Penalty Kill

by Genevive Chamblee

  Ryker understood that look. And you’ll lose your commission. Damn, why did Timothée have to do this?

  He went into a stall, stripped, and put on the robe she’d given him. He exited carrying his laptop, and Glenda’s eyes pinched with concern.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to put your computer in the locker. No electronics or recording equipment is allowed in the massage rooms.”

  Of course not. Ryker raised a brow. He knew legit massage parlors existed, but he wasn’t getting that vibe. Something about the place was off, and Glenda definitely wasn’t a person who could get him off. Though she was pretty enough with her high cheekbones and plump lips; if Ryker played for the other team, he could envision himself going for her.

  “Don’t worry,” Glenda reassured him. “It’ll be safe.”

  Yes, but will I be? Ryker was no prude. He’d witnessed plenty of out-of-control parties. The presence of drugs and adult sex workers was nothing new. Yet it never failed to be a pain keeping those shenanigans under wraps from the media and clients’ significant others. However, usually those parties were held in private.

  Timothée, on the other hand, during broad daylight, had brazenly waltzed into a public place with a flashing neon sign in the parking lot. There was nothing clandestine about it. He could only hope Timothée hadn’t used a credit card as payment. Paper trails were death.

  Reluctantly, he placed his computer in the locker he’d chosen, and Glenda led him to another room with two massage tables. On one, Timothée lay on his stomach with a towel the length of his body draped over him and his chin propped on his wrists. His dark lashes fluttered open at the sound of the door clicking. A curvy redhead with big winged eyeliner and a sleeve tattoo massaging his temples paused.

  “Timothée, we need to talk,” Ryker stated immediately upon entrance. “In private.”

  “Later,” Timothée muttered, his voice drowsy. “Get on the table.”

  Not that he wanted to, but Ryker had learned arguing with Timothée would delay progress.

  Glenda rounded the table between him and Timothée and unfolded a towel. Considering its length, it could have been a sheet, but the thickness caused it to weigh more heavily on the towel side. Ryker didn’t know why it drew his attention other than it smelled faintly of lavender.

  “You can remove your robe now,” Glenda instructed, holding the towel to shield him from her and everyone in the room.

  Ryker did as requested and crawled onto the table. Glenda gently draped the towel across him and folded it to expose one leg. Beginning with his left foot, she massaged his toes. They cracked loudly and drew Timothée’s attention.

  “You have old man’s bones,” he commented.

  “Only my toes. Boating accident.”

  “Oh?” Timothée’s voice piqued with interest. “What happened?”

  Instantly, Ryker regretted mentioning it, and his cheeks burned with color. He should have known better than to say anything, as it had been his experience that athletes gravitated toward tales of injuries and scars.

  “When I was four, my family went camping. My sisters and cousins were carrying a canoe to the lake and dropped it on my foot.”

  “That’s it?” Timothée’s eyes dulled.

  “Yep.”

  “Well, that’s not much of a story.”

  “I never claimed it was.”

  “If you’re going to bring up a story, it should at least be interesting.”

  Ryker scoffed. “I didn’t bring up.”

  “You told it.”

  “Because you asked.”

  “That’s a thing with you, isn’t it? Blaming your answers on someone else asking.”

  Ryker’s face scrunched. How was he supposed to respond to that? “Communication generally happens as a back-and-forth transaction. When someone asks, I answer.”

  “Maybe you should break that habit.”

  Ryker parted his lips to respond but stopped. He couldn’t get a read on if Timothée was insulting him or joking. Note to self: never play poker with him.

  A long silence extended before Timothée spoke again. “You like having siblings?”

  Ryker shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “What do you mean suppose? It was a yes or no question.”

  “Then yes.”

  “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

  “Well, if I didn’t, there’s nothing I can do about it. No one asked me, seeing how I’m the youngest. Besides, they’ve always been around. I don’t know what it feels like without them. Would I enjoy not having siblings?” He hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know. They’re irritating at times.”

