Pucked Off (The Pucked Series)

by Helena Hunting

  But that’s not the most shocking thing. Clutched in one hand is a bouquet of red flowers. Poppies, to be exact.

  His eyes move over me. “Hey. Hi. I brought these as a thank you.” He stands and thrusts them at me.

  God, there’s far too much fluttering in my stomach. Lance Romero brought me flowers. Because I managed to get him an appointment with me. It’s a little weird.

  I take them, aware that everyone is staring at us. Someone snaps a picture to my right. “Um. Thanks?”

  “They’re poppies.”

  “I see that. They’re beautiful, although unnecessary.” I bring them to my nose.

  “They have that water stuff in the bottom, so they won’t die before you get home.”

  “That’s very thoughtful. They’re lovely.” Geez. My face must be the same color as the flowers.

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives me a cheeky grin. “I didn’t get high when I sniffed them.”

  I laugh. “I’m sure you tried really hard, though.”

  “I did.” Silence follows while we look at each other, and no one says a thing.

  “Sooo…you ready for me?”

  It takes a second for me to realize he means the massage, not that he’s picking me up for some date.

  “Al-almost,” I stutter. “I’m a few minutes behind. I’m just finishing up with my last client.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He drops back into the chair. His knees start bouncing.

  My client comes out and settles up with Bernadette. We rebook for three weeks from now, and I excuse myself to change the sheets, taking my flowers with me.

  Of course, April catches me in the hall and follows me into my room, closing the door. “Where’d you get those?”

  “Lance.”

  “He brought you flowers?”

  I’m assuming she doesn’t need an actual answer to that.

  “Oh my God. He’s so into you. You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “The marriage proposal is next?”

  “I wonder if he’ll wear a kilt.”

  I set the flowers on the chair in the corner, careful not to crush them. I know exactly what this means. I shouldn’t be treating him anymore. But I don’t say that. “He’s being nice. He’s not into me.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Will you just help me? I don’t want to be here until midnight.”

  She takes the corner of the sheet and pulls it over the opposite end, helping me dress the table.

  “Seriously, Poppy. He’s into you.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s already slept with someone I know. I don’t want to be an addition to his list of conquests. Plus he’s a client, so I can’t accept his marriage proposal.” I put the heating pad on the table, adjust the cradle, and force April out so I can get Lance.

  As soon as I round the corner he’s out of his chair. “We’re good? You’re ready now?” he asks.

  “I am. You can come with me.”

  He’s right on my heels, practically mowing me over to get to the room. As I close the door, he’s already got the hem of his shirt in his hands. He pulls it up, over his hard, incredibly toned abs.

  I drop my eyes to the floor. “I’ll give you a minute.”

  “I’ll be naked in thirty seconds.”

  I have to bite my lips together to stop from laughing. “Okay. I’ll be right back, then.”

  I still knock a minute later, just in case.

  “I’m ready,” he calls.

  And ready he is. That mountain of muscle is stretched out across my table. The sheet is pushed down to his waist.

  I need to keep the ogling in check. I feel like I should go to confession or something, and I haven’t been to church since my cousin’s wedding last year.

  “Would you like me to work on the same areas as last time?”

  “Yeah. That’d be good.” He shifts a little, and the muscles in his shoulders jump. His fists clench and release a few times as I cross over and pull the sheet to cover his back.

  He lifts his head. “Why’re you doing that?”

  “It’s how I start. Would you prefer me to leave it the way it is?”

  “Yeah. Please.”

  “Okay.” I fold the sheet back down. Once again I have no underwear to tuck the sheet into, so I push the edges in around his hips. He jolts a little, then settles again. “I’m going to get started, okay?”

  “Yup.” More fist clenching follows.

  Usually when I drag my fingers along his spine, moving up to the top of the table, the sheet acts as a barrier. But this time I watch the shiver run through his body and goose bumps break along his arms, the same reaction echoed in my body. When I settle a palm on either side of his broad back, he groans.

  I freeze and try to keep my tone professional, rather than breathy. “Are you okay?”

  He clears his throat. Twice. “Yeah.” It still sounds like he swallowed the contents of a gravel truck.

  “Do you want the heating pad?”

  “No. I’m good.” More gravel.

  “Take a couple of deep breaths for me, okay?”

  He does as I ask, his back expanding with each full inhalation. I do nothing but keep my palm on the center of his back, right in the middle of his cross. When he’s a little more relaxed, I grab the oil and make a few easy passes, moving down his back, gauging where he’s the tightest. When I reach his lower back, he jolts. It’s red, but not bruised. “Is this where you landed when you went down?”

  “Yeah. It’s a little sensitive.”

  “I’ll be careful around there, then.”

  “’Kay.”

  “Are there any other tender areas?”

  “Other than my back and face, nope.”

  “Okay.”

  Lance doesn’t say much during the massage. Apart from the occasional grunt when I hit what I assume are sensitive spots, and the fist clenching, he doesn’t complain at all about the pressure.

