Chapter 10

ARIA

Through the background noise, a voice cut through, low and familiar.

“Move. I’ve got her.”

Warm hands caught me even before the floor did.

“Stay with me, Monroe.”

Something about the way he said it made me want to. Outside the court was cooler, I felt it brush over my face before everything tipped again.

When my eyes finally opened, the light was softer. No white tiles or bright lights, just a desk and a few papers. I tried to move, and a low groan slipped out before I could stop it.

“You’re awake.”

The voice came from the corner. I turned slowly, and there he was—Maxwell, leaning against his desk, sleeves rolled up. His eyes turned towards me, then away, like he wasn’t sure he should be looking.

I blinked again, trying to gather my thoughts. “This isn’t the nurse’s office.”

“She wasn’t there,” he said simply. “You were out cold, so I brought you here. It was closer.”

His office. I’d only been here once, that day he called me in. The same desk, the stack of folders, the blinds half-drawn. He moved toward me, holding a cold pack, and crouched near the chair where he’d laid me down.

“Here,” he said quietly, pressing it against my temple.

I winced, and he steadied it with his hand. The cool made my skin jump.

“Sorry,” he murmured. His breath brushed the edge of my hairline.

I tried to shift, but the weight of my body made me sigh. “How long was I out?”

“Not long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”

“I didn’t mean to pass out.”

He almost smiled. “Lol. Most people don’t plan that.”

I noticed the way his eyes kept skimming over my face, like checking for bruises, but lingering too long to be just that. His tie was loosened, one button undone.

My legs ached. I pressed my hand against my thigh. “It still hurts,” I said softly.

“Still hurts?” he asked finally.

“Mm.” I nodded, pretending to focus on the melting ice pack instead of the way my skirt had ridden up just enough to bother him. “A little.”

His brow furrowed. “Where exactly?”

“My legs,” I said, and his eyes flicked down just once before he caught himself.

He hesitated, eyes flicking down before darting back up. “You hit your head, not your legs. You’re sure it hurts?”

“Yeah. You can check—” I stopped halfway, realizing what that sounded like. “I mean—”

He let out a breath. “Aria.”

“I was joking,” I muttered, but I wasn’t really.

He crouched beside the cot. “If it hurts that bad, you should rest. But if it’s just tight muscles…”

“Maybe just that,” I said. “It’s fine.”

He paused again. “Do you want me to—” He stopped, voice catching. “Massage it out a little? Nothing serious.”

“Sure,” I said, trying to sound careless, but my voice came out softer than I meant.

He rolled up his sleeves a little and sat on the edge of the cot. His hands were so damn warm and steady, yet, unsure, especially when they touched my legs.

His fingers dragged lower, then back up, slower this time. The motion felt almost lazy, like he wasn’t even thinking about it, just following some quiet instinct.

But when he reached the hollow behind my knee, he stopped and stayed here. His thumb brushed once, twice, like he was testing how far I’d let him go.

I tried to keep still, but my leg jerked before I could stop it, a sound slipping out of me—small, embarrassing.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice low.

I shook my head too quickly. “It’s fine.”

“You’re quite tense,” he said quietly.

“I told you I was sore.”

He nodded once, focusing again.

Slowly, he went a little higher.

Like he was thinking through every inch. I could feel him trying not to notice, which only made it worse. His thumb brushed the edge of my skirt — barely — but my breath still hitched again like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

I shifted, half to fix my skirt, half to undo the fix. The movement made his hand slide over a little more skin.

Neither of us said anything. He should’ve moved. I should’ve told him to. But he didn’t, and I didn’t.

He cleared his throat. “If it’s too much—”

“It’s fine.” My words came too fast. “Keep going.”

Everything was completely still. Only the sound of our breathing—his slower, steadier; mine all over the place. I looked at him before I could stop myself. He glanced up at the same time, and everything in me stuttered.

“Aria,” he said again, low this time. “You should—”

“Relax?” I finished for him. “You keep saying that.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You make that hard.”

I smiled faintly, not helping. “Do I?”

His hand stilled, just for a moment, before moving again. His fingers kept working in slow, deliberate circles, each one higher than the last, like he already knew the direction he meant to go.

And God, it was only a matter of time before he reached high enough to confirm how dripping wet I was.

I fucking wanted that confirmation.

When he finally moved his hand away, the space he left burned, and I couldn’t tell if I wanted him to stop—or if I wanted him to do it again.

“You’re done,” he said firmly, standing up.

“Already?”

He looked away. “You need rest. He moved to the counter, poured water into a glass, and handed it to me. “Drink.”

I took it but didn’t move, eyes still on him. “You’re acting like I scared you.”

He met my gaze, trying to fix up the loose button on his shirt. “Maybe you did.”

He hadn’t even moved yet when the door handle clicked, and then was pushed open.