  Timothée moved his head in a barely detectible nod. After a pause, he said softly, “I don’t have siblings.”

  Ryker already knew that. What he hadn’t known was Timothée’s regret about it. Ryker detected it in his voice and saw it in his face.

  “There’s a brotherhood in hockey, isn’t there?”

  “Allegedly,” Timothée answered.

  “What about cousins?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you have any you’re close to?”

  “My mother was an only child. So were both her parents.”

  “What about your fath—”

  “Did it break your foot?” Timothée interrupted.

  Ryker blinked at the rapid change of subject. Okay, father talk is off-limits. “Broke two toes and dislocated one.”

  “And you cried, didn’t you?”

  “I was four.”

  “That’s no excuse. I fell out of a sycamore and fractured my ulna in two places at that age. Not one tear.”

  “Don’t move.” Glenda patted him on the shoulder, reminding Ryker of her presence, and stepped away from the massage table to a dark tub with circular cutouts in the corner of the room. She’d massaged her way up his body without his noticing, and some of the tension had eased from him. However, when she returned, Ryker’s eyes bugged as he somersaulted off the massage table. His flailing limbs knocked bottles of essential oils and scented lotions off a nearby counter. They crashed and pinged around him like a napalm air assault. Colorful squirts of liquids sprayed his legs. He plummeted to the floor with a thud.

  “Bitch on a cracker!” he yelled, his eyes fixated on the six-foot albino python Glenda held. He scooted on his rear as fast as he could toward the door.

  Timothée burst into laughter.

  “No,” Glenda soothed. “Look.” She slid her hand down the snake. “She won’t hurt you. It’s part of the deep massage package.”

  Ryker snatched the towel to cover his nakedness and shook his head vehemently. The towel snagged an overturned lamp. “Screw that. Keep that thing away from me.” He stopped squirming when his back pressed against the wall.

  “You squeal like a little bitch choir chick,” Timothée choked out between gasps for oxygen. “The name of the place is Exotic Massages. What did you expect?”

  “Handcuffs and blindfolds. Maybe a whip or two.”

  Timothée sat up and doubled with laughter. “You’re a kinky one.”

  “Oh leave me alone.” Ryker scrambled to his feet, yanked open the door, and marched bare ass, cupping his family jewels, down the hall to the dressing room, leaving the three remaining occupants in stitches.

  8

  Timothée

  Timothée spotted Ryker seated on a brick wall in the dog park across from the massage parlor, creating a picturesque view. Ryker sat motionless, the sunlight glinting on his hair and making him appear younger—innocent. Well, he couldn’t be that innocent if he knew about handcuffs and whips.

  An impish smirk twitched at Timothée’s lips. Does Ryker like that sort of thing? Could be interesting. The sight of his firm ass jogging down the hall certainly hadn’t been lost on Timothée. And the way he’d flipped off the massage table. The boy could move—agile and quick. Timothée never found that to be a bad thing.

  Ryker stared at his scuffed Oxfords, and Timothée w
ondered what stories those shoes could tell. What’s it like to take a stroll in Ryker’s Oxfords?

  Timothée crossed the street and approached the agent, stifling the remainder of his smirk when Ryker cast a fleeting glance up and saw him before looking away. Despite Ryker not looking amused or inviting, his jaw tight and stubborn, Timothée sat beside him. This was his first time being this close to him, and he noticed Ryker’s lashes were longer than he’d thought at first glance due to being gilded at the tips. Timothée forced himself not to be distracted by the heat emitting from Ryker’s body.

  “I take it you aren’t fond of snakes,” Timothée said, adjusting his sunglasses.

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “I guess that makes me a jackass for laughing.”

  “You’re a jackass regardless.”

  “Do you talk to all your clients like that?”

  “Sor—” The apology died on Ryker’s lips when he looked up and saw Timothée smiling. “No other client has ever served me as a ratatouille entrée to a slithery beast.”

