hands searched for knots, working to release the pockets of tension from muscles that had been asked to do too much that day. His broad back tapered to a narrow waist, a small patch of soft hair nestled at the very base. Now using pressure, now using deep strokes, she worked at him.

      Time seemed to stop as she sank into the mesmerizing sensation of flesh against flesh. Smooth skin over bone and sinew, his body beckoned her to keep touching as she worked the tension from his back and shoulders, pushing on the hard muscles in the lumbar spine where his back dipped low just before rising to the tight, hard curve of his ass.

      Becka moved to the side of the table, down by his waist, and ran the heels of her hands up the lines of muscle on either side of his backbone. Again and again she