by Sarina Bowen
We are not together, Ari had said last night. The words didn’t leave a lot of room for argument. He tucked into his breakfast, wondering how he might change her mind.
Leo Trevi took the seat that Ari passed up, and Beringer, Beacon, and Castro filled in the rest of the table. “How’s tricks, captain?” Leo asked. “Didn’t see you at the bar last night.”
“Too tired,” he lied. If Ari wanted privacy, he’d do his best. “Hey—college boy. I got a question.”
“Shoot.”
“What do you do if the girl you’re meant to be with won’t date you?”
Leo laughed and put down his fork. “Well, if you’re me, you date people you really don’t like for five or six years until she comes around.”
“Huh.” It was nice to remember that even College Boy didn’t always have his shit together. But it didn’t help with his problem. “Who has a better answer?” he demanded of the table.
“Well,” Beacon said, pushing sausages around on his plate, “you can get her pregnant when you’re both eighteen and clueless.”
“Oh, man,” Castro said under his breath.
Beacon’s luck was widely acknowledged to be the worst on the team. He’d had an unhappy marriage to his high school sweetheart, then almost got divorced because both he and his wife were in love with other people. Before the paperwork went through, his poor wife was diagnosed with a really awful cancer that spent a long year killing her. Now, at thirty-two, he was a widower and a single father to a grieving thirteen-year-old daughter.
And one wondered why O’Doul had stayed single his whole life.
“Cap’n, why won’t this girl date you?” Beringer asked. “You’re not my type or anything, but I’ll bet the ladies see a rich guy who’s not too ugly. The world is full of women who’d make time in their schedule for you.”
He snorted. “Thanks, B. My face isn’t the problem. She just got out of a relationship that ended badly. Doesn’t wanna go back there.”
“That’s cool, though,” Castro argued. “You can just be her rebound guy. Plenty of sex, no commitment. Sounds good to me.”
“Nah,” O’Doul argued. “I want more.”
“But why?” Castro wanted to know. “In Canada we have this saying—you don’t need your own rink if you can get ice time for free.”
O’Doul took a deep drink of his coffee and wondered if anyone on his team knew a single thing about women.
“So, she just got out of a bad scene,” Leo Trevi said thoughtfully. “Maybe her ex had some bad habits. Maybe he didn’t treat her very well.”
You have no idea.
“. . . I think the solution might be to turn on the romance taps full blast, man. You have to woo her so she sees how different you are from the other loser.”
“Like . . . with candlelight and shit?” he asked.
“Maybe jewelry,” Castro suggested. “Chicks like bling.”
“Not all of them,” Leo pointed out. “My girl doesn’t like jewelry, because it gets in her way when she feels like punishing me on the tennis court.”
O’Doul considered and then immediately rejected the jewelry idea. Ari didn’t wear anything flashy. She sometimes wore a simple silver chain around her neck. He’d often caught himself admiring the way it sat against her slender throat.
But bling it was not.
“Okay, listen.” He slapped the table. “Jimbo!”
The younger man looked up from his pancakes. “Whaddaya need?”
“Get out the parking tickets. Every player gets one.”
“What? Why?” Castro griped.
“Everyone here owes me an idea. You all have five minutes to write down the best way to romance a woman. If your idea is decent, you don’t owe anything to the kitty. If your idea is shit, it’s a twenty dollar fine.”
There were several groans. Beacon took out his wallet, peeled off a twenty and tossed it over to Jimbo. “Let’s just save time.” But everyone else took a ticket from Jimbo as he passed them out.
“Doulie,” Castro complained. “We don’t know this chick. How are we supposed to guess what she likes?”
“She’s, uh . . .” He had to think of a way to describe her without giving her identity away. “Well, she’s smarter than me.” He held up a hand. “Don’t say it—that’s pretty much everyone.” That got him some chuckles. “Okay, she’s thoughtful. Classy. Not into bling.”
Castro shook his head. “Bummer. It’s easier when they’re into bling. Expensive, but easier.”
Pens were dug out of bags and shared. It was quiet for a moment while two dozen heads bent over their work. O’Doul finished his breakfast while his teammates wrote down their suggestions, and then Jimbo collected them.
“You have to read ’em out loud,” Castro demanded. “We’re entitled to a little entertainment for our trouble.”
“I’ll read ’em,” Jimbo volunteered. He picked up the first card, which was Leo’s. “Buy her treats from her favorite bakery.”
“Not bad, College Boy,” O’Doul said.
“Always works for me,” Leo shrugged.
If only O’Doul knew what Ari’s favorite treat was, it would be a winner. “Next.”
Jimbo flipped a ticket. “Write her a poem.”
“Christ, have you met me?” O’Doul grabbed the paper from Jimbo’s hand. “Crikey puts twenty into the kitty.”
When Jimbo read off the next ticket, O’Doul almost fined Bayer for suggesting that he sing her a song.
“But you always do okay on karaoke night,” the other player argued. “And I saw it in a movie once. Chicks dig that shit. Doesn’t matter if you do it well. Only that you do it.”
There were murmurs of agreement. “Someone pass me a piece of paper,” Castro announced. “Some of this shit might be useful later. I’m gonna take notes.”