  “Pish. It wasn’t large enough to eat you—at least not without bursting. I mean, it could swallow your head but definitely not your shoulders.”

  “Perfect. I’d be giving him head.” He pinched his thumb against his other fingers, kissed the tips, and flung his hand open. “Chef’s kiss.”

  Timothée snickered and resisted the urge to brush the lock of hair that had fallen out of place and partly covered Ryker’s left eye. “The parlor only uses Burmese. It’s the reticulated that would cause a need for concern, and they’re too bulky to be handled that way.”

  “I don’t care if it was a miniature, fangless garden snake. I don’t want a legless dinosaur slithering all over me.”

  “Snake massages are proven to be therapeutic.”

  “To whom? Medusa?”

  “Lots of people. It stimulates the vagus nerve.”

  “I didn’t drive here to have my vagus tickled.”

  “Yes, I see your little briefcase.” Timothée motioned to the computer bag lying beside Ryker.

  “Timothée, you called me. I came to work, not for a reptilian assault.”

  Timothée chuckled. “Oh, you are dramatic.”

  “Well….” Ryker’s lips quirked at the corners. “Maybe it was a little much.”

  “I suppose we all add a smidgen of lagniappe flare from time to time.” Timothée rubbed his palms on his jeans as he studied Ryker, noticing his dimples—not deep, but enough to create an indentation in his clean-shaven cheeks. And speaking of clean-shaven, except for the hair on his head and eyebrows, Ryker didn’t have hair anywhere—which substantiated Timothée’s assumption of him being a swimmer. Timothée had never been with a hairless man before, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t up for the adventure. “And maybe I should have prepared you,” he stated gently.

  “A heads-up would have been courteous.”

  “As opposed to a bottom-up.” As Timothée angled his head to face Ryker, sunlight glanced off the tint of his sunglasses. “You know”—he drew a bouncing motion in the air with his index finger—“when you flipped off the table and mooned everyone.”

  Ryker shot Timothée a scathing glare.

  “Too soon?” Timothée asked.

  “Yeah,” Ryker answered, swiping his hand through his hair. “But go ahead. It’s in your nature.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You may be a forward, but you’re extremely defensive. I watched a lot of your postgame interview footage. You always deflect personal questions.”

  “That’s because they’re supposed to be about what happened in the game and not if I like planting petunias and begonias.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Like planting petunias and begonias. I’m banking you do.”

  “And what makes you form that conclusion?”

  “It’s an odd choice of flowers. You could have said roses or tulips or any floral more common.”

  “You’re grasping.”

  “Am I?” Ryker asked. The green of his eyes was a deeper shade closer to the pupil than the rim. “Care to wager?”

  “It’s irrelevant.”

  “No, the problem is you think it is. Timothée, you’re a public figure, and people want to know who you are. But all you allow them to see is that you’re….”

  “I’m what? Finish the sentence.”

  “That you’re a narcissistic, egotistical brat. Your actions speak volumes, and when you do finally open your mouth, it’s to piss people off.”

  The information was nothing new to Timothée. However, people—especially ones who worked for him—rarely spoke to him that way. Ordinarily, he’d fire the person and be done with it. However, the honesty in Ryker’s face indicated he wasn’t being spiteful. Besides, Timothée didn’t need anything sugarcoated for him. “There you have it.”

  Ryker sighed. “Why don’t we deal with what we need to so you can get back to your massage?”

  “That’s done.”

  “Then we can get started.”

  Timothée groaned. “Can’t you take care of it?”

  Ryker rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can oversee it, but I’m going to need your input. Plus, it’s not going to read well with the public if it looks like you’re indifferent.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  “You have to go to Mandeville.”

  “I can’t do that.” Timothée’s admission was completely raw.

  “Yes you can. You have to.”

  No the hell I don’t. “Says who in what dictatorship? According to my driver’s license, I’m over the age to make my own decisions.”

