“So I get to rub oil all over an NHL player instead of eating? Awesome. I’m overwhelmed with joy.”
April rolls her eyes and passes me the clipboard with his information. “If it’s any consolation, he’s a serious hottie. I’m sure most women would trip over themselves for the honor.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not most women.” My experience with NHL players, while limited, hasn’t been particularly fantastic. The form is covered in masculine, barely legible scrawl. I blink a few times as I read the name, positive I can’t be seeing this right.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then open them again. Heavy black pen still spells out Lance Romero across the top of the page.
Talk about ruining what started as a moderately decent day... I must groan out loud because April makes another one of her faces. It should be unattractive, but April is stunningly beautiful, so it’s just animated.
“What’s wrong?”
I try to pass her back the clipboard. “Why don’t you treat him and I’ll treat your client. Who is it?”
April’s jaw drops, and she taps the paper, right beside Lance’s block letters. “Are you high right now? Do you even know who this is?”
Oh, I know exactly who Lance Romero is. He’s number twenty-one for Chicago. I saw him for the first time in more than a decade just over a year ago—not that he remembered me from when we were kids. If I could never see him again, that would be awesome, and extremely preferable to being locked in a room alone with him. For an hour. Where I have to touch him. With my hands.
I don’t say any of that, though, because then I’d have to offer an explanation. No thanks to that.
“Can you trade?” I ask again.
“I would love to, but I have Ms. Thong next, and that won’t fly. What’s the deal? Why wouldn’t you want to get your hands all over this guy? Maybe he’ll want a glute massage.”
Sometimes we nickname our clients. Ms. Thong is seventy-six years old and wears the kind of panties you’d find on a stripper. Usually I think that’s funny, but right now I’m panicking.
“April.”
“Seriously, Poppy, what’s the deal? Why’s your face red? Why don’t you want to treat him? Do you have a secret crush on him? Do you lurrrve him?”
April and I have become good friends over the past year, since we took massage therapist positions at this clinic. We were in the same program in college, but we had opposite schedules, so we only ever saw each other in passing. We’re pretty close now, though.
Sometimes we even go out on the weekends together. Most of the time we just watch movies, because I’m not much for partying, and most of the time neither is she. On rare occasions we’ll go to a bar and laugh at the ridiculous guys who try to pick us up. But I have never, ever talked to her about the time I spent the night at Lance Romero’s house. Not in his bed. Oh no, my no-longer-friend Kristi was the one who had the pleasure of messing up his sheets. I know all about how outstanding Lance is in bed, thanks to her detailed recount.
Not that I’d want to sleep with him—or would have had opportunity presented itself. He’s an absolute dog. Who’s apparently amazing in bed. And a real giver.
I offer April a version of the truth. “I went to school with him.” And he’s the first boy who ever kissed me with tongue.
“No way!”
“It was grade school. It’s whatever. It’s not like he’ll remember me. We were kids. It’s not important.”
Mostly I’m trying to convince myself. He didn’t remember me last time. I can only hope it’ll be that way again. Otherwise this hour is going to be the worst. I wish my face didn’t feel like it was on fire right now.
April narrows her eyes. “Why do I feel like there’s way more to this story?”
The little buzzer goes off, signaling my next appointment, who happens to be the first guy I ever crushed on.
April points a finger at me. “We will talk about this later. I want to know why you look like you’re about to burst into flames.”
I ignore her and grab fresh sheets so I can dress my table.
April stops before she opens the door. “I can’t believe you went to school with him. I want a firm ass report.”
“Way to keep it professional.”
She slips out of the room, leaving the door open a crack. I finish putting fresh sheets on the table and arrange the pillows before I take a few deep, cleansing breaths to prepare for what is likely going to be a painful hour.
There’s so much irony in this situation. If this was a year ago, I probably would’ve fainted at the sight of Lance’s name scrawled across a patient sheet. But no matter how I feel, I need to put aside my personal issues and focus on the purpose of him being here. People come to see me when they’re in pain. If Lance is here, it’s likely an issue that’s impacting his ability to do his job, and my role is to help. I manipulate the human body in simple, gentle ways to help make that pain go away. I can keep this professional.
Armed with my clipboard, I walk down the hall to the waiting room. Lance is impossible to miss. Despite the fact that he’s wearing a sweatshirt and the hood is covering half of his face, he’s more than six feet of broad, hockey-playing man.
He’s so wide his shoulders encroach on the chairs on either side, which would explain why no one is sitting next to him. He’s slouched down so his head rests on the back of the chair, and his hands are clasped in his lap, a baseball cap hanging off one knee. His lips, plush and soft—I know since I’ve had them on mine; it might have been a decade ago, but I remember it clearly—are parted. He looks like he’s asleep.
I clear my throat. “Lance Romero?”
He doesn’t move.
Bernadette, the receptionist, gives me a meaningful look.
I clear my throat again and call his name a second time. He jolts awake and the hood falls back, exposing his face. It’s not in good shape. He has a black eye and bruises on his left cheek. There’s a fly bandage across one eyebrow.
Sadly, he’s still hot.
He blinks a few times, yawns, and smacks his lips, his tongue touching the split in the bottom one. His gaze sweeps the room and finally lands on me. Heat explodes in my cheeks and courses through my limbs, warming me from the inside out as he starts at my sneaker-clad feet and roams up over my yoga pants to my company-issued T-shirt before stopping at my face. I can’t look directly at him for more than a couple of seconds. I sincerely hope he doesn’t remember me. I cannot go there and also be professional.
I’m sure the smile he gives me has melted many a panty off a slutty bunny. Mine stay right where they’re supposed to, wedged up my ass.
I force a polite, professional veneer. “I’m ready for you now.”
He pushes slowly out of the chair, a tic in his left cheek indicating some discomfort.
I extend a hand when he’s close enough. “I’m Poppy. I’ll be your massage therapist this afternoon.”
I note the newly formed scabs on his knuckles and how warm and wide his palm is when it envelops mine. I try not to think about that night a year ago. About the way it felt when he put that hand on my back and led me through the crowd to the bar. About the feel of his lips against my ear when he asked my name. How it was too loud to hear, and I didn’t correct him when he got it wrong. How Kristi got in between us and hijacked him less than a minute later. How I let that happen, even though I didn’t want to.
I doubt he remembers any of it. He was drunk. Everyone was. Even I was tipsy, which isn’t something I do all that often. I’m typically not a much of a drinker at all. Still, the entire horrifying night is clearer than polished glass in my memory.
His sleepy eyes stay on my face long past what’s comfortable. He wets his bottom lip and smirks. “If I sniff you, will I get high?”
I hold his gaze, not returning his flirty grin. It falters, and he blinks a few times. When I try to free my hand from his, he grips it more tightly and cocks his head to the side, as if he’s trying to place me. I look away, afraid he’s going to see through me.