CHAPTER 10

NOT SO HIDDEN

EMOTIONS

POPPY

Lance laughs while my face sets itself on fire. Of course my neighbor has to be out tonight. Well, he’s out almost every night, but his timing and pith are unfortunate on this particular occasion.

Usually Friday night is April and me hanging out, and Mr. Goldberg knows that. I’ve probably had a handful of Friday night dates in the past year, and of course, my neighbor is usually around to witness me being picked up. Then on our Wednesday cookie-and-tea dates, he’ll give me his thoughts on whether said gentleman deserves to go out with me again. It’s rather sweet.

“I’ll see you later, Mr. Goldberg.” I manage to open the door, slap the light on, and usher Lance inside before he can say anything else.

Before I close the door, I poke my head back out and give him a look that tells him I’m not impressed. He just winks.

“Be safe, Miss Poppy. You know what they say about those redheads.”

I roll my eyes and shut the door. “Sorry about that. He’s a little…” I struggle to find the right word.

Lance rocks back on his heels. “Feisty? Protective?”

“Both. Definitely. He lost his wife last winter, and his kids live on the other side of the country. He’s pseudo-adopted me.”

“Can’t say I blame him. Pretty single woman living alone…makes sense he’d want to watch out for you.” Lance looks around. “You live alone, right?”

I cough as I drop my purse and keys on the little table by the front door. “I live alone.”

“No roommates?”

“That’s usually what alone means.”

“No boyfriend?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“What? It’s a legit question. I don’t want some dude walking in while you’re digging your elbow into my ass and I’m crying in pain.”

I laugh, because I can’t imagine Lance ever crying. He doesn’t seem the type. “I don’t have a boyfriend right now.”

My internet dating experiences have been lackluster at best, so meeting prospective dates can be a challenge.

“Good to know.”

I’d like to say I ignore the way his eyes move over me, but that would be a lie.

“Follow me.” I lead him down the hall to the living room. It’s the only space in my house open enough for a home massage. “I just need a few minutes to set up. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Juice? I don’t usually have pop in the house, but I can check.”

“I’m all right. Can I help with anything?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks around the room.

I’m suddenly self-conscious about him being in my personal space. I’ve been inside his massive home. It’s beautiful and polished, despite the things that happen there. He has expensive taste, and my place is middle-class normal. Most of my decorative touches are knickknacks from my parents’ trips around the US and pictures my sister painted when she went to college for art. She never managed to finish the degree, despite her talent. Since I’m not a developer, I haven’t upgraded to the latest and most fabulous furnishings, like most of the other houses on my block.

“Why don’t you have a seat while I set up?”

“Sure.” He crosses over and drops down on the couch, stretching his arm across the back.

“I’ll be right back.” I run upstairs to the hall closet and pull out my travel massage table, two sets of sheets, and some pillows, lugging it all back down the stairs.

It’s a little weird having Lance sit in my living room while I set up the table and cover it with sheets and pillows.

“Sorry I was early.”

“It’s fine. This won’t take long.” I tuck the sheets in and fold them back enough to make it easy for him to get under. “I’ll be right back again, and then we can get started.”

I make a stop in my upstairs bathroom to grab a lavender candle and my portable speaker. The music they pipe into the rooms at the clinic isn’t my favorite. I can do better here. I bring everything back down and set it up on the coffee table in front of Lance.

He takes up half the couch with his broad shoulders and wide stance. He’s wearing a collared button down and a pair of jeans. He smells amazing, even from across the room. I wish I could stop noticing these things about him.

“Would you prefer music or no music?” I ask as I set up the speaker.

“I’m good with music, as long as I don’t have to dance.”

I pause to check if he’s kidding, but he looks serious. “No dancing.”

He smiles a little. “Then we’re good.”

I look around the room to make sure all the blinds are closed. “Okay. If you’d like to undress in the bathroom, I can bring you a robe or a towel.”

“I’m cool to do that here.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“I’ll just give you some privacy.” I pass the table and run my hand over the sheets, smoothing out a wrinkle. “Once you’re undressed lie facedown under the top sheet.”

Lance pauses in his unbuttoning. I can see the definition in his pecs, and I try to keep my eyes above his neck. “I didn’t do that last time.”

“It’s fine. I wasn’t clear. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” I rush out of the living room and cross over to the kitchen. I turn on the water and wait until it’s hot before I put my hands under it. It also helps drown out the sound of Lance unbuckling his belt.

