The Younger Man: A Novel

by Halle, Karina

  But not all of us have children, I think, and the sick, dark feeling that I’ve been avoiding these last few months comes back into my chest.

  Shit. Not now.

  “Thalia?”

  “I’m here,” I manage to say, feeling weak and dizzy, and I bring up my workbag and search through the mess to find my pills. I didn’t think I’d need to take one, but here we are.

  “I’m sorry, was I too harsh?” she says. “Look, I just don’t want you to stress so much. Just do your job, that’s all. Forget about proving anything. You know, I talked to Stew yesterday…”

  Ah fuck, I’m definitely taking this pill now. I pop it into my mouth and swallow it dry. Hopefully the Ativan will go to work soon.

  “And he said some nice things about you,” she goes on, as if my complete silence save for my heavy breathing wasn’t a hint enough to shut the fuck up.

  “Uh huh,” I manage to say. He better say nice fucking things about me, I was still his wife up until six weeks ago.

  “He said he misses you.”

  Oh boy. Not what I need right now.

  “That’s great, Helen. Why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know,” she says slowly. “I’m just…looking out for you. I worry about you down there. I…maybe when you get this out of your system, you’ll come back up here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh come on, we know that this is just something you need to do, but you belong up here with your people.”

  “My people? Helen, I’m from Washington State. If you want to talk people, staying with LA Galaxy would have been my people.”

  “Okay, well maybe I miss you.”

  “You could have just said that instead of bringing Stew into it. Why did you see him anyway?”

  “He was over for dinner.”

  Lord, I’m going to hang up the phone.

  “Thalia,” she goes on, “you know we have dinner together often. I can’t stop being friends with him because he…because you divorced.”

  “Because he cheated on me repeatedly. You can say it. It’s the truth. There would be no divorce if he hadn’t done that and publicly dragged my damn name through the mud.”

  Silence. Manuel eyes me in the rearview mirror and then quickly looks away. I like the man, but conversations like this are perhaps a good reason to get myself a car soon and drive myself to work.

  “Okay. Sorry I brought it up,” she says in a clipped voice. “I just haven’t talked to you since you got there, and I know you like to get locked in your head and push people away. I didn’t want you to do that with me. Good luck with your game tomorrow.”

  “Helen,” I say, but she hangs up the phone.

  I sigh and throw the phone into the bag and then wait for the drugs to kick in.

  It’s not ideal taking anti-anxiety medication right before work, right before a big game, but I need it this time.

  And as Manuel drops me off and I make my way through the building, I have to say I’m grateful for it. I thought I would be the only one here this early, but everyone is here already and the tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

  I pass a few players in the glowing white hallways, and their smiles are either tight or full of nerves as I greet them. I go straight to my office and start going over a plan for the day. Basically, me, Doctor Costa, and the rest of the therapists will have a meeting in a bit and go over every player’s profile, the types of training they’ve been doing, workload, and discomfort. Then we’ll go to our assigned players and follow up, adjusting the workload and training with Mateo and the trainers to any discomfort they are having.

  Despite the nerves and the fraught atmosphere, we head into the physio room to settle into roles that are slowly starting to feel like second nature. I work on Luciano’s shoulder because he was complaining of pain again there, and I do the goalie’s hamstring with a steel myofascial releaser. Pretty sure he still doesn’t like me.

  It isn’t until I’m done with them that David, one of the therapists, waves me over.

  Alejo is lying on the table beneath him on his stomach, shorts rolled up to his extremely firm ass, and his legs are slick with the coconut oil we use to rub and massage. Alejo turns his head to see me approach and I give him a tight smile, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach at the sight of him.

  Of course they aren’t butterflies. Just nerves. Nerves because of the match, nerves because of the players, because of Helen and, yes, because of the way he was around me last Saturday at the bar.

  I wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but he actually got under my skin.

  Just a bit.