  I don’t even ask about his glutes this time, because it’s already after eight, and Bernadette will be gone from her desk, even if a sexy hockey player is here. Lance was right, though, he’s all knotted up again, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to sort it all out with one treatment. He needs at least one more this week, and I’m fully booked.

  “I still have some time left. Would you like me to work on your neck and shoulders again?” I’ve done what I can for his back.

  “Uh…yeah, I think that’d be okay.”

  I’m relieved he doesn’t have the same problem as last time. Mostly.

  I get him to lift his hips so I can take the pillow out from under him. Lance makes a sound of discomfort as he rolls over.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah, just managing the aches. Good to go.”

  “Great.”

  I won’t be touching his face this time because of the bruising and the fresh fly bandage, but he keeps his eyes closed while I work on his neck and shoulders, so I can study his gorgeous, pummeled features.

  No matter how hard I try not to, I can still recall—rather vividly—how prominent Lance’s issue was last time. I must make a sound because his eyes open and flip up to mine. I decide it’s a good time to end the massage.

  It’s eight thirty, and I’m alone in the clinic with Lance. I give him some privacy and wash my hands in the bathroom before going to the reception area so I can prepare his invoice, which I find already waiting for me. Sometimes Bernadette can be so sweet.

  It takes a few minutes for him to come out—longer than it did the last time he was here. I consider what might be happening in that room. When Lance appears, he looks groggy and disheveled.

  I put on what I hope is a natural-looking smile. “Feeling a little less tense?”

  His eyes go wide before his expression flattens. “Uh, yeah. A lot less tense.”

  He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and drops it on the counter. Flipping it open, he pulls out his card. “I need to get you for last ti
me, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “At your house. I didn’t pay you. I need to do that.”

  I’d totally forgotten to even prepare an invoice for that massage. “You could email-transfer the funds for that one if you want.”

  “Why don’t you add your email to your contact?” Lance passes me his phone.

  My name comes up as Pretty Poppy, and it’s accompanied by the picture April accidentally snapped of me. I look like I’m yelling at her. Probably because I was. “April took that picture by accident when you left your phone here.”

  “So it’s not a selfie?”

  “If I was going to take a selfie, I’d make sure I didn’t look like a troll.”

  “I think you look cute.”

  “That’s even worse.” I type in my email address and am about to delete the picture when Lance snatches the phone back.

  “That’s my phone. You can’t delete my pictures.”

  “But it’s a picture of me!”

  “Which I like, so I get to keep it. It’s not my fault your friend has a slippery finger. What was she even doing with my phone in the first place?”

  “Trying to jailbreak it so she could get all your personal information,” I say.

  “Seriously?” Lance looks legitimately worried.

  “No. Not seriously. Although she did check to see if it was locked, which was when she took the picture. I forced her to give it back to me.”

  “So you were trying to protect my privacy.”

  “Mmm. That I was.” I swipe his credit card.

  “So you think maybe you can fit me in again this week?”

  “I’m fully booked, but I can see if someone else is available.”

  “No,” he snaps, then amends, “I mean, no thanks. Like I said before, I only want it to be you.”

  “I could try to fit you in at the end of a day again, if that works?” That’s the opposite of what I should do right now, but I’ve decided I’m not going to keep questioning myself. I want this time with him. What I’m doing is helping him, and beyond how much he seems to appreciate it, I like who he is when it’s him and me and I’m treating him, even if this relationship is supposed to be strictly professional.

  “Yeah, sure, whenever you can. I have practice a lot this week, cause the official season starts this weekend, but I can usually do these later ones. Unless you want to treat me at my place or yours.”

  “It’s better if we do it here.”

  He chews on his bottom lip. “All right. If that’s how it’s gotta be.”

  Like last time, he walks me to my car. This time I have the flowers with me, which makes getting in my vehicle even more awkward. Lance takes them for me so I can unlock my door and toss my purse on the passenger seat. When I turn back to him, he has this strange look on his face.

  He takes a step toward me, and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me. In that instant I’m transported back to that closet at the party. But he doesn’t kiss me; instead he leans past me and drops the flowers on the dash. Then he straightens and wraps his arms around me. The hug ends as quickly as it began. He steps back, shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks at the ground, as if he’s embarrassed.

  “Thanks for taking care of me again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He holds my door open and waits until I’m in the driver’s seat before he gestures to the flowers. “Is it weird that I gave you those?”

  “Not weird. Unexpected and unprecedented, maybe.”

  “Okay. I can deal with unprecedented. Night, Poppy.”

  “Night, Lance.”

  I wait until he’s in his Hummer before I move the poppies to the passenger seat and start my car. I’m not sure what just happened, but this feels different than any of my other client-therapist relationships.

  CHAPTER 13

  UNPLEASANT

  CONCESSIONS

  POPPY

  It’s been a week since I’ve treated Lance. I haven’t been able to fit him in at all, though against my better judgment I did try. The nights where I could’ve tacked him on to the end of my day, he had practice, and then he had back-to-back games to open the official hockey season.

