Hard Hitter

by Sarina Bowen

  “It’s all the good part,” Becca pointed out. “But you’d better reply or he’ll be knocking on your door five minutes from now.”

  Hell, he might be. So she did. Watching a movie with Becca and she’s staying the night.

  Nice. Are you going to have as much fun with her as you did with me?

  Oh, boy. She was just about to text stop it when Becca grabbed the phone out of her hands.

  “He’s flirting with you!” she squealed. Then she started typing.

  “This is so high school,” Ari complained, grabbing for the phone. Becca dodged her and managed to press send before relinquishing the phone. “What the hell did you do?” Becca’s text said, Want to wash? “Wash what? You’re going to get me fired.”

  Becca giggled. “It was supposed to say watch. Damn autocorrect.”

  Her phone chirped with a new text and Ari groaned. “I’m afraid to look.”

  “I’ll look!” Becca made a grab, but Ari didn’t fall for it. She held on tight and read the text.

  Becca got your phone, huh?

  Ari snorted with laughter. Yes and now I shall beat her with it.

  Tell her she’s got me thinking about shower sex now. And you’ve seen my shower. Ari’s stomach flipped over.

  “You’ve seen his shower?” Becca asked, blatantly reading over her shoulder. “I thought he didn’t let people into his apartment?”

  Gotta go, she typed speedily. See you tomorrow. It was abrupt, but she needed to end this conversation.

  Night, sweetheart, came the quick reply.

  Becca made a motion like stabbing herself in the heart. “I can’t even with this. Who knew O’Doul was a romantic?”

  Ari picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV with the eager grip of a cop show criminal holding his gun. “More Tatum. Less talking.”

  * * *

  The ten thirty time slot on Ari’s treatment schedule the next day belonged to Patrick O’Doul.

  By the time his appointment approached, Ari was ready. She had the stereo switched off and her game face on. Before she began his massage therapy, she would greet the elephant in the room, acknowledge its presence, and then show it the door.

  At ten thirty sharp he sauntered in wearing nothing but a towel, his hair damp from the shower, his skin glowing with a life force which she’d experienced the other night at very close range . . .

  Focus, Ari. “Good morning,” she said with the same firmness she greeted all her clients. “How are your hip flexors feeling today?”

  Before answering, he shut the door and faced her. She was keenly aware that nothing separated her from the potent look in his eye except a not-so-wide massage table and a towel. It was as if he’d failed to hear the cool, businesslike tone of her greeting. He studied her the way she looked at the cupcakes in the case at One Girl Cookies—like she was a well-deserved snack he was about to gobble down. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said slowly. “You doing okay?”

  Gulp. “I’m doing well,” she said, trying to remember what it was she had rehearsed saying. “I got an order of protection, and hired a process server to track Vince down to serve it. And the lawyer Becca recommended is ready to step in if the cops try to tie me to any of Vince’s shady dealings.”

  “That’s good,” Patrick said, never breaking her gaze. His intensity made her knees feel squishy. Eventually he dropped his towel and slid onto the table, releasing her from that laser stare, thankfully. “No Pearl Jam today?”

  “Um, I can turn it on.” She tossed another towel over his midsection before it became tempting to stare. “After we have a quick chat.”

  His eyes lifted to hers again, and he looked almost amused. “What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s about the other night. We can’t have a repeat performance.”

  “Of course not,” he said, letting out a wolfish chuckle.

  For a split second she was actually disappointed at how quickly he’d agreed. But then she caught herself and remembered to be relieved.

  “. . . I mean, not an exact repeat,” he added. “I like to mix it up a little. The shower sounds good. Up against the wall.”

  “Patrick,” she warned. “I’m not joking. We obviously have a bit of chemistry . . .” She rubbed a bit of oil onto her fingers and then started in on the muscles just above his knee.

  He snorted. “We have a bit of chemistry. And hockey has a bit of violence. We practically burned down your bed together.”

  Did we ever. “Be that as it may, I need this job. It’s the only part of my life that didn’t just implode.”

  He reached down to squeeze her wrist before releasing it. “I would never jeopardize your job.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I call bullshit. If you want to give me the brush-off you’re going to have to do a little better than that flimsy excuse.”

  “It isn’t flimsy! I have it on good authority that Nate doesn’t like his staff, um . . .”

  “. . . Making the players come so hard they see stars?”

  “I would have put it differently. But yes.”

  He grinned. “And yet Georgia is marrying Leo. I don’t see her looking for a new job.”

  “Her dad is the coach? Hello?” She rolled his towel toward his crotch and kept working. “You seem tight today,” she said suddenly.

  “It wore off, I guess. Your latest treatment.”

  “Well, it’s been a few days since you were on the table.”

  “That’s not the treatment I meant.”

  She let go of his leg. “Don’t make that joke.” It came out a little too sharply. “I’m not a prude, and I don’t think it’s all that big of a deal to, um, get carried away one night with a friend from work. But this here”—she indicated the room—“is my professional space. I wouldn’t ever touch a client inappropriately. It would violate the trust that you give me when you climb onto my table. And I’m sorry if that sounds really nitpicky, but the distinction matters to me.” When she stopped to take a breath, she realized what a rant she’d just spewed out, damn it. “Sorry.”

