by Sarina Bowen
But when she checked his expression, her confidence faltered. O’Doul was the only player who walked into her treatment room wearing the same expression that another man might wear to have a tooth extracted.
“Good afternoon,” she said, hopping down as he took off his coat.
He turned to face her the way a guy might face the firing squad. “Afternoon.”
“I’ll step out while you change,” Ari said, placing a folded sheet on the table. “If you’d feel more comfortable you can leave your undergarments on. When you’re ready, lie down on the table, using the extra sheet as a cover.”
“Got it,” he said, pulling his team sweatshirt over his head.
Ari stepped out of the room for a moment. She tied up her hair and fetched a bottle of massage oil off the warmer where she’d left it. Then she took a minute to close her eyes and visualize how she wanted the hour to go.
The team often snickered when she led them through visualization exercises, but Ari knew their power. It was hard to achieve something if you couldn’t imagine it working. With her back to the door, she first formed his name in her mind. Patrick. When meditating on her clients’ needs, she always used first names because they seemed more personal. When you put your hands on someone’s body, it was personal whether you wanted it to be or not.
Today I’m healing Patrick.
In her mind’s eye, he relaxed on the table. With firm but gentle hands, she’d probe his trouble spots. She pictured his hip flexor muscles, overlapping one another, the nerves stretching toward his groin in one direction and around to his lumbar spine in the other. She visualized her hands bringing him comfort, easing the strain, recruiting the deeper hip flexors. She’d try to ease any pressure he’d been shifting to his lower back. At the end of the hour, he’d be looser and more flexible. He’d feel more confident whenever he moved.
Ari opened her eyes. She could help Patrick if he’d let her. She knocked twice before reentering the room.
“C’mon in,” came the gruff response.
She let herself in, then stopped for a moment at the stereo she kept on the countertop. She cued up a playlist and then washed her hands. “Daughter” began to emerge from the little set of speakers she kept on the counter.
“Pearl Jam?” he asked from the table.
“You don’t like it?” she asked. She would have figured him for a grunge rock guy. He was thirty-two years old with a macho streak a mile wide.
“No, I love it,” he chuckled. “Once I tried to get a massage at a hotel, and they were playing harp music. My ears were bleeding.”
“Okay, no harps. Got it.” Ari approached the table and looked her client over. Bodies were an everyday sight for a massage therapist. But this was a particularly stunning example. All athletes were muscular but O’Doul was cut. Even lying flat on a table he looked like a tightly coiled spring, ready for sudden physical exertion. The sheet had been casually draped across his waist, but everywhere else rippling muscle was visible, from his stacked shoulders to his thick calves.
He tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “How long does this take?”
Ari laughed in spite of herself. “Sixty minutes, usually. And I haven’t killed anyone yet. I swear.”
“Okay. Sorry.” His mouth formed a tight line.
Right. Ari rubbed her hands together to warm them. She was oddly self-conscious for someone who gave six or more massages a day. “I’m going to ease toward your hip flexor strain, okay? I’ll want to relax the surrounding muscles, so they don’t contribute to your pain. You’ll let me know if anything hurts, and if you don’t approve of the pressure.” She folded the sheet back to reveal his thigh. She patted his knee to announce her presence, then used her left hand to palm his lower quad, and her right to slowly manipulate the muscle just above his kneecap.
Slowly she worked her way up the outside of his hip. So far, so good. “Just checking in, here. How’s the pressure?”
“Okay,” he said tightly.
Hmm. Not exactly a rave review. She worked on, and eventually he closed his eyes and sighed, which was always a good sign. If there were no risk of being caught acting silly, she would have given herself a victorious fist pump.
Taking her time, she loosened up all the ancillary muscles, the ones bordering his trouble spot. Her beat-up old iPod played a Red Hot Chili Peppers song and then transitioned back to Pearl Jam again.