  When he told me that had we met in the bar, as strangers, I would have gone home with him…my body reacted. Yes, I nearly choked on my drink out of disbelief because it was totally out of left field, but it was my body that grew increasingly warm, like I was internally salivating at the thought. I don’t think I’ve felt any sort of pleasurable, wanting sensation like that for a really, really long time, so I guess I should take it easy on myself and be grateful that my lady bits are up and running again but — and this is a big but — that was extremely inappropriate.

  Despite what I said, he was intimidating, too. Not in a bad way per se. Just in a way that I wasn’t sure which direction he was going to go or how I was going to handle him. I’m not used to men being that forward with me, and even though I have dealt with some minor, let’s say, inappropriate comments from players, it was never like that.

  Not that he said anything that wrong. In his defense, if you played back the tape, you could say he was being hypothetical. Honestly, I’m not even sure what he was getting at. All I know is that it made me avoid him for the entire week.

  Which is kind of hard when you’re the physical therapist, but I had been able to stick to a certain amount of players while someone else took him on.

  Until now.

  “What seems to be the problem?” I ask David, keeping my eyes off Alejo’s muscular, oiled thighs.

  “Day before, you said dry needling?” David asks in broken English.

  Ah right, I had been talking to another therapist about using dry needling in some cases, which gets a bad rep as being acupuncture, even though it works differently and that can be proven with science.

  “Yes, I did,” I tell him. “I have a kit here. I used it all the time in Manchester.”

  “He’s complaining. He’s stiff.”

  I bet he is, I think, and I can feel Alejo’s gaze boring into me.

  “Here,” David says, running his hand up Alejo’s thigh and onto his ass. “I can’t seem to…” He makes the motion of breaking something.

  Lord. Okay.

  “Sure, I can give it a shot,” I tell David, even though I’m not happy about this at all.

  Look, I’ve been doing this for fifteen years and I’ve manhandled every single part of women and men’s anatomies. Groin injuries are surprisingly common, and you really need to get into that area to fix someone. I’m mature. I don’t get shy. I don’t giggle. I’m pretty much a doctor, in mindset if nothing else.

  But for whatever reason, the idea of touching Alejo this intimately … well, it has me feeling a bit off my game. Or maybe that’s the Ativan.

  Smarten up and do your job.

  I head to the shelves where I’ve stored the kit, and take it out.

  “Can I watch?” David says.

  “Please,” I tell him, perhaps a little too relieved that I won’t be alone.

  “Is this going to hurt?” Alejo asks, trying to look over his shoulder at me and raising his head.

  I put my hand on the very firm plane of his shoulder and push him back down. “Only if you move. Stay down.”

  He grows quiet while I start taking the needles out. He glances again and then says, “You know what, I think I’m fine.”

  “It won’t hurt. Just relax.”

  “Relax,” he says. “You do know what day it is, right?”

  “I m
ean it. Relax and tell me about the pain.”

  He turns his head around so his head is down through the hole in the table. “It’s not a pain. It’s just stiff.” His words come out muffled. “Like a knot. And it’s not really my ass, in case you’re wondering. It’s like right to the left of it.”

  I put the needles down and then run my hand up over his thigh, all the way to the curve of his ass cheek. I’m professional, but I’m at least allowed to admire the strength in his muscles and the way they feel under my hand. “Here?” I ask, pressing in the heel of my palm.

  “Ah, yes,” he says through a groan. “That’s it.”

  Oh jeez, please don’t tell me he’s one of those guys who makes lewd sounds throughout, because I’ve had those before and they aren’t fun. And the real problem is, I’d probably like Alejo’s lewd sounds.

  They would match with the way he was looking at me on Saturday night, the way he stared at my lips as I spoke, the intensity in his gaze.

  Stop. It.

  I swallow hard, clear my throat. “It’s your fasciae latae. You should get some relief from this.”

  I ask David to get me a cloth so I can wipe off all the oil, then I have to practically tuck Alejo’s shorts into his ass crack so that I can work on the upper thigh where it meets his buttocks.

