The white-and-red Lone Star Response ambulance sat parked just behind the home teamâs sideline bench, engine ticking quietly in the afternoon heat. Mike stood beside the open rear doors, methodically checking his gear one last time even though he already knew it was perfect. Gloves. BVM. Defibrillator. Monitor. IV kit. Everything exactly where he wanted it.
He adjusted the collar of his uniform shirt, feeling the familiar low thrum of anticipation in his chest. This was his first official game coverage since starting the private service. Not some random call for a drunk frat kid or an old lady who fell. A college soccer match. Young, fit athletes pushing their bodies to the limit under the sun. Sweat. Muscle. Vulnerability.
Mikeâs eyes drifted across the field during warm-ups. Most of the players blurred together, but one stood out immediately. Number 17. Matt. Skinny but toned, the kind of lean, athletic build that came from endless sprints and core work. Dark hair, sharp jaw, that focused intensity in his eyes. Mike watched the way Mattâs jersey clung to his torso when he stretched, the subtle play of muscle under the fabric. A slow, private smile touched Mikeâs lips.
This is why I started Lone Star Response, he thought, zipping the medical bag shut with a little more force than necessary.
Not just the money. Not just âhelping.â The access. Being the one who gets to touch them when they break. When they need someone. When theyâre mine for those critical minutes.
He liked the medical side more than he probably should. The control. The power of his hands on a body that had just been strong and fast and now wasnât. The way a strong chest yielded under compressions. The sounds. The heat. The way everything narrowed down to him and the patient. It was intoxicating. And today⌠today he had a front-row seat.
The game kicked off hard and fast. Rivalry energy crackled through the stands. Matt was everywhereâtenacious, precise, that skinny frame moving with surprising power. Mike stayed on the sideline, bag at his feet, headset on, but his gaze rarely left Number 17.
Matt received a pass near midfield. He took two steps and faltered. His normally sun-flushed skin suddenly looked wrongâpale, almost grayish under the stadium lights. He shook his head once, tried to keep going, then his knees gave out. He dropped hard onto the turf, body going limp. The ball rolled away. Whistle. Chaos.
Mike was already running.
He reached Matt in seconds, dropping to his knees beside the fallen player. âMedical! Back upâgive me space!â His voice was calm, professional, but inside his pulse was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with standard protocol. Teammates and coaches hovered as Mike assessed fast: no response to voice or sternal rub. Pale. Clammy. He tilted Mattâs head, checked the airway. Nothing. No chest rise.
Mike pressed two fingers to the carotid. Weak pulse⌠then it vanished under his touch.
âRespiratory arrest. No pulse,â he announced, already yanking open his bag. He grabbed the BVM, sealed the mask over Mattâs face, and delivered two rescue breaths. Mattâs chest rose obediently, but there was still no spontaneous breathing.
Mike didnât hesitate. He straddled the playerâs hips, positioned his hands, and with a sharp, decisive motion ripped Mattâs navy jersey open from the collar downward. The fabric tore with a loud rrriip, exposing the smooth, toned chest and abdomen beneath. Pale skin. Lean muscle. The faint definition of abs rising and falling only because Mike was forcing air into him.
Mike laced his fingers, placed the heel of his hand dead center on Mattâs bare sternum, and started CPR. Hard.
He drove down with full body weight deep, fast, relentless compressions at the proper rate and depth. The first few made Mattâs entire torso jolt. Ribs flexed under Mikeâs palms with every thrust. One, two, three, four⌠Mike counted out loud for the benefit of the crowd and arriving staff, but his focus was on the feel of it the give of the chest, the way Mattâs body rocked under the force, the heat of skin against his gloves. He liked it. Liked it too much. The power. The intimacy. The way this strong young athlete was completely at his mercy now.
After thirty hard compressions he paused just long enough to deliver two more breaths, watching the bare chest rise, then resumed. Harder this time. Sweat beaded on Mikeâs forehead. His arms pumped steadily, shoulders working, driving deep into the center of Mattâs chest. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump was loud in the sudden quiet around them.
âMonitorâs onâstill no pulse,â one of the arriving trainers said.
