There was no hiding from Chris Prince.

Not in the gym, not on the pitch, and definitely not when it came to your body—your form, your movements, your strength, and the smallest shifts that no one else ever noticed.

Except him. Always him.

You were late leaving the training room that day, sweat soaking through your shirt, muscles pulsing in that sweet, satisfied ache that came from pushing too hard.

You hadn’t told anyone you stayed behind for an extra session. Not your teammates, not your coach. Certainly not Chris Prince.

The man had eyes like a hawk and hands like they had a sixth sense.

If he even suspected you’d been overworking—or worse, hiding an injury—he’d descend on you like divine punishment in overpriced gym wear. And you knew better.

You just didn’t care.

Until you turned the corner and walked straight into him. Literally. He barely moved.

You bounced off his chest, catching yourself on the wall, breath caught halfway between embarrassment and dread.

Chris blinked once, slowly. Then smiled. That infuriating, gleaming, perfect white smile. He said nothing at first.

Just tilted his head, taking you in from top to bottom. Not just looking. Scanning.

Beads of sweat still clinging to your neck. A wince when you straightened your shoulder. Left leg slightly off rhythm when you shifted your weight. He saw it all.

Then came the hands.

They landed first on your arm—his fingers firm, clinical, pressing along the curve of your bicep. He hummed. You didn’t flinch. You knew the routine.

His hands moved down your tricep, testing tension. Then to your shoulder, rolling it back, thumb brushing close to the joint.

Still silent. But he wasn’t done.

He stepped in, uncomfortably close—Chris always was—and let his hands slide around your waist. Not suggestive. Not quite.

But close enough to burn under your skin. He tapped at your obliques, then ran a palm slowly across your lower back.

“Posture’s off,” he muttered. “You’re compensating again.”

You didn’t respond.

He moved lower, kneeling like it was nothing, one hand sliding along your thigh, pressing the muscle, then gripping behind your knee.

His fingers brushed just beside your inner knee—where the soreness was worst. Your breath caught.

He looked up, still crouched at your feet. You didn’t meet his eyes. But he saw it anyway. Stain from over training yourself. All things you should’ve reported.

He stood. You backed up half a step. He followed. he wasn’t letting you get away.