  “Perhaps it’s better if I’m naked,” Alejo says.

  He’s right.

  In some ways it would be much better.

  In other ways, it would be much worse.

  But I can make do.

  “This is fine.” I swab him with antibacterial solution before I put on latex gloves and pick up a needle. “Hold still. You’ll feel a twinge when I put them in, but it won’t hurt. Your muscles will activate and then relax.”

  I push my fingers into the area, palpating the trigger points, and close my eyes as I search. I work better this way, shutting out the world and just concentrating on the muscle beneath my fingers, finding any sort of knot or irregularity. Sometimes it’s the size of a marble, other times a pea or even a needle head.

  With Alejo I find a small knot right away.

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  “The needle is how big?” David asks me.

  Seriously? He had to ask that out loud?

  “Big enough.”

  “How far do you push? Uh, put the needle in?”

  “Today, I’ll do an inch.”

  “An inch!’ Alejo explains, raising his head.

  “I said don’t move,” I threaten him. “Or I’ll make it four inches, which isn’t uncommon. Right into your femur.”

  Alejo stills.

  I place the rod against the knot, and with a quick tap, in the needle goes.

  Alejo doesn’t make a sound but his thigh immediately starts twitching.

  This is a good sign.

  David looks impressed.

  Because Alejo only complained of some stiffness and the trigger points weren’t that acute, it doesn’t take long for me to do the whole area and then we’re done. David goes off to have lunch, so it’s just me and Alejo.

  “So, how do you feel?” I ask him as he slowly turns over on the table.

  “I don’t feel the stiffness,” he says thoughtfully, sitting up. “Maybe a bit lightheaded.”

  “That’s probably from being tense during the treatment and lying down,” I tell him. “But I’ll get you some water.”

  I grab a cup and fill it from the cooler, then hand it to him.

  Our fingers brush against each other as he takes the cup from me, his gaze locked on mine as he drinks. I’d like to say I felt nothing, that it was like passing a cup to David or anyone else, but that isn’t the case at all.

  Even though my hands were all over his thigh, poking needles into him, this one deliberate action of our fingers brushing against each other sent actual sparks down my spine, and it takes everything in me to suppress the shiver.

  I look away, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I took it easy on you. I didn’t want to mess things up with tomorrow’s game. When we have more time, I’ll do it deeper.”

  Even though I’m looking away, I can feel the air between us thicken, and when I steal a glance at him, the corner of his mouth is quirked up in a sly smile.

  “You’ll be okay,” I tell him, then reach out and give him a pat on the shoulder.

  Rather awkwardly.

  Oh boy. Just walk away.

  I turn, and he says, “Are you having lunch now?”

  I stop to look at him as he slides off the table. He’s one of the tallest players on the team, standing at 6’1”, and he dwarfs me. I stare up at him as he adjusts his shorts, and please god, don’t tell me he has a hard-on. It happens — a lot — not really the fault of anyone, but I don’t think I could handle it right now.

  I keep my eyes locked on his, which is somehow worse. They have a way of looking into me that makes me feel he’d be hard to keep secrets from.

  “I am,” I tell him. “As always at this time.”

  “No, that’s not quite true,” he says as he smoothly reaches over and rubs his thumb against my shoulder. “Oil on your shirt. That’s going to stain.”

  For a moment, the medication ceases to work and it’s like I can’t breathe. For those long seconds where he’s touching me, I’m frozen in place, my pulse hammering away in my throat.

  Then he takes his hand away and gives me an easy smile. “You’re always at your office, eating in there. I see you get your food and take off, like you’re a squirrel or some other cute, tiny, mysterious animal.”

  I find my voice. “A rodent, you mean.”

  “I mean what I said. Come on. Come have lunch with the team. Get to know me. Get to know us.” He brushes past me and heads toward the door, pushing it open and pausing to look at me expectantly.