All was right with the world until Ari moved her hands closer to Patrick’s inner hip. One by one, all his muscles tightened up until his entire body had the consistency of a concrete block.
“Patrick,” she said quietly, and his eyes flew open. “Are you in pain? Massage doesn’t have to hurt to do you good.”
“No pain,” he said quickly.
Liar. “You’re fighting me, though. Why is that?”
“Uh,” he pressed himself up on an elbow, causing his chest muscles to ripple. “That’s the . . . trouble spot, right? Why would I want someone touching it?” The expression on his face was cautious for once.
“Well . . .” Ari replayed the words he’d just spoken, trying to find a clue to his reluctance. “Because I can help you? I won’t hurt you, I promise. Careful massage can reduce inflammation, and relax surrounding muscles, too. Is it possible that you had a bad experience with massage before?”
He gave his head a shake, as if her suggestion did not compute. “Nah. I just don’t like having, uh, weak spots.”
“Everyone does, though, right?”
“I suppose. But I don’t grab yours.”
She put a hand on his muscular wrist, the way she would anyone. But his eyes traveled down to that spot immediately, and she wondered if she’d just made another mistake. Had any other client ever been such a mystery?
“Hey,” she tried. “You told me a few minutes ago that you’d tried to get a massage at a hotel once. What happened that time?”
“Didn’t work out.” He gave her a wry grin. “It’s not you, I swear.”
“Why didn’t it work out? Besides the harps. Why did you book a massage?”
He gave what was supposed to be a casual shrug. “I’d slept funny on the jet, and my neck hurt. No big deal. So I booked a massage at the spa. Left after ten minutes. I guess I just don’t like hands on me.”
“You don’t like to be touched.”
He looked at his hands. “It isn’t my favorite thing, no.”
The hair stood up on the back of Ari’s neck, and she had to restrain herself from asking why. Not liking to be touched wasn’t a common attitude. “Everybody’s different,” she said softly. “But we still have to work on your hip flexors. I have one idea that might help you.”
“Good.” He made a sheepish face. “Because I’m fresh out.”
She patted his wrist again—intentionally. If they were going to work together, he needed to become at least a little more accustomed to being touched. “Let’s try a more active technique. It will feel more like a gym exercise and less like massage. Can you roll onto your good side and bend your knee for me?”
He complied, turning his broad back to her. She adjusted his bottom leg to be somewhat straight, and then wrapped her hand around his right ankle. “Bend this knee a little more for me.” He did. “All right. I’m going to brace your outer hip. Like this.” She gripped the muscle as far in as she’d gotten before he’d begun fighting her touch. “And you’re going to put your own hand on the trouble spot. Show me.”
He pushed his fingertips into his flesh between his hip and his groin.
“Now, don’t use your back.” She tapped the muscles of his lower back. “Don’t activate these. Instead, use your hip and leg. Press down and straighten that leg. Go.”
With a lazy-sounding rumble from his chest, he did as she’d instructed.
“Good! How’d that feel?” She dug her
hands into the accessible muscle at his hip, warming it, working it as best she could.
“Not too bad.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, captain, right?”
He chuckled for the first time. “No, ma’am.”
“Ugh. You ma’amed me like an old woman. Just for that you’re going to do it four more times.” She grabbed his ankle again. “Bend.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For that? Six times.”
“Yes, master.” She watched the taut muscles of his back shake with laughter.
Ari placed her hands on his body again, her palm warmed by the taut skin of his lower back, the fingers of her other hand gripping his sturdy hip through the thin cotton of his navy blue briefs. “Ready, big guy?”
“Ready,” he rumbled.
“Push and go.” Together they worked around his trouble spot while he extended his leg. And the sigh he let out was a good sign. “Okay?”
“Yeah. It feels a little looser than it did a half hour ago.”
Ari’s small victory was like a warm tingle in her chest. Smiling, she made him repeat the exercise a few more times. “Now roll onto your stomach,” she insisted. “For fifteen minutes I want you to pretend you enjoy massage. Just to stroke my ego, okay?”