I imagine what it would be like to undress him. To unveil that incredibly strong, athletic body inch by toned, sculpted inch.

“Stop it,” I mutter and shake my head. When my hands are warm enough, I turn off the tap and call out, “All set?”

“Good to go,” Lance says.

I return to the living room and find him lying on the table, his feet hanging off the end because he’s so tall. The sheet is pulled up high enough to cover his butt, the dimples above it dragging my eyes down.

Why the hell does he have to be so damn hot? This would be so much easier if he could just be unattractive and a total asshole, but so far he’s been sweet, apologetic, and funny. I don’t know what to think.

He lifts his head when the floor creaks under my foot. “Did I get it right this time?”

“You did great.”

I turn on the lamp on the side table and turn off the overhead light, choose some music, and pull the sheet up to cover his back and the massive tattoo. The setup isn’t the best because my oil is on the coffee table, which is out of arms reach.

I skim across his back, over the sheet, from one shoulder to the other, as I walk around to the coffee table. “I’m going to start now,” I say quietly.

“Sounds good.”

I begin the way I always do, gauging the tension in his muscles as I press my palms along either side of his spine. He tenses a little when I reach his lower back. “It’s tight here?” I add a little pressure.

“Yeah. It’s sore.”

“Anywhere else?”

“I’m sore in general.”

“Okay.” I peel away the sheet, revealing his back. After pouring oil in my palm, I rub my hands together and smooth them across his shoulders.

A deep sound rumbles through Lance.

I lift my palms right away. “I’m sorry. Do you need me to stop?”

“No. Don’t.” He lifts his head and grabs my wrist, awkwardly trying to put my hand back where it was.

“Okay. I remember you said you don’t like being touched last time, so I wanted to make sure.”

He settles his face back in the cradle. “It’s okay when you touch me.”

I go back to rubbing slow circles on his back, warming up his muscles. His shoulders are tight, especially the right one. Every once in a while I get a low groan out of him that almost sounds like a purr and a growl intertwined. But when I reach his lower back, the contented groans turn into the kind I associate with discomfort.

“How can someone as small as you be so strong?” he asks.

“It’s just using different parts of my body to achieve the right amount of pressure. I couldn’t do this with just my hands.”

He hums and stays silent for a minute before he asks, “Have you always lived in Chicago?”

“Mm-hmm. This is actually the house I grew up in. My parents live outside of Chicago now.”

“Wow. I can’t even imagine that.”

“I guess being a professional hockey player means you move around a lot.”

“Yeah. My contract with Chicago has another two years on it, but you never know if they’re gonna trade you early or keep you on, ya know?”

“That can’t be easy.”

“It’s part of the job. Mostly I don’t mind the travel.”

“So if there was a place you’d call home, where would it be?”

He’s silent for a few seconds. “Here, I guess.”

“In Chicago? Why here?” I shouldn’t ask leading questions. It’s going to get me into trouble.

“I moved from Scotland to Chicago when I was thirteen. I lived with my aunt until I was drafted, and then I started moving around a lot, depending on what team wanted me. So other than Scotland, this place has the most roots for me.”

“Scotland is beautiful. Do you miss it?”

“You’ve been there?”

“I have a lot of family there.”

“I guess with a last name like O’Connor that makes sense.”

“We went on a family vacation there when I was young. I’d really love to go back one day. So how does a Romero end up as a ginger in Scotland?”

“My dad’s family was from Northern Italy. My grandfather married a Scottish woman, and they had my dad. My mum went to Italy for an exchange program in college and met my dad. He followed her back to Scotland. My mum’s not a redhead, but there must’ve been some ginger on her side, too, because this is what I got.” He gestures to his hair.

“So what brought you to the US?”

He’s silent for a few seconds. When he speaks again he has to clear the rasp from his throat. “My mum has sisters who moved here when she was young, so she has a lot of family in the States. She, uh, wanted to be here. My dad came with us at first, but after a while they split.”

“I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard.”

My parents have always been a strong, stable unit. Even when my sister was causing trouble and making life generally difficult when we were teens, they were a united force. I can’t imagine them not together. Their relationship has always been the bar for mine. After thirty years, they’re still madly in love. I want that kind of forever for myself.

“My dad worked a lot, and that included traveling. My parents weren’t very happy for a long time, so it wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should’ve been, I guess. We stayed in Chicago for the hockey opportunities.”

