I didn't claw my way out of small-town North Carolina to throw my career away on a driver. The job is simple. Keep Cal Archer's body in peak condition for a championship run. Don't notice the way he watches my hands. Don't think about what those hands could do off the treatment table. And definitely don't fall for the man whose muscles I've memorized down to the last scar. Simple. Except Cal Archer is six-foot-two of brooding Australian with calloused hands and a groan on my treatment table that bypasses my professional brain entirely. The team has a fraternization policy. His championship has a target on it. And every time I touch him, the line between clinical and personal gets harder to find. I know the rules. I signed the policy. I know exactly what I'm risking. I'm going to break every single one of them anyway. The only question is what it costs me when I do.