  But Patrick’s eyes became soft and lazy. “I understand, baby. I won’t tease you anymore.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not here, anyway.” She gave him a glare and he laughed. “Can I have Pearl Jam, at least? I’ll be a good boy.”

  “Yes, you can.” She tapped the iPod with her knuckle, to avoid getting massage oil on it. “Now tell me why you’re so stiff, without using any innuendo.”

  “You take all my fun away. Fine. Tonight we play Buffalo and I have to fight this asshole Falzgar.”

  “And you’re not looking forward to it,” she guessed.

  “Can’t say that I am.”

  “Let’s work those hip flexors, shall we? Roll to the side.”

  She noticed that this time he let her really probe the muscles that had been bothering him. He didn’t even flinch. Either he was feeling better or trusting her more. Maybe both. She worked on both his hips and then asked him to flip onto his stomach.

  Except for the music, it was quiet in the treatment room. In spite of the raging attraction she felt towards him, it really wasn’t that difficult to stay in the zone and handle him with the same care and efficiency she’d show any client. The playlist rolled on in the background while Patrick relaxed under her touch. When she worked on his lower back he sighed with appreciation.

  Then a song came on that she would rather not have heard. So she took a second to tap a knuckle against the iPod again. But instead of advancing the song, she paused the music entirely.

  Patrick lifted his eyes from the face cradle. “Something the matter? I thought you liked ‘Better Man’?”

  “Eh. That song isn’t my favorite right now.”

  His expression turning thoughtful, he balanced his cheek on the table. “It hits too close t
o home?”

  It did, actually. And since he knew her torrid little story, there was no point in lying. “The girl in the song stays with a guy who isn’t good to her. I never thought I was that girl, and then I was.”

  His eyes went all soft again. “This is a serious problem now. We can’t let that asshole put you off a perfectly good Pearl Jam tune.”

  “I’ll manage.” Ari was pretty sure she’d put herself off it.

  “No, babe.” He propped himself up on an elbow, which ruined her work.

  “Turn over if you’re going to talk. You’re wrecking your alignment.”

  He flipped over. “The thing is, I think you’ve misinterpreted the song.”

  “I really don’t think so.”

  “That song is really about a girl who’s making some toast.”

  “Toast?” Her hands paused on his shoulder.

  His cool blue eyes twinkled up at her. “Yeah. See, she’s standing in front of the refrigerator. And she”—he broke into song—“can’t find the butter, man! She can’t find the butter, maa-aa-aan.”

  “Oh. My god,” she laughed. “That is the worst pun ever.”

  He lifted a hand and pushed a lock of hair away from her face. “You’re smiling now, though. So I think I did okay.”

  Ari felt the moment stretch and take hold. His eyes smiled up at her, and a flush of gratitude filled her chest. Even if it had been a mistake to sleep with him, Patrick O’Doul was a valuable and unexpected friend.

  He dropped his hand to his side, still smiling. “I think I’m getting the hang of this massage thing. You schooled me.”

  She moved behind his head and worked on his well-developed neck muscles. “You could teach a course on how to get a massage.”

  He snorted. “Massage for Dummies. Chapter one—how to lie on a table and let a beautiful woman touch your naked body.”

  She tapped his shoulder. “Don’t do that—don’t make fun of yourself for not liking it. Everyone is different.”

  His eyes slid closed. “But I do like it now. Don’t even think about quitting this place, because I’m used to you.”

  “I have no plans to quit. It’s too much fun making a room full of hockey players do sun salutations.”

  “Doesn’t it bug you, though?” he asked quietly. “You teach us a whole lot of Zen shit, and then we use it to beat the crap out of each other.”

  “I want business cards with that title—Teacher of Zen Shit.”

  His eyes rolled up to find hers. “You know what I mean.”

  “It doesn’t bother me at all. In the first place, there’s plenty I admire about your team. The dedication to success is impressive. And I like working with people who understand their bodies. I never have to convince an athlete that a mind-body connection exists. You guys all get it.”

  “But you still hate the fighting,” he prompted.

  “The fighting isn’t my favorite,” she admitted. “But I don’t think it’s your favorite either.”

  “Not all the time,” he admitted. “The hours before a fight are the worst. I spend a lot of time worrying about how to make this guy my bitch without getting too hurt, while he tries to make me his bitch without getting hurt.”

  “So you get anxious.”

  He made a face. “It’s more like dread.”

  “Okay, dread.” Because macho men weren’t allowed to experience anxiety. “Maybe we can find you a meditation for those hours. Something that redirects your energy in a more positive way.”

  His expression was skeptical. “I don’t think I’m very good at meditating.”

  “Neither am I,” Ari said. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t helping. An old Buddhist monk told me once that the mind is like an untrained monkey. If you don’t give it something to do, it will tear your house apart and smear shit on all the walls.”

  “Really?” On the table in front of her, Patrick’s eight-pack shook with laughter. “I want to meet this monk.”

  “Really. He said meditation gives your monkey something better to do. Even if you think you’re bad at it, the monkey is still busy.”