“So you could play professional hockey?”

“Crazy, right? My cousins came to visit one summer while we were still in Scotland, and all we did was play road hockey. It was all I wanted to do after they left. That winter I came to visit them here and learned how to skate. I was a natural, I guess, and the coaches at the rink said there was potential. Back in Scotland, I took skating lessons where I could, but hockey’s not a big thing in the UK like it is here.”

“Does your mom still live in the city?”

“She moved to Connecticut when I was fifteen.” There’s a bite in his tone.

“Oh.”

I don’t press, because my questions seem to make him tense. What kind of mother moves her child across the ocean and then leaves him with his aunt? There has to be more to that story.

I work in silence for a while until I’ve done all I can for his back. It’s much better than it was when I started. I still have twenty minutes left, so there are several other areas I can work on. I glance down at his sheet-covered butt. As nice as it is to look at, it’s a lot different putting my hands on it in the privacy of my own home than in the clinic where everything is sterile and professional. Still, I have to ask. “Would you like me to work on your glutes again?”

“Uh, no. I think we’re good there.”

I’m almost relieved. “If you turn over, I could work on your neck and shoulders. There seems to be a lot of tension through there.”

“Uh, yeah, okay. I think that’d be okay.”

“If anything is uncomfortable, you can just tell me.”

“It should be fine.”

I pull the sheet up over him and get him to lift his hips to remove the pillow situated there. Then I lift the sheet. “If you can shimmy down and turn over, I’ll be able to work on your neck.”

He follows the directions, army-crawling down the table. His feet hang way off the end now. I rearrange the sheet once he’s lying on his back and work on tucking it in around his legs. “Let me know if your feet get cold, and I can put a heating pad on your legs.”

“I’m good right now, but thanks.”

I fold down the sheet so I have access to his shoulders. They’re massive, like every other part of him—well, the parts I’ve seen so far. Then I pull up my rolling chair so I can get comfortable while I work.

Lance’s eyes are on me as I squirt more oil into my palm and rub my hands together. “Ready?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He gives a curt nod, and I use my thumbs to adjust the angle of his head, making sure it’s lined up straight with his spine before I assess the worst areas of tension, which seem to be everywhere based on the way his muscles lock up.

His eyebrow looks a lot better today than it did the last time I worked on him, and the bruises around his eye have faded a little, yellow and green replacing the edges of black and blue. The matching split in his lip has scabbed over. His lips part as he exhales slowly.

I put pressure on his shoulders, kneading a little before I start in on the muscles that need the most work. Everything is knotted and tight in there. It’s amazing he can even turn his head.

When his shoulders don’t feel like they’re full of stones any more—just rubber balls—I move on to his neck.

Turning Lance’s head to the side, I glide my thumb along the side of his neck. The muscles there are tight, as expected, and the ones I’ve just loosened in his shoulders bunch at the contact. I settle a gentle palm on the side of his neck. I can feel his pulse, strong and rapid beneath my hand.

“Just relax for me, okay.”

“Sorry.” The tightness in his shoulders eases a little.

“That’s better.” I follow the muscle with my thumb again, find the knot, and start working it out. “Do you grind your teeth in your sleep?”

“I don’t know.” His teeth click together, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “Probably.”

“I can massage your face, if you’d like.”

His eyes flip open, and he tilts his head up until I’m met with pale green. “My face?”

“Have you had a lot of headaches recently?”

He frowns. “I guess.”

“You’re carrying a lot of tension in your neck and shoulders. That can cause headaches. There are some small muscles in your face that might contribute to that. If you don’t like the way it feels, you can tell me, and I’ll stop.”

“Yeah. Okay. That sounds good.”

He closes his eyes, and I shift his head so it’s straight again, then start by smoothing my thumbs across his forehead, erasing the lines of tension with gentle but firm pressure. I work my way down his face, over the bridge of his nose. He has so many freckles. They’re everywhere.

With his eyes closed like this, he looks almost sweet. Like the boy who pulled my ponytail in the hallway in grade school. Like the one who kissed me in a closet more than a decade ago.

I wonder if that boy is still in there, hiding. I don’t want to believe the man I met a year ago is who Lance really is—the man who was too wasted to remember having met me, more than once.

The rumors seem to conflict with the person on my table, I’m beginning to wonder if the hard exterior is Lance’s wall, and beneath it is a man with secrets and insecurities, like his admitted aversion to touch.