  I watched those in the privacy of my living room, alone, almost like it was porn.

  And he texts me daily. Sometimes multiple times. He always starts off by asking if there have been any cancellations. When I tell him no, he resorts to begging. Occasionally he sends me pouty-faced selfies, which I secretly love.

  Today we’re finally making our schedules work, which is good, at least for him, because he told me if I don’t treat him, he won’t be able to play the next game. I squeezed him in as my last appointment of the day, working against the tingles in my tummy to convince myself this will be the very last time.

  As I work out the horrible knots and kinks in his back, neck, and shoulders, I promise myself that after this massage I’m going to tell him someone else has to treat him. I don’t think I can keep up the professional front much longer, and I’m getting attached to these appointments. I don’t want it to become an issue, or another source of humiliation.

  He’s talkative tonight, so I’m learning new things about him. His teammate, Miller, the one who had the penis drawing on his forehead, just had a baby, and Lance has plans to visit him tomorrow. I imagine him holding a newborn, and it makes my insides feel all warm and melty. Lance only goes back to Scotland once every two years. His favorite color is green, followed by orange, and his favorite foods are anything traditionally Scottish. He loves chocolate but breaks out in a rash when he eats it. Gummies are a special weakness for him. His favorite music is mellow, but he listens to heavy stuff when he works out.

  I steer clear of discussing my childhood or my going-out habits. Mostly the conversation is easy and limited to safe subjects. Except there are a couple of times when he seems to want to say something, but can’t quite get it out. He starts and stops and then goes quiet.

  When I’m finished, I leave him to change while I wash my hands. It’s another late session, so the reception area is empty when I go out there to manage Lance’s invoice.

  It takes a few minutes for him to change, whether because he’s slow to get off the table, or because he has an issue to manage in there, I don’t really want to know. Well, I sort of do want to know, which is the main reason I can’t keep treating him.

  When he comes out, he’s got his hat in his hand, and he’s twirling it around his finger, chewing on his bottom lip. His nervousness ramps up my own. I have no idea how I’m going to broach this subject, because knowing I have to and actually following through on it is not at all the same.

  He drops his hat on the counter and taps anxiously. “I want to tell you something.”

  Please don’t mention your hard-on again. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. No. I don’t know. It depends on how you react.”

  I sit up straight in Bernadette’s chair; all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “So…uh, I remember the night I met you.”

  I drop my eyes. “Oh.”

  “Well, not you exactly. Well, kinda. But it’s all real vague until I went upstairs to check on Miller.”

  And now my stomach is churning in a not-so-good way. My voice is a whisper. I fiddle with Bernadette’s sparkle pens. “With Kristi.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I didn’t sleep with her. Well, like, I fell asleep, but I didn’t sleep with her. As in fuck her. I didn’t, I mean. Do that. I thought it would be good to tell you.”

  I blink a few times, shocked. “But she said—”

  “—a lot of bullshit, I’m betting.” Lance looks annoyed.

  I don’t know why he would bother to lie to me about something like this, and Kristi liked to brag about all the guys she’d slept with, so it’s entirely possible nothing did happen.

  “Oh. Okay. Well, thanks? We don’t hang out anymore, sooo…”

  “Right. Yeah, okay. Good.” He taps the counte
r some more. “I still wish I could remember meeting you that night. I guess it explains why you’re so familiar, aye?”

  “I guess.” I can’t look him in the eye. “They kind of dragged me along.”

  “So—” He slaps a hand on the counter, startling me. “Uh, I don’t know how much free time you have, but maybe you wanna go out for dinner with me sometime?”

  Well, that’s quite the segue. Now I have no choice but to look at him. “Like on a date?”

  Lance’s eyes dart around. “Aye. Like a date.”

  “I can’t go out to dinner with you.” Oh my God. What the hell am I doing?

  His brows pull down. “Why not?”

  “It’s against the clinic policy to date clients, not to mention the association that provides me with a license to practice.” This is it. This is the best way to pass him off to another therapist. He’s given me the perfect excuse, and I don’t have to own up to anything. And he wants to take me on a date. I think I’m in shock.

  “You can’t even go out to dinner with me once? Just to see if, you know, you’d wanna hang out again?” He’s doing that thing where he chews on the inside of his lip.

  “Not if you want me to treat you.”

  “So it’s not about the Kristi thing? ’Cause I’m serious when I say I didn’t sleep with her.”

  “It’s really not about Kristi. If I agree to go out with you, I can’t treat you at the clinic anymore.” The Kristi revelation does mean I might agree to the date, though.

  His expression turns hopeful. “Just at the clinic?”

  I dash it with my next response. “Or at my home. But that was already off the table.”

  Lance taps his lip while he thinks about that. I don’t know whether to feel good about his hesitation or not. I guess it means I’m a decent massage therapist.

  “What about the ones I’ve already scheduled?” he asks.

  “You’ll have to see someone other than me. Devon is great, and so is Marcie.”