I don’t want to see how her opinion of me has changed.
“I’m sorry, Lance. I shouldn’t have said that. It sounds judgmental, and I didn’t mean it to.”
“It’s okay. I get what you mean. How you feel is the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Still, it’s not my place to put my feelings on anyone else.” She shoves the last bite of her second sandwich in her mouth and pushes away from the table.
I’ve made her uncomfortable. But I don’t want her to look at me like there’s something wrong with me, even though there is.
“I don’t know. I kept hoping she’d decide I was enough. Stupid, huh?”
“It’s not stupid, Lance. Sometimes it’s hard to tell your heart not to want someone, even if all they do is hurt you.”
Lily drives me to the south side, and I’m embarrassed to discover I can’t remember exactly which bar I went to. After twenty minutes of driving around, I finally find the place, but my Hummer isn’t on any of the surrounding streets.
Eventually I realize it’s been towed. I’m already cutting it close. I still need to go home and grab my gear before I go to the rink.
I feel like shit having Lily drive me to get my stuff and drop me off at the arena, but she’s nice about it, not making it a big deal. Still, this would’ve been easier with Randy. By the time I get to the rink, the aspirin I took this morning has worn off, and all the aches are back.
I’m stiff and slow during practice. Evan Smart, the team trainer who replaced Tash, pulls me aside.
“You wanna tell me about this?” He motions to my face.
If my shorts had pockets, my hands would be in them. “I ran into a problem last night.”
He crosses his beefy arms over his chest and waits.
“I got into it with some asshole who thought degrading women was an awesome pastime.”
“So you started a fight? Jesus, Romero, it’s preseason. You need to keep your shit together.”
“I didn’t start it. A guy the size of a tank came after his girl, and I stepped in the way of his fist.”
Evan doesn’t look like he believes me. Which isn’t a surprise. He and I don’t like each other all that much. I’m thinking it’s ’cause he’s under the impression I’m the reason Tash lost her job. I’m also aggressive and volatile on the ice. I spend the most time in the penalty box out of all the guys on the team. Actually, out of almost all the guys in the league.
Evan sighs. “Where’s the damage?”
“I’m fine. Just a little sore. I’ll do some stretches so I’m good to go for tomorrow’s practice.” I use the hem of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face.
“Jesus Christ, man.” Evan prevents me from dropping my shirt and covering all the bruises I’d forgotten about. “You look like you got steamrolled by a truck. You’re not fine. Is anything broken? Did you even go to the hospital?” When he tries to touch my ribs, I pull away.
“I saw a doctor last night. It’s just bruises and some glue in my eyebrow.” I smooth my shirt out.
“I want to see the X-rays and reports on that. You need to see a massage therapist at the very least, and get in a couple of physical therapy sessions if you think you’re gonna play on Sunday.”
“It looks worse than it is. I’ll be fine.”
“This is not a request. I’ll set up the appointments, and you’ll go or you’ll be benched.”
“Fine. I’ll do the therapy, but I don’t do massages.”
“Again, not a request.” He pulls out his phone and makes a call. I think I’m in the clear when the team massage therapist tells him they’re all booked up, except he gets another number and makes a second call. There are a few minutes of back and forth during which he glares at me. “In an hour? Yup. Perfect. He’ll be there.”
“Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair. I want to argue, but there isn’t an option. Explaining why I hate massages will raise more questions than I want to answer.
“Get your ass in gear, Romero. I called in a favor. You need to be on the ice on Sunday for the sake of your team, and that’s not going to happen if you don’t take care of yourself. The clinic I’m sending you to is about twenty minutes from here. Get showered and changed and go. I’ll get a call if you don’t show up, and you’ll be watching the game from your couch at home if you don’t make it.”
He messages me the directions. I hit the shower, and Randy offers to drive me since I still don’t have my vehicle. He’s got Miller with him. Apparently Sunny and Lily decided to do pedicures or some girly crap and won’t be home for a couple more hours, so they’re happy to chauffeur me around.
I’m fifteen minutes early for the appointment, so I pull my hood up and make a half-assed attempt at filling out the paperwork. I don’t want to be recognized, and I don’t want to invite conversation. The receptionist is chatty, and if I make eye contact, I know she’ll have all sorts of questions I’m not interested in answering.
My picture’s already ended up on a few sites in the past twenty-four hours. My agent and publicist are going to be on my ass. I haven’t called either of them, though I have messages from both on top of all the ones from Tash I haven’t looked at yet.
I put my phone on silent, stuff it in my pocket, and close my eyes. The messages and problems aren’t going anywhere. They’ll all still be waiting for me after this torturous massage.
CHAPTER 4
THIS IS NOT
A HAPPY ENDING
POPPY
April sticks her head in the door and makes a face. “Good Lord, Poppy, how do you manage? It looks like you sheared a black lab in here.”
“He’s as friendly as one.” Mr. Stroker has more hair on his back than a hibernating bear, but he’s a nice man. He also has a herniated disc, and vertebrae three through five have been fused, so his mobility depends a lot on his weekly visits. Excessive hair aside, I like that my treatments help alleviate some of his pain.
The sheets I’m rolling into a ball are covered in his black fuzz. I wonder if his wife has ever suggested waxing and what kind of bribery would be required before he agreed. I have to use an excessive amount of oil on him to avoid ripping out too much hair. Even so, the sheets are always covered in man fur when I’m done with him.
The bodies I’m exposed to on a daily basis are as interesting as they are disgusting at times. But despite the excessive hair on my last client, I’m still starving.
“Want to run across to the bakery with me? I was thinking about walking to the park and eating there since I have lots of time before my next appointment. It’s such a beautiful day.” I’m irrationally excited for a ham and cheese croissant—and maybe one of those delicious tarts—and an ice-cold soda. It’s a warm day, and I want to take advantage before the cooler fall weather sets in.
I toss the sheets in the laundry basket.
April makes another face, along with a weird, sucky sound.
“I don’t like that face, or that noise.”
“About your dinner break…” She trails off, still making the face.
I prop a hand on my hip. “Don’t tell me they booked me another appointment.”
Her expression holds genuine apology. “We’re all back to back today, and you had the only spot left. It’s a favor for some big NHL player or whatever. You know how Tim’s always trying to get them in here for rehab. Well, it looks like you’re the guinea pig.”
Tim is the owner of the clinic. He’s a nice guy, but I don’t like him much right now. I’m also the one he comes to when he’s in a bind because I’m the least likely to say no.
Normally I’d agree that this is a fantastic opportunity. Athletes tend to have interesting muscular issues, and helping to resolve those is something I’m usually excited about.
I loved studying human physiology in school, and while I wasn’t great at sports, I was always good at figuring out how to manage the injuries that occurred, which is a big part of the reason I went into this field. Helping people makes me happy.
But not so much when it interferes with my dinner plans.