I try to focus on the names of the muscles as I move my fingertips over them, but I can’t stay in the present. I’m pulled into the past, back to a time when innocence disappeared one new experience at a time, and the night I fell in love with a moment I can’t ever get back, even though the person responsible for creating it is right here with me. 

My sister had disappeared fifteen minutes ago, and I couldn’t find her anywhere. She’d given me two options tonight: stay home by myself or come with her to the party. My thirteenth birthday was the next week, and she’d said this would be like an early birthday party, but better. Sometimes I wanted to be exciting like her, so I’d said I’d come.

I held a red cup of purple Kool-Aid that burned my throat every time I took a sip. I walked into a low-lit room where a group of teenagers were playing a game. The lights were off; there was just the glow of the TV in the corner. Music videos flickered on the screen. Women with hardly any clothes on were dancing to a song I didn’t like all that much. My mom never allowed me to watch that, but sometimes my older sister, Cinny, would let me when she had to babysit me.

No one was paying attention to the TV, though. The teenagers sat in a circle, an empty beer bottle in the middle. I scanned their faces, most of them unrecognizable, although the blue glow didn’t help.

I knew one girl. She had been talking to my sister earlier, so I moved into the empty space beside her, just as a boy with strawberry blond hair leaned forward and gave the bottle a spin. He was beautiful. I thought I knew him. I looked back at the bottle when he caught me staring. I watched it twirl—quickly at first, then slower until it stopped. It was pointed at me.

“Oh my God,” the girl beside me said. “You lucky bitch.”

The boy across the circle lifted an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face as screams and hollers of excitement followed. He downed whatever he was drinking and passed the cup to the boy beside him as he stood.

The girl beside me took my cup. “Get up! Go!”

I obeyed, because I didn’t know what was going on. I’d naïvely thought this was a game of Truth or Dare—that someone would ask me a question, and I would get to choose—but apparently I was wrong.

A chant began, and a flush crept up my neck as I realized I was very, very wrong about what was going to happen.

The girl I’d sat beside sniffed my drink. “Your sister’s going to kill you.” She was laughing, though.

I was ushered across the room, and the screaming got louder. Seven Minutes in Heaven. That’s the game we were playing, not Truth or Dare. I’d never kissed anyone.

People patted the boy on the back and made lewd, suggestive comments. I suddenly felt panicked as he stepped into a closet and someone shoved me in there with him.

There was no way to avoid touching him as the door slammed closed and darkness swallowed us. I felt around, trying to make space among the winter coats. My hand connected with soft cotton and hard muscle. I was exhilarated and terrified at the same time.

“Hey, hey, relax.” He covered my hand with his. It was warm. Clammy. “Are you afraid of the dark?” he whispered. He smelled like the same drink I’d had, but sharper, and I could taste cologne on my tongue. It was familiar.

The small space was suddenly illuminated by the glow of his phone as he flipped it open.

“No,” I croaked.

“Me neither. But I don’t like small spaces.” He rested his shoulder against the door.

I reached for the knob, but he stopped me. “Don’t bother. They locked it from the outside. We’re trapped in here together.”

The word trapped sent a shiver down my spine. His gaze was lazy and a little unfocused as it traveled over my face.

He pressed a bunch of buttons on his phone. I did know him, I realized. Last year he’d gone to my school for a little more than a month at the end of the school year. He used to flick my ponytail when he passed me in the hall. Not in a mean way, more in a gingers-stick-together kind of way. He’d winked at me once. I didn’t know if he remembered. Even though he’d showed up late in the year, he’d been popular—with the teachers and all the students. Maybe because of his thick Scottish accent.

He’d gone on to high school this year, like Cinny, and I was still in seventh grade.

“What are you doing,” I whispered.

“Setting an alarm for six minutes from now.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I don’t think you really want to make out with me for the next seven, based on how freaked out you look, and I can’t lose face.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry. When my alarm goes off, all I’m gonna do is make it look like we’ve been making out the entire time, ’kay?” He shoved his phone in his pocket, blanketing us in darkness once again.

I felt the warmth of his fingertips down my arm, and goose bumps broke out across my skin. He spoke in a whisper I could barely hear because of the noise beyond the door. “I feel like I know you. What’s your name?”

“I’m Poppy.”

“Like the flower?”