Chuckling, he rolled over. She spread a bit of oil on her hands and went to work on his calves, slowly working her way up to his hamstrings. Bit by bit she felt his body relax beneath her touch. “How am I doing?” she asked. “Feel free to lie.”
“Aw. This is the best massage I’ve had all year.”
She let out an unladylike snort. “This is the only one, right?”
“Yeah, but still.” He rolled his handsome face into the crook of his arm and sighed again.
Skipping his hips, she went to work on the muscles at the juncture of his lower back and his rather beautiful ass. “Do you have much pain here? The risk with a hip strain is that you’ll overcompensate by using your lower back.”
“By the end of a game, I’m feeling it there for sure.”
The honest answer surprised her. She gave him a pat on the back. “Okay. At your next visit, we’ll keep working on these trouble spots. Each time you put on a burst of speed on the ice, you demand a lot from these muscles. If we keep you loose, it’s going to help. I’m going to work into your hip a little now—but only from the back. And I’m not going to hurt you. And you’re lying on the trouble spot, right? No one can touch it.” She hoped his defensive position on the table would prevent him from tensing up.
“Got it. Do your worst.”
They were tough words from a tough guy, but now she knew better. Patrick O’Doul had some serious issues with having hands on his body. His reluctance probably stemmed from a refusal to make himself vulnerable.
She could work around that, though. She’d have to.
Eddie Vedder sang “Black” through her speakers and Ari hummed along, rolling the waistband of his briefs down just an inch, giving her better access to his skin. She oiled up her hands again and leaned into him, closing her eyes, applying all of her strength to the task at hand. Muscle and bone pressed against muscle and bone. Skin met skin. She let the oil do its work, reducing friction, bringing her hands into better contact with the body she was trying so hard to heal.
That’s when she felt it—finally—that beautiful connection, the moment when the client opens himself up to the treatment. He seemed to go slack beneath her, his muscles relaxing beneath the rhythm of her hands. If it wouldn’t have disturbed his newfound peace, she would have hooted in victory.
She finished up the massage at his big shoulders, now supple. His eyes were heavy. His breathing was steady. And if she checked his pulse, she knew she’d find it at a slow, relaxed rate.
It almost seemed mean when she had to pat the back of his neck gently and tell him that time was up.
His eyes widened. “Okay,” he said a little sleepily. “Thanks.”
“Here,” she said, placing a towel on the edge of the table. “You don’t want to get massage oil on your clothes.”
She turned her back and washed her hands at the little sink in the corner, giving him a moment alone to peel himself up off the table and gather his things. “See you tomorrow in Detroit,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll text you a location. I think we’ll be at the hotel.”
“Right. I’ll be on time,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”
“Be well!” As he opened the door to leave, she stole a look at his face. The expression she found there tugged at her heart. It was a little dazed, as if he couldn’t quite make sense of how he’d spent the last hour. She gave him a smile, and the corners of his rugged mouth turned up, too.
Then he was gone, probably to the showers. The hot water would do him some more good and keep him loose. But it would also give him a few minutes to pull himself together. Somehow it hadn’t been easy for O’Doul to let someone touch his body. But he’d done it. He’d let down his guard. Now he’d have to pull it back up again for game night. In a few hours he was expected to mow down the visiting team from Washington D.C., and maybe take a few punches to amuse the fans.
Although Ari found some aspects of hockey barbaric, she had tremendous respect for the competitive demands these men placed on both their bodies and their psyches. While she was donning her coat and wondering what to eat for dinner before the game, two dozen men would think of nothing but victory for the next seven hours. Cameras would follow their every move on the ice, then reporters would argue afterwards about their odds of making the play-offs for the first time since Nate Kattenberger bought the team.
