CHAPTER 4

THIS IS NOT

A HAPPY ENDING

POPPY

April sticks her head in the door and makes a face. “Good Lord, Poppy, how do you manage? It looks like you sheared a black lab in here.”

“He’s as friendly as one.” Mr. Stroker has more hair on his back than a hibernating bear, but he’s a nice man. He also has a herniated disc, and vertebrae three through five have been fused, so his mobility depends a lot on his weekly visits. Excessive hair aside, I like that my treatments help alleviate some of his pain.

The sheets I’m rolling into a ball are covered in his black fuzz. I wonder if his wife has ever suggested waxing and what kind of bribery would be required before he agreed. I have to use an excessive amount of oil on him to avoid ripping out too much hair. Even so, the sheets are always covered in man fur when I’m done with him.

The bodies I’m exposed to on a daily basis are as interesting as they are disgusting at times. But despite the excessive hair on my last client, I’m still starving.

“Want to run across to the bakery with me? I was thinking about walking to the park and eating there since I have lots of time before my next appointment. It’s such a beautiful day.” I’m irrationally excited for a ham and cheese croissant—and maybe one of those delicious tarts—and an ice-cold soda. It’s a warm day, and I want to take advantage before the cooler fall weather sets in.

I toss the sheets in the laundry basket.

April makes another face, along with a weird, sucky sound.

“I don’t like that face, or that noise.”

“About your dinner break…” She trails off, still making the face.

I prop a hand on my hip. “Don’t tell me they booked me another appointment.”

Her expression holds genuine apology. “We’re all back to back today, and you had the only spot left. It’s a favor for some big NHL player or whatever. You know how Tim’s always trying to get them in here for rehab. Well, it looks like you’re the guinea pig.”

Tim is the owner of the clinic. He’s a nice guy, but I don’t like him much right now. I’m also the one he comes to when he’s in a bind because I’m the least likely to say no.

Normally I’d agree that this is a fantastic opportunity. Athletes tend to have interesting muscular issues, and helping to resolve those is something I’m usually excited about.

I loved studying human physiology in school, and while I wasn’t great at sports, I was always good at figuring out how to manage the injuries that occurred, which is a big part of the reason I went into this field. Helping people makes me happy.

But not so much when it interferes with my dinner plans.

“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.

Eventually he allows me to pull my hand free. I spin around, calling over my shoulder, “You can follow me.”

Oh yes, this is going to be an unpleasant hour for sure.

My palms are sweaty as I lead him down the hall. After we left the bar that night, it was almost like I didn’t exist. It had felt a lot like high school, except with more R-rated activities. God, this is humiliating. Hookerslaw. My face is hot, which means it’s definitely red. Mortification is hard to hide as a freckly redhead.

I inhale deeply as I open the door to my therapy room—a bad idea because Lance smells delicious—and motion him inside. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. He glances at me, and then at the massage table.

“You can go in. I promise it’s not a torture chamber.”

He makes a sucking sound with his teeth and looks me up and down—not in a sexual way, but in an assessing-whether-I’m-serious way. He seems a little edgy.

Eventually he steps inside, but he doesn’t go very far. I have to slip in behind him because he takes up so much space. My arm grazes his, and he jerks out of the way, muttering an apology. Jeez, he’s as tense as I am.

I close the door and pat the massage table. “You can have a seat. I’d like to go through your profile and discuss the purpose of your treatment today.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay.” He hops up on the table with a grimace.

Based on his beat-up face, I assume the purpose is to work out whatever knots or aches the fight he was in has left behind. Hockey season hasn’t even started, so I’m curious what happened.

I review his medical history, which is vague. He gives short responses while his knee bounces.

“Are there any particular areas you’d like me to work on?” God, I’m nervous. Maybe because he seems nervous, which makes no sense. People have their hands all over him all the time. Bunnies to be exact. And my former friend Kristi.

“Um, I don’t know?”

“Are there any areas that are particularly tense? Neck, back, shoulders, arms, or legs?” I prompt.

“Sure?”

“So all of them?”

“Yeah.” His knee stops bouncing, and he replaces it with finger tapping while I check them all off.

“Are there any areas you’d like me to avoid?”

“Avoid?” Now he looks confused.

It’s almost like he’s never had a massage before. Which is unlikely. These guys must have regular massages all the time because their job is so physically intense. If anything, they need the treatment.

“Any areas that are uncomfortable as a result of your injuries?” I motion to his face. “Or areas you prefer me not to work on? Some people would rather I avoid their feet.”

“Oh aye, my sneakers probably stink, so you should steer clear.” A hint of Scot creeps in.

“Okay, then. No feet.” I smile at his look of revulsion. “Anything else?”

He taps his lip with his fingers before dropping them to his lap. “Uh, nope.”

I give it a few more seconds, because it looks like he wants to say something, but then he just stares at me, so I point to the chair beside him. “You can leave your clothes there and then lie face down on the table.”

“Like, all of them?”

Please don’t blush, please don’t blush, please don’t blush. Or imagine him naked. “You can leave your underwear on if you prefer.”

“Uh, I’m not wearing any.”

“That’s fine.” The memory of Lance stripping off his shirt on his way outside to the hot tub at his place punches me in the proverbial face.

And then he pulls his shirt over his head and the memory becomes a reality. Except this time I’m not just looking at fantastically chiseled muscles and the massive cross tattooed on his back that reads Forgive me my sins.

“Oh my God.” I cover my mouth with my hand, because that’s not an appropriate response, even as shocked as I am. “Are you okay? Have you seen a doctor?”

Lance runs a hand over his ripped stomach. “It’s not that bad. Just a few bruises.”