“Yeah. Like the flower.”

“You think I’ll get high if I sniff you?”

“What? I don’t—”

He huffed a little laugh. “Never mind. That was dumb. I’m Lance, like what you’d do to a wound.”

I giggled and clapped a hand over my mouth.

“You think I’m funny?” His accent was heavy, thick. So were his words. He’d probably been drinking. I think most of the people at the party had been. I think maybe my drink had alcohol in it too, and that’s why my whole body felt suddenly fuzzy and hyper-alert at the same time.

I nodded, but realized he couldn’t see me so I responded with a quiet yes.

“How old are you, Poppy like the flower?”

“Fourteen,” I lied. “How old are you?”

“I turn fifteen tomorrow.”

“Happy almost birthday.”

“Thanks. Where do you go to school?”

I gave him the name of the local Catholic high school. I liked that he sounded disappointed we didn’t go to the same one.

He took my hand and played with my fingers. It was a heady feeling that made the hair rise on my neck and my skin prickle. “Has anyone ever kissed you before, Poppy?”

That time I didn’t lie. “No.”

“I should be sorry I’m gonna be yer first, then.” He lifted my hand, and I felt his hot breath on my fingertips, then softness as they brushed against something. It was his lips, I realized.

“Why?” My voice didn’t sound like it belonged to me.

“Because I’m going to take something you can’t ever get back.” His words were old. Sad.

“What if I tell you it’s okay to take it? Would that make you feel better?”

“Not really.” He dropped my hand, and I felt his fingers in my hair, tugging gently on the end of my ponytail, then moving down to my shoulder. I was wearing my sister’s top. It had thin straps, ones my mom wouldn’t approve of. It was too big on me, and it came down too low.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because I’m not sorry the way I should be.” His fingers followed the strap all the way down to where my heart was, then moved back up, traveling along my neck to my jaw until his thumb skimmed my bottom lip. I shivered.

“Oh.”

His chuckle was dark like a night with no stars. “One day, when I’m a famous hockey player, you can tell your friends I kissed you in a closet.” His phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and silenced it. “Time’s almost up, pretty Poppy.”

He skimmed my arms, and when he reached my hands, he drew them up, clasping them behind his neck. “Keep them right there, okay? Don’t move them, please.”

“Why not?”

“Because that feels nice, and I want this to be perfect.”

“Okay.” I didn’t really understand what that meant, but I followed his directions, my tummy flipping over and over as I pushed up on my toes in order to link my fingers.

He was so much taller than me, it brought me right up against his body. Fear and excitement merged. He released a shaky breath that smelled like sweet alcohol and ground out a curse that made me blush.

Once again I felt his fingertips on my cheek. The pads were rough, but the touch was gentle.

“Tilt your chin up for me,” he whispered, guiding me with his thumb along my jaw.

I did as he asked, shaking. My mouth was dry. I wet my lips with my tongue. My head felt light.

“You okay?” I felt his warm, humid breath against my neck.

“Uh-huh.” I gave a tiny nod.

“Don’t be scared.” His lips touched my cheek. “I won’t hurt you.”

The next brush of his lips found the corner of my mouth. I sucked in a breath as weird tingles shot through me. He pressed his lips against mine, and the tingles became tiny explosions.

After a few seconds, he pulled back. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“No.” It came out a whisper. I wanted him to do it again.

“This time when I kiss you, will you open your mouth a little?”

“Okay.”

“And when that door opens, remember who I was in here, ’kay? That’s the real me.”

He didn’t give me a chance to respond. Instead he pressed his lips to mine again. This time he pulled my bottom lip between his. I did what he asked and parted mine. His tongue touched my top lip, and I gasped. Then I felt the gentle, hot sweep of his tongue in my mouth. I gripped the back of his neck, and his arm came around me, hugging me close. His other hand came up to cradle the back of my head. He made a sound like he was in pain and angled my head to the side, his tongue sweeping my mouth again and again.

On the next slow stroke, I pressed my tongue forward, mimicking his movements, and his arm tightened around me further. There was no space between our bodies, and heat seemed to be building inside me, along with an ache low in my stomach and a wildness I hadn’t known existed until then.

His phone beeped again, and he made another sound, this time almost despondent, and a trickle of regret made me hold on to him tighter.

I didn’t know what to call the emotion that swelled inside me then, but years later I can identify it as lust. In that moment, I thought I was falling in love.