“Buy her shoes,” was the next suggestion Jimbo read. “Chicks love shoes.”
“No,” Leo argued. “They like shopping for shoes. Would you like it if somebody else picked out your shoes? I wouldn’t.”
“Good point,” O’Doul agreed, tossing the idea aside. A whole room full of dudes, and not a clue among ’em. “Next!”
“Sully says, Take her ice skating,” Jimbo announced next.
“Gosh, how ever did you think of that?” he asked the backup goalie dryly.
“Dude. Your skating is better than your poetry. And if she can’t skate, she’ll have to hold onto your hands.”
“Awwwwww!” the whole room chorused. Several wadded-up napkins were hurled at Sully, but O’Doul filed the suggestion under maybe.
The next card said: “Cook her dinner.”
“Not bad, Massey,” O’Doul had to admit. “I can do linguini with clam sauce.” Then again, Ari was Italian. Maybe his linguini wouldn’t stack up so well. Another maybe.
Next Jimbo read off two travel suggestions. Take her to Europe. Take her to Disney World.
“Those are fine ideas—three months from now,” he growled.
“Have some patience,” the contributing player urged. “Not my fault it’s play-off season. Don’t take my twenty bucks.”
Jimbo read lingerie off the next card.
Just as O’Doul was picturing Ari in a smoking hot negligee, Castro began shaking his head violently. “Bad idea, man. Seriously dangerous. I got into so much trouble for buying my girl size large once when she was a medium. If you’re not a hundred percent sure of the size, you might not get any lovin’ for a week.”
Jesus. There was more risk in romance than he’d realized.
The next suggestion wasn’t bad. Get her a book. Shows you’re thinking about her beautiful mind, and not just her beautiful tits. And, hey, there had to be something in the bookstore she’d like, right? That was a keeper.
There were two cards left. The first one said simp
ly: Edible underwear. “What the fuck?”
“Wait—” Castro held up a hand. “Who’s eating whose underwear?”
He threw the card over his shoulder. “Jimbo—fine Smithy. Okay—last one. Buy her birthstone earrings. Not only are they pretty but it shows that you know when her birthday is.”
“Whoa!” Leo said. “Sneaky! I like it. Whose idea was that?”
O’Doul took the card from Jimbo’s hand. “There’s no name. Good idea, though. Anyone want to take credit?”
Slowly, Jimbo raised his own hand, his face reddening, and everybody laughed.
“Christ, kid. How old are you, anyway?”
“Nineteen.”
There was more laughter, and somebody called out “Jimbo for president!”
“Wait,” Castro said, bent over his notes. “What came right before the underwear? I might have missed a couple.”
O’Doul gathered the cards into his hand. “Get your own ideas. It’s been a pleasure, boys. We’re watching tape in forty-five minutes.”
He walked out of the breakfast room wondering if there was a bookstore nearby.
SIXTEEN
Ari had mixed feelings when she woke up alone. She’d promised herself to steer clear of men. And then she’d gone and had wild monkey sex on her massage table and clutched Patrick all night long as if he were her personal teddy bear.
It was glorious. And also a huge mistake.
Anyone would need a couple hours to herself to get her head on straight. That’s why she’d avoided him at breakfast, choosing instead to head over to the rink to chat with the trainers and set up her table for her first massage appointments. It was going to be a busy day, too. She gave three massages in a row before it was time for Patrick to show up for his.
But before he appeared, Hugh Major stuck his head into her treatment room. Ari’s anxiety level cranked up by several notches. “Good afternoon,” she said weakly.
“Afternoon, Ariana. Can I see you for a moment?”
“Of course.” For the second time in twenty-four hours she felt like a kid reporting to the principal’s office. Or, in this case, a little cell of a room the opposing team had allocated for management to use while they were in town.
“Have a seat,” Hugh said. “I just got a FedEx for you. It’s a panic button. Have a look.”
“Oh. Thank you.” What else could she say? She would have preferred to live out her life without knowing that panic buttons existed.
He handed it to her. It was a little silver-toned oval with a sliding cover. She pushed the cover with her thumb, and it moved aside to reveal a bright red button.
“It’s well designed, so that you can’t trip it by accident,” he said. “Press the button now—it’s not activated yet.”
“Okay.” Ari pushed the switch, and it slid into its alternate position with a click. “I see. And I could clip this to my handbag.”
“Exactly. Or your belt at home.”
“Well . . .” she cleared her throat. “I’ll carry it, if you think I should. But it seems like an unnecessary expense.”
Hugh grinned. “One of my many jobs is buying all kinds of insurance for the team. And I buy a ton of it, always hoping that it’s a complete waste of money. Welcome to my world.”
It was hard to argue with that logic. “So what happens if I do flip the switch?”
“Several people will be alerted at once. Law enforcement at the precinct house. Also me, Rebecca—she volunteered . . .”
“Wow. Seems like a lot of trouble,” Ari said, embarrassed.
“Not as much trouble as if something happened to you. Take it. Wear it. I know it’s not something you wanted, but we can’t have anyone using your position in the Bruisers organization as some kind of nasty leverage. If you push that button there are a few other people who will be notified, including whichever Kattenberger security team is on duty. And”—he cleared his throat—“Patrick O’Doul. If that’s okay with you.”