  He’s right. I have been squirreling away in my office. There’s a big dining room upstairs by the buffet table and the kitchen where the team eats every day for lunch, but I guess I feel like I’d be intruding on something private if I sat there with them. I’m just not there yet in terms of being comfortable.

  Perhaps it’s time I start getting comfortable.

  I square my shoulders and follow Alejo out the door and upstairs to the second level.

  Because I took a bit longer with Alejo doing the dry needling, most of the team has already finished eating, so by the time I grab my plate and go through the buffet (cooked by chefs, designed by dieticians) and sit back down, it’s me, Alejo, and Rene, the striker.

  “Ah, you’re here,” Rene says to me, Alejo sitting beside him.

  Again, like the rest of them, Rene is a handsome guy. He’s twenty-six, in the prime of his career, and he acts accordingly. While Alejo has this innate confidence that comes from someplace complicated, Rene seems to know who he is deep down. And who he is, is definitely a ladies’ man.

  “Here I am,” I tell him, spearing my fork into the steamed asparagus I piled onto the plate. “Surprised?”

  “Claro,” Rene says, and then looks at Alejo who is sitting beside me. “What did you say to convince her?”

  “He called me a rodent,” I interject.

  “No,” Rene says in shock. “This beautiful woman?” He jerks his thumb at me and stares at Alejo.

  “I said she was like a squirrel,” Alejo says. “Like how they store nuts for the winter? I’m convinced she has stacks of plates and food hidden away in her office.”

  “Ha, ha,” I tell him, biting off the end of an asparagus. They both seem to wince at that. “So, how are you guys feeling?”

  “You mean about the game tomorrow?” Rene asks. He then shrugs. “I’m excited.”

  “We’ll win,” Alejo says.

  I eye him. “You say that so sincerely.”

  He eyes me right back, his chin dipping ever so subtly so that he’s staring up at me through long lashes. Shit. I’d never noticed how long and black his eyelashes were. Why are men always so lucky with that?

  “I am always sinc
ere, Thalia,” he says. Then a smirk flits across his lips. “Besides, if you don’t believe it, who will? No one.”

  “Quotes by Alejo Albarado,” Rene jokes.

  “I am serious,” Alejo says. I watch absently as he moves his quinoa around the plate, and I am taken by his hands. I’m not sure I ever really noticed them before — there are many other things about Alejo that vie for your attention — but his hands have the same kind of quality that his eyes do. They seem to belong to someone older, someone capable and in control. Because I work so much with my hands, I sometimes view them as windows to a soul, or at least the health of a person. Alejo’s don’t seem to fit with his easy persona. They are working hands.

  “And how are you feeling?” Rene asks me, making me look away from Alejo’s hands and to his face. He cocks his head. “You nervous? First game of the season for us, but first game for you with Real Madrid.”

  “Rene, don’t make her even more nervous,” Alejo chides him.

  “I’m not nervous,” I tell them. “I have been nervous, of course. You know what it’s like when you start somewhere new. But I have faith in you guys winning the game.”

  “See,” Alejo says, pointing his fork at Rene. “My enthusiasm is contagious.”

  “It kind of is,” I say with a smile.

  And I mean it.

  After lunch, it’s siesta time. Between the hours of one and three, Valdebabas turns into a ghost town, with the staff and players taking siestas before the next round of training, from the academy teams all the way up to the first team.

  Normally I just work in my office (as much as I love the idea of napping mid-day, I’m not quite there yet), but while I’m in the kitchen getting some Pellegrino, I hear some noise from the game room.

  I saunter on over there and poke my head around the corner. I haven’t been here since Mateo gave me the brief tour. There’s a bunch of couches for lounging, as well as an air hockey table, ping pong, foosball, a pool table, darts, and a basketball arcade game (you know, the ones you do at the fair and win prizes).

  And that’s where I happen to find Alejo, standing far away from the game and putting in shot after shot after shot right into the net.