Page 22 of Offside

"Better than I was before dinner." I took a breath. "Worse than I was before September."

"That sounds honest enough."

He didn't congratulate me. He didn't tell me how to talk to Pryce. He stayed on the phone until I reached for the ignition.

"Garrett." I tightened my hand on the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." I started the engine.

"Don't make it weird." He hung up before I could answer.

8

Declan

The knot sat beneath the back of my left shoulder, just beyond the angle I could reach with my own thumb. By nine-thirty on Thursday night, I'd tried a massage ball against the wall, two mobility drills, and the long blue resistance band. All three reached the area around it. None reached the knot.

Zoe had offered to work on it before she left, but I'd told her it would loosen on its own. It hadn't.

I anchored the band around the rail outside equipment storage and stepped into the narrow corridor. The position gave me more space than the training area, where two tables were already covered in clean paper for morning. I took the band in my left hand, drew the arm across my body, and rotated until the pull reached the back of the shoulder.

The pull came close but it didn't quite hit it. I changed my feet and tried again.

"You're coming at it from the wrong angle."

Bishop stood at the far end of the corridor, his jacket over a T-shirt, keys in his left hand. I hadn't heard the door from the players' side open over the compressors.

"Thank you for the consultation," I said dryly.

"I wasn't questioning what you know," he backtracked.

"No?" I kept the band under tension.

"The band reaches the front of it. You're trying to get behind the shoulder blade."

I let the tension off the band. "How do you know where I'm trying to get at?"

He pointed to a place on his own back, a few inches below the shoulder. "You keep moving the band and checking there."

He was right. "The angle would work on somebody else. My arm isn't long enough to stabilize the shoulder blade and apply pressure at the same time."

Bishop looked at the knot, then at me. "Let me."

The corridor became smaller.

For months, I'd placed my hands on his body because my job required it. I'd felt the exact moment his muscle stopped resisting, counted degrees while his arm rested in my palm, and told myself the direction of his attention was irrelevant, as long as mine stayed clinical. There was no clinical reason for him to touch me.

"I can show you the spot," he said. "If you don't mind."

He didn't move any closer. The choice hung in the air for a moment.

"All right," I finally said.

I slipped the band off my hand and turned my back to him. "Medial edge of the shoulder blade. Lower than you think."

"Here?" His right thumb landed beside the knot, not on it. Even through my shirt, the pressure of his hands was warm.