  Patrick reached up and gave her wrist a squeeze. “I like your style, sweetheart. But I can’t always connect to the meditations you give us during yoga. It’s like I can’t shut off my cynical brain. You tell me to soar like an eagle, and I’m thinking, there aren’t any eagles in Brooklyn.”

  “Uh-huh. So you need the Brooklyn version of a guided meditation? More trash on the beach? Fuhggeddaboudit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can do that. Close your eyes.”

  He closed them.

  She lay both hands lightly on his shoulders. “I want you to listen to my voice,” she said, using a soft voice and a nice, even tone. “Do your best to follow my instructions. Take a deep, slow breath and will yourself to be fully here, inside the moment.”

  His belly began to expand with breath.

  “. . . Make a calm space inside yourself for your breath. Let the inhale fill you with strength. On the exhale, I want you to gradually expel all the bullshit of the external world.”

  He opened one eye and looked up at her, then closed it again.

  “That’s it,” she urged. “Center your awareness on your breathing. If you find your mind wandering to other thoughts, simply acknowledge that all is fucking horseshit. Let it go. Listen to your inner stillness. Breathe in calm. Exhale bullshit.”

  His belly was shaking with laughter now.

  “You think I’m not serious? Meditation can sound however you need it to. It’s your show, big man.” She patted his shoulder.

  He opened his eyes and smiled up at her again. “You are priceless. I hope you know that.”

  “Thank you,” she stammered, his compliment hitting her right in the chest, landing with an unfamiliar warmth. “And now unfortunately we are out of time.”

  But his words, spoken in that gravely, masculine voice she’d gotten so used to hearing, would stick with her for hours. You are priceless. I hope you know that. She hadn’t thought too highly of herself lately. It was nice to know that someone else did.

  THIRTEEN

  THURSDAY, MARCH 17TH

  Standings: 3rd Place

  13 Regular Season Games Left to Go

  Crikey took the damn fight after all.

  O’Doul didn’t know whether to laugh or punch something. After all the preparation and the usual hours of mental anguish, Crikey skated up to Falzgar in the first period and challenged him to throw down. They went at it like a couple of schoolyard bullies until they both landed on the ice where the refs broke it up.

  Crikey needed five stitches in his mug, but Brooklyn won their game that night. They were back in third place, too. And now the stupid punk kid was ordering shots all around at the Hicks Street bar and beating on his fool chest.

  “Hey!” Beringer crowed. “You have fifty-one percent on HockeyBrawls.com! I call that a win.”

  “I see fifty-one point four!” Beacon, the goalie, slapped the table. “Another beer for the point four!”

  O’Doul gave Beacon a pat on the back and took the bar stool next to him. They were both veterans, and since Beacon didn’t get many nights out at the bar, O’Doul tried to hang with the merriment and stupidity around him. But it took effort. After two rounds he was done. “Pete.” He handed his platinum card to the bartender. “I want to take care of whatever these assholes drink tonight. Can you run it now and just cash me out later? I’m sneakin’ out.”

  Pete waved off the card. “I’ll e-mail the bill to Rebecca. That’s what we did last time.”

  “Good man.”

  He made a stop in the men’s room, then went out the side door. On the sidewalk ahead of him walked a familiar form. So he put his fingers to his mouth and made a loud catcall.

  Ari turned her chin to give him a
glare, then did a double take. “You ass.”

  He laughed. “I answer to that all the time.”

  Arms folded, she waited for him to catch up. “Had enough scotch?”

  “Had plenty.”

  She studied him a little longer. “You okay?”

  “Course I am.” He put a hand to his hip. “Didn’t even have to take a punch tonight, so I’m solid.”

  Ari touched his face with one finger, at the side of his mouth. “This muscle looks unhappy, though.”

  He put a hand to her back to get them moving down the sidewalk. “It’s a weird night, that’s all.”

  “Are you pissed at Crikey for fighting?”

  Women’s intuition wasn’t just a myth. “I was. But he seems pretty happy with the outcome. I used to be just like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sort of incredulous about the whole thing. I was young and stupid and they paid me a half million dollars a year to do something that used to get me thrown out of school. I thought I’d cracked the secret code of the universe, you know? People wanted my autograph, even though I was really just a thug trying to smash his demons for high pay.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “But it got old?”

  “Fuck yeah. It’s hell on your body. And then it’s too late—you’re already that guy who fights. So you have to fight everybody for the rest of your career. I can’t just stop.”

  “Why not?”

  He was quiet for a moment, trying to explain it. “There’s no shame in being a player who doesn’t fight. A lot of guys just don’t know how, or they’re too valuable as snipers. If Bayer or Trevi fucked up his hand, it would be a scoring disaster. But if I start refusing to fight, I’m a guy who backs down. They’d say—look at that poor old fucker. He can’t take it. If people don’t see me like that I can still have another few years in the league.”

  “Maybe Crikey wants to take some of the pressure off you. If there’re two enforcers, neither of you has to do it all.”

  He chuckled. “Like a job share. If some hammerhead challenges me on the rink, I can just say, talk to Crikey. I don’t throw down on Thursdays.”