This is wrong. This is very, very wrong.

Shauna shouldn’t be looking at you like this. Shouldn’t be biting her lip while you shift and groan and press that foam roller into your thigh like it's the only thing holding you together. And her stomach shouldn’t be twisting like that, hot and electric. She knows it.

But how the hell is she supposed to control herself?

You’re stretched out on the mat, red-faced and grimacing, rolling your sore hamstring after the game. Sweat clings to your skin in a light sheen, and your shirt has ridden up just enough to expose the slope of your lower back. Your face is scrunched in concentration, brow furrowed, jaw tight. Then you exhale sharply—a low, strained sound—and push deeper into the muscle.

God.

Shauna’s sitting cross-legged on her own mat, or at least, she was supposed to be stretching her calves, but she’s just… watching now. Her thighs press together almost reflexively, her hands lying limp on her knees as her eyes keep flicking to you. She swallows hard.

You're hurting. She knows that. Pulled something during the second half, tried to brush it off after the whistle, but now the pain’s catching up with you. You let out another quiet groan as you shift your weight onto your other leg, and it takes everything in her not to squirm.

“Need help?” she asks before she can stop herself. Her voice comes out too quickly, too bright. She coughs and tries again. “Like, with the stretch.”

You blink up at her, panting slightly. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Actually… yeah. I can’t hit the spot right.”

Shauna gets up too fast, heart hammering. She kneels beside you, trying not to stare too hard at the line of your thigh or the way your shorts have ridden up. You shift, laying flat on your stomach, and glance at her over your shoulder. “Just press down when I roll forward?”

“Yeah. I got you.”

She places her hands gently on your upper thigh, tentative, her fingers splayed carefully as you begin to roll again. The muscle under her palms tightens, and you let out a muffled whimper.

Shauna exhales slowly through her nose. Focus. This is supposed to be helpful. Just helpful. Athletic trainer helpful. Teammate helpful.

Except your skin is warm and twitching under her touch, and when she presses a little firmer, you make a noise that has her vision going briefly white.

“That okay?” she asks, voice strained.

“Yeah,” you breathe, eyes shut. “Perfect, actually.”

The word sends a jolt through her spine. She adjusts her weight, leaning more into the pressure, thumbs digging in slightly deeper. You groan again, long and low, and Shauna has to close her eyes for a second.

Why now? Why like this?

She tells herself it’s just the post-game haze, the leftover adrenaline. But then you glance up at her again—half-lidded, grateful, glowing with sweat—and it hits her all over again.

She wants you. Wants to kiss you. Wants to wrap you in her arms, wants to lay her cheek against the curve of your back, wants to hold you while you breathe.

“Shauna?” Your voice breaks through the fog. “You okay?”

She blinks. She’s still pressing into your thigh, hands frozen in place.

“Yeah,” she says, forcing a small laugh. “Just thinking.”

You shift slightly, twisting to sit up now, wincing a little but smiling through it. “Thanks. That helped, actually.”

You’re so close now. Close enough that your knees brush, and she can see the flecks of gold in your eyes. Close enough that she could lean in just a little—

“Want me to help with your calves too?” you offer, giving a crooked smile.

Shauna laughs nervously, standing up too quickly. “Nah—I’m good.”

But her heart is racing.