Ari walked home, heading north toward the tiny Brooklyn neighborhood of Vinegar Hill where the streets were brick and the buildings were barely three stories high. The houses here were smaller and older than in almost any other part of Brooklyn. The townhouse where Ari lived dated back to the Civil War. Someone had put a rather pedestrian brick facade on it during the sixties, which dimmed some of its charm. But as Ari approached from a block away, its blue-painted wooden door beckoned her home.
She was lucky as hell to live here. The building was worth a couple of million dollars at least, in spite of the Con Edison substation blocking the entire neighborhood from having a decent view of the river. The townhouse belonged to Ari’s great-uncle. He and the rest of her Italian family had decamped for Florida a decade ago. She paid only a very modest monthly rent in exchange for looking after the building.
As she approached, though, she saw something that made her slow down. The back end of her ex’s dark-red van was visible just around the corner. The sight of it made her stomach ache instinctively, but its presence wasn’t necessarily bad news.
Three days ago she’d sent him an ultimatum—an e-mail notifying him that he had two days to finally clear the rest of his belongings out of her storage room. He hadn’t replied at all. Just this morning she’d been wondering what to do about it.
If Vince was finally clearing out his junk from her basement, that was progress.
Ari dug out her keys—still shiny from their newness—and covered the rest of the block quickly. She jogged up the four steps to her front door and unlocked the brand new deadbolt. Then she closed and locked the door. And listened.
The only voices she could make out were muffled, and coming from the rear of the building. She set her bag down at the foot of her staircase and tip-toed through the dining room and on into the kitchen, stopping only to kick off her boots to silence the sound of footsteps on her hardwood floors. She hung back near the old refrigerator, taking a cautious, oblique glimpse out the back window.
Nothing.
Her heart was racing for no good reason. Vince was outside and she was inside, behind the safety of new locks. His presence unsettled her nonetheless. Vince Giardi was the embodiment of her worst, most embarrassing mistake. The grandmother who’d helped rais
e her—God rest her soul—had been right about Vince. Thank you, Nonna. Sorry it took me eight years to notice.
Ari leaned against the fridge, its hum at her back, and took a six-count breath, expanding her diaphragm. She wouldn’t let Vince get her riled up today. There was no need, anyway.
She heard the distinctive slam of the exterior basement door, and stood on tiptoe to take another peek out the window. A beanie hat appeared. But when the man came into view, it most certainly wasn’t Vince. That was obvious even with the guy’s back to her. He was thin and wearing dirty jeans. Vince would never dress like that. And, damn it, the man wasn’t carrying anything. If there were strangers coming in and out of her basement storage room, they’d better have moving boxes containing Vince’s clothing and video games.
Damn. It. All. Now what?
More than a month had passed since the awful weekend their relationship had finally ended after an epic fight. Her flight was late in from Ottawa, and she’d gotten home to find Vince waiting up for her, drunk and angry. He wanted to know where she’d been. Why hadn’t she called?
This was nothing new, sadly. As soon as she’d taken the job with the Brooklyn Bruisers, things had headed downhill. But that awful night he didn’t bother to couch his jealous little jabs behind a tense chuckle. He flat out accused her of sleeping with hockey players.
Even as she’d taken out her phone with shaky hands to show him the official arrival time of their charter flight on her Katt Phone, she’d understood that he’d finally gone too far. That she couldn’t live under a cloud of pointless suspicion anymore. It ended right then, even if Vince didn’t know it yet. But instead of playing it cool like a smart girl, she’d raised her voice. Blame it on her Italian heritage, but her top blew right off. “I shouldn’t have to prove it, Vince,” she’d said angrily. “If you think I’m a cheat, then leave me already! Walk out the fucking door! Just stop this!”
He did stop it—by grabbing both her wrists and shoving her toward the stairs. In her wool socks, she’d slipped. Heart-stopping fear rose up in her throat as the staircase sliced into view. Her head bounced off the wall as she grabbed for the carved antique bannister.