Mike didnât slow. âWeâre shocking. Pads.â
He grabbed the defibrillator, peeled the backing off the pads, and placed them firmly on Mattâs exposed chest one high on the right, one low on the left side of the bare torso. The contrast of the white pads against flushed-then-pale skin was stark. Mike charged the unit.
The shock delivered with a sharp whump. Mattâs body arched violently off the ground, muscles contracting hard, back bowing, then dropped back limp. Mike immediately resumed compressionsâharder now, almost punishingâfeeling the aftermath of the shock in the way the chest moved under his hands.
âTwo minutes,â he said, voice steady even as his own breathing had quickened. âContinue CPR. Someone get the backboard ready. Weâre transporting.â
He kept going, relentless, powerful compressions, eyes flicking between Mattâs face and the monitor. The young playerâs body jolted with every thrust, jersey hanging open and ruined, chest bare and marked by the pads and the force of Mikeâs hands.
Mikeâs mind was clear and focused⌠but underneath it ran a current of something darker and hotter. Stay with me, Matt. Iâve got you. Iâm not letting go yet.
The ambulance doors were already open. Backup paramedics were arriving. But Mike stayed right there, hands on Mattâs chest, in complete control.
The backboard was slid under Matt quickly, straps secured over his bare torso. Mike barked orders with calm authority: âIâve got this stabilized my rig, my call. You two follow in the chase vehicle if you need to. Iâll handle airway and monitor en route. Clear the doors.â
The on-site trainers hesitated for half a second, but Mikeâs confidence and the fact that it was his private ambulance won out. They stepped back. Within moments, Matt was loaded into the back of the ambulance. Mike climbed in after him, slammed the doors shut, and locked them. The driverâs compartment was separated by a solid partition. Just the two of them now.
The sirens wailed as the rig pulled away from the field, lights flashing, carrying them away from the stadium and the staring crowd. Mike worked fast but deliberately, securing the backboard to the stretcher, hooking up the portable monitor, and starting an IV line in Mattâs arm. The young playerâs ruined jersey hung open on either side of his lean chest, pads still in place, skin glistening under the harsh interior lights. His breathing was shallow and assisted by the BVM Mike had taped in place.
Mike sat on the bench beside the stretcher, one hand still resting on Mattâs chest, feeling the faint give with each ventilation. The ambulance rocked gently as it sped down the road. No eyes on them. No one to interrupt. Perfect.
He kept up the compressions for another full cycle hard, deliberate, feeling every ridge of rib and muscle under his palms then paused to check the monitor.
A faint pulse. Weak, irregular, but there. Sinus rhythm trying to come back. Mattâs chest rose on its own for the first time in minutes, a small, ragged breath. His eyelids fluttered but didnât open. Still mostly out, body limp and vulnerable on the stretcher.
Mike exhaled slowly, a dark satisfaction spreading through him. He peeled off one glove, then the other, letting them drop. His bare hand settled on Mattâs exposed chest, right over the sternum where the compressions had left faint red marks. The skin was warm now, slightly damp with sweat. He traced the line of muscle down toward the abs, feeling the subtle twitch of recovery under his fingers.
âEasy, Matt⌠Iâve got you all to myself now,â Mike murmured, voice low and rough in the confined space. His other hand moved to the side of Mattâs neck, checking the pulse again, but lingering, thumb stroking along the jawline. âYou went down so perfectly out there. All that speed, that tight body⌠and then nothing. Just mine to work on.â
He leaned closer, the siren a distant drone. His hand slid lower, palm flat against the center of Mattâs bare chest, feeling the heartbeat strengthen faintly under his touch. The thrill surged deeper than any medical protocol. The power. The privacy. The way Mattâs toned frame was laid out helpless, jersey ripped open, every inch of lean muscle and pale skin exposed for him.
Mikeâs breathing grew heavier. âI like this part too much⌠the way you respond when I touch you. When I bring you back.â His fingers pressed a little firmer, almost possessive, tracing the edges of the defibrillator pads still stuck to the smooth skin. One hand stayed on the chest, monitoring the faint pulse, while the other drifted slowly downward, exploring the unconscious athleteâs body with open, unrestrained hunger.
The ambulance raced on. For now, Matt was his alone.
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