The door was wrenched open, darkness giving way to light that blinded me. Lance tried to grab for the handle to shut us back in, but my sister was right there, pushing her way between us. She yanked me away by the arm, and I stumbled back, off kilter.

“Poppy! What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled.

She flattened her palm against Lance’s chest and shoved him away when he reached for me again. “Don’t touch my sister.”

I got one last glimpse of him as she dragged me away through the crowd of screaming teenagers. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his pale green eyes locked on mine. The emotions I saw there were staggering, everything from hunger to anger filtering through. I swear he mouthed I’m still not sorry before the crowd swallowed me. 

Lance’s hands cover mine, and his voice is a gravelly rasp, snapping me out of my inappropriate memories. “Poppy.”

“Is it too much pressure?”

“I think you need to stop.”

“I’m so sorry.” I attempt to drop my hands, but he’s holding them in place. His breathing is heavy, as if he’s anxious. My thumb is below his bottom lip. That full bottom lip I was just thinking about. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s not the problem.”

“I don’t underst—” The words get caught in my throat as I lift my gaze. The white sheet covering his body has a lump below his waist. A very obvious, ample lump.

He releases my hands, and they slide down either side of his neck. The action makes his erection twitch.

“Oh.” It comes out a squeak. I place my palms on the table on either side of his head.

“Oh is right.” He sort of cough-laughs.

“You really aren’t compensating at all.” I slap a hand over my mouth, because it’s probably the most inappropriate thing I’ve ever said to a client. “I’m so sorry,” I say from behind my hand.

This time Lance snorts.

I try to reclaim professionalism. “That’s a totally normal reaction.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance is looking at me with an expression that borders on amused, except there’s an accompanying hunger that I recognize. That look was only trained on me for a few seconds last year, but I’d felt it, and I feel it now—in all the wrong places. Or the right ones, depending.

“I’m going to give you a few minutes. Just, uh, tell me when you’re dressed.” I roll back my stool and tear my eyes away from his massive erection. I’ve been staring this entire time.

I go directly to the kitchen and turn on the tap. I pump soap on my hands, scrubbing away the oil and what I imagine is the scent of Lance’s cologne. At least I have the restraint not to be a total loser by sniffing them first.

I try not to envision him getting dressed, tucking that hard-on away. I wonder if he’s in my bathroom relieving himself. I wonder if he’s still hard.

“Stop it.” That I’m talking to myself again is a real issue.

I’m worried that I’m crossing lines I shouldn’t by treating him, especially here. It’s too personal, intimate in a way it shouldn’t be. Or maybe that part is all in my head because I have these memories he’s unaware of.

Either way, I don’t think I’m doing a good job of compartmentalizing him as a client. Here I am, treating him in my living room, and now he’s got a raging hard-on because of a face massage. My face massage.

I grip the edge of the counter, weighing my options. I should pass him over to someone else as a client. Marcie could work. Plus she’s older, and not really attractive, so maybe he’d be less likely to get hard for her.

Not that it’s me he got hard for. It’s just the physical contact. It has to be; the other possibilities are too out-there to entertain. And even if I am the reason for his hardness, it’s not like he’d want anything from me other than physical release. I’ve seen enough online to understand Lance isn’t a guy who dates. Wishing that wasn’t the case is another reason I should probably let someone else treat him.

“Hey.”

I look up to find him standing in the doorway of the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. I keep my eyes at chest level. “Oh! Hey.” I turn off the water and force what I hope is a natural smile.

“Got my situation all sorted out.”

“What?” I cough, and this time I look directly at him.

“Oh, fuck.” He raises his hands in the air. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t whack it in your bathroom or anything.”

“Right. Okay.” I try not to let that image become more than vapor in my head.

He continues to explain. “I thought about dead kittens and old, wrinkly boobs, and the situation resolved itself.”

“Gotcha.”

“Sorry. That was probably a lot more information than you needed. I’ve been hanging out with Violet too much lately.”

The twinge of jealousy over another girl’s name is as much a problem as my fixating on Lance’s hard-on.

“Is that your girlfriend?” I want to crawl into the sink and stay there for the rest of my life.

Lance laughs. “No. Violet’s my team captain’s wife. She’s nuts, and she has zero filter. She’s fun to be around, but a little crazy.”

“Oh.” I’m annoyed by my relief. “Can I get you something to drink? A glass of water?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. That’d be good.” He looks around my kitchen. “This is a nice place.”