It looks like way more than a few bruises. I’m instantly angry at the person who did this to him. The purple on his ribs indicates the hits were aimed at the kidneys, with the intention of causing pain. He kicks off his shoes and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his sweats. Oh my God. Is he going to drop his pants with me in the room? They slide down over his hips, and I get a front-row view of the magic V.

Yes. Yes he is. I rush to the door. Just because I’ve seen him half-naked before doesn’t mean I need the reminder right before I’m about to touch him for an hour.

“I’ll give you some privacy. Lie on your stomach when you’re ready. I’ll be back in a minute.” I catch a glimpse of his bare ass before I can close the door.

“Get it together, Poppy,” I mumble as I hurry down the hall. I step into the bathroom and wash my hands, checking my reflection in the mirror. My face is a terribly bright shade of red.

“It’ll be fine. This will be fine,” I tell my reflection. “He’s going to be face down for the next hour. He doesn’t remember you. Dammit.” I splash a little cold water on my face, then heat it back up and run my hands under the hot stream.

I don’t think my pep talk has done much, but honestly, it’s just an hour. I should be able to handle it.

Once my hands are warm, I return to my room, knocking before I enter. “Ready?”

“Aye,” comes the reply.

I open the door to find Lance lying face down on the table, as instructed. Except he’s not lying under the sheet; he’s lying on top of it in all his naked, hockey-playing hotness. The huge cross spanning the width of his shoulders shifts with his breathing. Instead of putting his face in the cradle, his head is turned to the side, so he’s looking right at me, rather than at the floor.

I avoid making eye contact and head straight for my supply of sheets, draping one over his body—his incredibly amazing body that’s covered in bruises. I might get a good look at his ass before it’s covered by the sheet. It’s unreal. Like beyond fantastic.

But it’s just a body. I’ve had plenty of naked, attractive men on my table. And plenty of unattractive ones. Most of the time I can compartmentalize those thoughts. Usually I don’t get to see quite so much of them all at once, though. I need to keep it professional so I can get through this. It’s one hour. One favor. Then he’ll go back to seeing his regular massage therapist, and I don’t ever have to see him again.

“Can I get you to move up so your face is here?” I tap the cradle.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He mumbles something else, but I don’t catch it. The tips of his ears go red, as if he’s embarrassed. He shifts around, and his shoulders tense as he gets into position.

His split eyebrow and black eye might not feel too good like that. “If it’s too uncomfortable—”

“It’s fine. Let’s just do this thing.”

“Let me know if any area I’m working on is too painful, or if I’m using too much pressure, or not enough.”

“Okay.”

I prepare myself to put my hands on him in a way that is nothing like what Kristi did all night in the privacy of his locked bedroom a year ago. Because like the pushover I can sometimes be, I backed down the second she made it clear what she wanted. It’s also not the way I put my hands on him more than ten years ago when Lance came crashing into my world and turned it upside down.

He tenses as soon as I touch him, even through the cover of the sheet. I can’t decide if it’s the situation that has him so on edge, or me. Or both. So far I’m managing to keep my swoon in check, but then my hands aren’t on his skin, yet.

“I’m checking alignment before I get started.”

“’Kay.”

Telling him what I’m doing doesn’t seem to have the desired effect. His muscles are all bunched up. I have a feeling his hands are balled into fists. Maybe once I start the actual massage he’ll ease up.

I lift the sheet and fold it down, exposing the broad, defined expanse of his back again. Up close, I can make out the intricate details in the cross tattoo. Quinn is written inside it, along his spine. That must have hurt a lot. I stop when I reach the dimples that tell me if I keep going I’m going to get an eyeful of hockey butt again.

Since there’s nowhere to anchor the sheet on Captain Commando, I pull it a little lower, intending to tuck it under his hands. As predicted, they’re balled into fists. But when I graze his forearm, Lance’s hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, fingers lapping over each other. God, his hands are big. Just like the rest of him. And he’s touching me. That familiar hot feeling from forever ago rushes through me. I freeze as he turns to look at me, panic and uncertainty flashing in his eyes before a wall comes up and they go blank.

“Sorry. I didn’t expect that.” He releases my wrist and resumes his completely un-relaxed position on my massage table. Now that he’s not touching me anymore, I can breathe again.

I give him a few seconds before I move around to the other side. “I’m going to tuck the sheet under your left hand.” I say, to avoid startling him again.

Once the sheet is secure, I move to the top of the table, taking in the bruises along his lower back and the ones that span his ribs. Hovering my palms over his shoulder blades, I take a deep breath, exhaling my own anxiety as he seems to do the same. The energy in this room is thick with emotion—his and mine—and I don’t know what to make of it.

“I’m going to start now,” I tell him.

“’Kay,” his voice holds the same tension as his muscles when I place my palms on his clammy skin. I seem to be in control of my physical response to him this time, maybe because he seems so uncomfortable.

I stay perfectly still, hoping some of it will dissipate, but it doesn’t. “Lance?”

His muscles tighten even more. “Aye.”

“Are you okay?”

“Aye.”

“Does this hurt at all?” I don’t see how it could, considering I’m using no pressure.

“No.”

If his tension isn’t pain-based it must be anxiety-based. I’ll never work out any of his knots if he can’t relax. “Can I get you to breathe with me?”

“Huh?”

“It will help you relax.” At least I hope it will.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I guess,” he says something else I don’t catch.

“In and out to the count of four, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Inhale, one, two, three, four…exhale, one, two, three, four,” I murmur.

It seems to work, and after a moment his shoulders feel less like a wall and more like tight muscles. On the third inhale-exhale combination, I move my hands lower, and he tenses all over again.

“Just relax, Lance.”