She felt her face pinking up. “If he doesn’t mind.”
“His idea,” Hugh said. “He lives so close to your house. But it’s totally up to you.”
Ari took a deep breath. “Can I speak frankly, sir? If you would rather I didn’t continue with Mr. O’Doul as my client, I would understand completely.” This was a speech she’d never wanted to give. By admitting her complication with a player, she’d just made herself a less valuable employee.
But he looked thoughtful, not angry. “Ari, give me a second while I figure out how to put this in a way that won’t have the entire HR department on my ass.” The manager crossed his beefy arms in front of his chest. “Okay, it’s like this. Everyone raves about your work. They even show up for fricking yoga without complaint. I’m happy. The owner is happy. I don’t need to change a thing. But if you notify me at any point that you’re not comfortable treating a player on my team, other arrangements will be made. No questions asked.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said quietly.
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish to request a transfer of any player to another therapist?”
“Um, it’s not necessary to make any changes on my account, sir.”
He heaved a sigh of relief. “Good. Because Henry has been trying to get O’Doul to accept treatment for that hip for weeks. I need that player healthy and in fighting form. Whatever you can do to keep him showing up for therapy, I’m on board . . .” His eyes narrowed suddenly, and he tipped his face upward, toward the ceiling tiles. “You know, that didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
She hopped out of her chair. “I knew what you meant, sir.”
“Fuck.” He shook his big head. “HR hates me already. I just meant that using your professional skill, you’d . . .”
“I get it,” she said a little too brightly. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a whole list of players to keep in fighting form.”
He gave her a salute. “Go forth and conquer muscle soreness.”
When Ari slipped back into her assigned treatment room, she was startled to find Patrick stretched out on the table, hands behind his head, looking as relaxed as anyone ever had on her table. “Hi!” he called out as she entered.
“Hi,” she breathed. Just the sight of his broad shoulders gave her an inappropriate shimmy through all the, er, lower chakras. It was only hours ago when he’d loomed above her as they . . .
Yikes. Focus, Ari. “You feeling okay this morning?” she asked. “How’s your pain?” A flush touched her neck now. In her own questions she heard an echo of Patrick’s faux massage therapist queries last night.
“I feel like a million bucks, honestly. Skated well this morning. Had a good breakfast. No complaints.” She braced herself for a joke or an innuendo referencing the other reasons he might be feeling good, but none came. “Go ahead—do your worst,” he said instead. “I’m ready.”
“Good,” she choked out, rolling up her sleeves.
“Oh—don’t forget the music,” he said. “Got any Clapton?”
“Sure.” She was flustered now, and for absolutely no reason. Patrick was behaving like a perfect gentleman. She grabbed her battered iPod and scrolled to a Clapton playlist another player had sent her last year. “Wonderful Tonight” came on. Getting down to business, she rolled back Patrick’s towel a few crucial inches and found bare skin. She oiled up her hands and put them to his thigh. “We only have thirty minutes,” she said. They’d given her a bunch of short sessions this afternoon. “So I have to get right to the trouble spots.”
“That’s fine, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and happy. As she worked, he let out a sigh. Her hands traveled over his tensor fascia muscle and down his lower quads. She knew this body so well now. Not just its form—she was well acquainted with the muscles and tendons of much of the team—but its responses. She felt an unexpected tenderness when he took another deep br
eath and then relaxed.
It was totally normal to feel all gooey inside when one of your clients was feeling better, right?
“Let’s have you on your side,” she said eventually. “Let’s work that hip.”
He rolled for her. She worked his adductors without a flinch from him. Although he seemed to be . . . counting something to himself?
“Does that hurt?”
“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Just distracting myself with some hockey stats.”
“Why? Because of pain?”
He chuckled. “My body has other reactions to your hands besides pain, sweetheart. Just trying to keep things professional.”
“Ah. Roll onto your stomach for me.” When he was face down, she made sure his backside and legs were covered, and she went to work on his lower back. “Remember when I gave you that speech about how everyone has different reactions to massage? Some people fall asleep, some people cry . . .”
He spoke into the circular face cradle. “Uh huh.”
“There’s probably a dent in my table from all the boners.”
His back shook under her hands as he laughed. “Whose? I’ll have to kill them now. Shame, too, right before play-offs.”
She gave him a playful pat on the back. “Don’t say that. Sexual response is one of many possible results of muscle relaxation. It only means that the client’s subconscious trusts me. I pretend not to notice, and life goes on.”
“My subconscious has a little more to go on than the rest of your clients,” he pointed out, his voice muffled.
“I know. That’s why if you wanted to switch to another therapist, Hugh said he’d make other arrangements. No questions asked.”
Patrick picked his head up and craned his neck to look at her. “Fuck no. You’re the only one who gets to touch me.”
“Okay,” she said, pressing on his shoulder, asking him to lie flat again. “It was only a suggestion. I was trying to make you more comfortable.”
“Not possible,” he muttered. “I only want you, Ari. For this and all things.”