“It’s old school, but I like it.”

“It’s comfortable. It must’ve been a nice place to grow up.” He leans on the counter and rearranges the apples in my fruit bowl. “My house is huge. Sometimes I don’t like it. Like, there’s too much space just for me. I try to fill it up with people, but that makes it worse a lot of the time.”

“What do you mean?” I pass him a glass.

His fingers graze mine when he takes it. I can’t tell if it’s intentional or I just want it to be.

“There isn’t balance, I guess. Like, it feels empty when it’s just me, but then when all the people are there, things get out of hand and I make bad decisions.” He straightens and chugs the contents of the glass before setting it down on the counter. “It’s like how I know I should know you, and I keep trying to find you in here.” He taps his temple. “But I was probably wasted as shit, and everything’s a big black hole.”

“There isn’t really anything to remember.” The lie tastes bitter.

His expression is intense as he regards me. “You don’t seem like the kind of girl who’d end up at my place. There’s gotta be a story behind how you got there.”

“Randy and Miller were there. Why don’t you ask them about it?”

“They don’t have the clearest memories, either.”

I give him a small smile and lie again. “Neither do I.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “Sorry. I should probably go. It’s late, and I’m making you uncomfortable.”

When I don’t say anything, he pushes away from the counter. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“You’re welcome.” I walk him to the door.

Halfway down the hall he turns around. “When I get back from my away series, can I see you again? Like, can I come here instead of the clinic?”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

That stops him short. “What? Why not?”

Oh, God. He’s just so much…everything. I can’t be around him without thinking things I shouldn’t. “It’s just… I just… It’s unprofessional.”

“Is it because I got hard?”

My thighs clench, along with every single muscle from the waist down. It’s because I liked that you got hard. My clasped hands are suddenly very interesting.

“Sorry. That was crass. I like it better here than at the clinic.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“So it is because I got hard? I thought you said that happens all the time.”

I stumble over my words, unable to find anything that isn’t inappropriate. “It does. Sometimes. And that’s not the reason…” I make a hand gesture.

“Is it because of what happened last year? With your friend? At my house? I told you I was sorry about that, too.”

I can tell he doesn’t remember anything about that night, which is almost gratifying, because it means Kristi wasn’t a memorable lay.

“It’s really not about that. Kristi and I were never good friends anyway.”

“Then I don’t understand why you can’t treat me here again.”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You’ve already said that.” He’s agitated now, chewing on his bottom lip as he shifts from foot to foot.

“I shouldn’t have done the home treatment. It blurs lines.”

“Okay. You can treat me at the clinic if it makes you feel more comfortable. I like you touching me.”

Those words and his tone are going to haunt me tonight. I know it already.

I can’t tell if he means it the way I’ve taken it: suggestively. “What about the team therapist? Shouldn’t you use him?”

His expression is as pleading and panicked as his tone. “I don’t want to go to someone else. Please, Poppy.”

He’s so hard to say no to, especially with how worried he seems. I don’t know why he’s so intent on it being me, but I want to erase his anxiety.

“No more home visits.”

“Okay. No more home visits.” He blows out a quick, relieved breath and flashes me a grin. “I’m gonna go now, before you change yer mind.”

That Scottish accent kills me.

He shoves his feet into his shoes and opens the door. “Bye, Poppy. Thanks again for taking care of me.”

I can’t make eye contact, so I look at his forehead. “Bye, Lance. You’re welcome.”

When the door closes, I sag against the wall.

I don’t know how I’m going to manage this. Part of me wants him to know the truth: that he was my first kiss. That I never forgot it. With a decade of life and experiences, of boyfriends and plenty of new first kisses, I should be long past romanticizing Lance in my head. But I’ve been searching for the spark I felt when he kissed me since then, and I’ve never been able to find it.

Maybe it was just because it was my very first kiss. A part of me has always wanted to test that theory, and last year I almost had the chance, until I let Kristi get in the way.

When Lance made the NHL, I watched every game, because even after all that time, seeing him brought back that memory and the fleeting feelings that came with it.

But if I told him the truth, I’d also want him to know how my perfect memory was tainted when the gossip mill started churning out pictures of him with all these women. And how that night at the bar, when I saw him for the first time in over a decade, he shattered the beautiful glass jar I’d kept that first-kiss moment safe in for all these years.