  “Do you want to salvage your career or not?”

  The taste in Timothée’s mouth soured, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck raised. His heart pounded with trepidation, although it should have come as no surprise to him that he would be expected to do as much. But that was the thing about being irrational. While he knew he was being irrational, he couldn’t force himself to be rational. That switch in his mind simply wouldn’t flip.

  “When?” Timothée asked in a reluctant, guilt-stricken tone.

  “My calendar’s clear.”

  “I have a game next week.”

  “Today, then. Your schedule is clear, and don’t bother asking how I know.”

  Out of excuses, Timothée nodded, and he could have sworn he saw a look of relief cross Ryker’s face. He observed the agent again. “Aren’t you la petite bourrique? You don’t let people get away with much, do you?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You call out their bullshit.”

  Ryker chuckled. “Only when warranted.”

  “Well, I pity your girlfriend for that.”

  “I’m single, but if I weren’t, it would be boyfriend.”

  Holy hell! Game changer. The words jolted Timothée’s body full with erotic shock waves that nearly tumbled him from the brick wall and had his cock ramming against his jeans. How had he missed that tasty morsel of information? Yes, he’d been fantasizing about Ryker, but he hadn’t expected him to be a genuine possibility. Timothée had flipped a few straight men in his time but hadn’t considered that as an option with Ryker. In fact, he hadn’t considered much in the options with Ryker. Besides, flipping didn’t appeal much to Timothée. Most of the straight men he’d encountered interested in it barely breached being brave enough to experience the tip of the iceberg—some petting and maybe oral. Timothée preferred his partners to be all in. And if someone was going to be in his ass, that person damn sure needed to know what he was doing.

  Or maybe Ryker was mocking him. No, that didn’t make sense. Although not closeted, few people knew about Timothée’s sexual orientation. In truth, he hadn’t disclosed it to some of his closest friends. Besides, why would Ryker out himself for a joke or want to tease Timothée? Plus, the casualness with which Ryker had confessed it led Timothée to hypothe
size that he wasn’t newly out.

  Timothée watched Ryker watch him, something curious and confused in his expression. Neither spoke for a while until Timothée broke the ice.

  “It’s redundant.”

  “What is?” Ryker asked.

  “By default, all narcissists are egotistical.”

  “Is that what you care about? Redundancy?”

  “Well….” Timothée shrugged. “I like having my own style, original.”

  “Is that why you have such a highfalutin stick?”

  Timothée’s face contorted to a sullen disc. “Plenty of players have custom sticks.”

  “With yours being the most expensive in the league.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because I’ve seen your contract, and the special provision that the team purchase that specific stick for you.”

  “It’s about performance.”

  Ryker scoffed. “It’s about ego. There are less expensive custom designs.”

  “You don’t know diddly-squat about hockey. If you did, you’d know you don’t change anything that’s working. The stick works.”

  “Enemas work, too, but players aren’t lining up to negotiate them into their contracts.”

  “I’ll have you know I won my first national championship using that design stick.” Timothée wiggled his fingers, flashing two of his championship rings.

  As Ryker leaned in to get a closer look, Timothée inhaled his scent—fresh, clean, and manly.

  “I’ve never seen one up close,” Ryker admitted.

  “I worked my entire life for these.” His expression grew somber. “Do you know what it’s like to have someone try to undermine and destroy something you’ve worked so hard to obtain?”

  “Yeah.” Ryker nodded. “I do.”

  “Then you know it sucks.”

  “Which is why I’m going to see that it doesn’t happen to you.” Ryker slid off the wall and patted Timothée’s knee. “Come on. We need to hit the road if we want to get to Mandeville before everything closes.”

  Timothée released a deep breath, trying to decide if he could go through with this. It’d been so long since he’d been to Mandeville, and even longer since he’d been to his parents’ estate. He rolled his head back and stared up at the sky as a way to stall.