Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5)

by Heather Wardell

  Once I started to make money from it, it would be even better.

  Chapter Three

  Buffeted by reporters and camera operators, I struggled to reach the arena's staff entrance.

  "Are you Williams' new therapist?"

  "Can you confirm he plans to quit after this season?"

  "What can you tell us about his condition?"

  "Is it true they're paying you a million dollars to treat him?"

  "Why do you think you can help when the team staff has failed?"

  I kept muttering "No comment" but they just closed in tighter and fired more questions at me. About five feet from the door, the crowd thickened to where I couldn't move, but before I could panic a tall black man with "Security" in big white letters across his broad chest appeared in the doorway.

  "Let her through, guys." His voice, calm and certain, parted them at once.

  "At least tell us who she is," someone implored him.

  "Nope." He waved me forward. Once we were safely inside, he said, "You are Forrest's therapist, right? They told me to watch for you."

  I nodded, shaking with delayed reaction.

  "It's okay, kid." He gave me a pat on the shoulder that buckled my knees. "You did good. They won't bother you much tomorrow."

  "Thanks." Not liking the wobble in my voice, I sucked in such a deep breath I made myself lightheaded, then let it out and pulled myself together. "So, where's the ice?"

  He smiled. "Through there," he said, pointing. "You go before I head back outside. Don't want those vultures coming after you again."

  I returned his smile and headed down the indicated hallway, emerging into the arena about ten feet above the ice. The players, at least thirty of them, wearing Hogs jerseys of various colors, were taking shots at both nets while the goalies tried to stop them. Good-natured ribbing, and some comments with a harder edge underneath, filled the air, along with the occasional curse as a play went wrong. I searched for Forrest but couldn't pick him out. I'd assumed their shirts would have their names on them, like in a game, but they didn't.

  Then I saw a single player, the only one wearing a red jersey, at the far side of the ice. I moved down the aisle to stand by the players' bench for a clearer view and watched him circling with his head down, looking like a little kid forced to walk to school in the rain. His stiff movements, especially in his right leg, were so different from his teammates' smooth flow that I wondered whether he was doing himself any favors skating with such obvious discomfort.

  Another player spotted me and cruised over. "Who're you looking for, baby? Me, I hope."

  Not likely. I'd never gone for the primping type, and this guy was their poster boy, with a tiny precise line of stubble along his jaw and a soul patch beneath his bottom lip. It was probably the only soul he possessed, and I didn't doubt he spent more time grooming than Jen and me put together. "Forrest," I said, trying not to show the irritation crackling through me.

  He leaned closer, enveloping me in a wave of cologne that seemed excessive for a hockey practice, and let his eyes slither over me. "Word of advice. Run. He's trouble, and you could do way better."

  "I'm not dating him," I said, disgusted by his assessing scan of my body. "I'm his massage therapist."

  "You," he said. "He gets you?" Shaking his head, he yelled, "Hey, Gump, she's here to see you," in Forrest's direction, but got no reaction.

  "He wears his stupid MP3 player all the time." He rolled his eyes. "Listen, my advice still stands. Run. Maybe even run faster. He's not worth it."

  He skated away, shouting, "Gump!" again, before I could respond. Forrest's own teammates treated him like that? Yet another explanation for his sadness, as if I'd needed another one.

  The others took up the shout, a few calling him "Gump" but most yelling "Forrest", and Forrest finally heard them and pulled out his earphones.

  "Your therapist is here," the first guy called, his tone turning 'therapist' into 'cheap sleazy whore', and the other players turned to stare at me. I fought the urge to back away by holding my head even higher and focusing on Forrest.

  He skated over. "Sorry, I didn't see you."

  "That's okay," I said, feeling awkward with the rest still watching us. "So, how do you want to do this?"

  "They gave us a room near the dressing room," he began, but a man standing nearby cut him off with, "I need to talk to her first."

  "Tess, this is Mike, the team's head trainer. Mike, Tess is--"

  "I know who she is," Mike said, his blue eyes hard in his weathered face. "You go on ahead, Williams. Grab a quick shower and I'll bring her down in a few minutes."

  Forrest clearly didn't want to leave me to Mike's dubious mercies, but he gave in and headed down a tunnel into the arena's depths.

  Mike turned to me. "I've been working bloody hard for Forrest, and I don't see why he needs you. What've you got that I don't?"

  The guy who'd come over to me was leaving the ice at just the wrong moment. "What's she got, Mike? Where do I start? She's blonde, she's pretty cute, she's female. Need more?"

  "Get lost, Corey." Mike gave him a push and Corey moved on, although not before saying to the guy behind him, with enough volume I knew he'd meant to be overheard, "Wish I was old and washed up. Maybe then the team would pay for my girls too."

  Outrage flashed through me at the insult to me and to Forrest, and I turned to go after him.

  Mike caught my arm. "Do you want to screw Forrest over completely? Let it go."

  I snapped myself out of his grip. "I should just let that go."

  "You have to. Corey's a jerk, yes, but he's got a point, and he's not the only one who feels that way."

  "They're not being fair then."

  "Look, from their perspective, it's the other way around. Forrest gets traded here, gets hurt, and then gets everything he asks for even though he's done nothing for the team. That's just how they see it."

  "And how do you see it?" If he badmouthed Forrest too, I'd go straight to Filmore. Someone on the team had to be on Forrest's side.

  Mike jerked in a breath to reply, then held it for a second before blowing it back out and shaking his head. "I don't know how I see it. He definitely pulled a muscle, and they're tough to heal, but it should be showing more progress than it is. It got better, to a point, and then he just got stuck. We tried having him bike, but that hurt too so he had to stop. Walking is fine, and he can skate a bit but not enough to play in a game. I don't understand it."

  Frustration was clear in his voice, but so was compassion for Forrest, and I realized his initial anger with me was at least partly from guilt that he hadn't been able to make Forrest better.

  Mike went on. "Forrest's been through a lot lately, so Filmore insisted he see a psychologist. The shrink says he's distant but cooperating, and he goes three times a week so you'd think it would have some effect, but nothing's changed. When he arrived for training camp he wasn't nearly as confident as I'd expected given how good he is, and he's even less confident now. I don't know what's wrong with the guy. If I didn't know better, I'd say..."

  "Say what?" I said when he didn't finish.

  "Well, I'd say he didn't care about playing," he said, looking me square in the eyes. "But I know he does. He's trying to get better, maybe trying too hard. I can't figure it out. None of us can. I hope to hell you can, or his career is over."

  With those inspiring words, he led me down the tunnel to a door labeled 'Video game room'.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  "Yeah, it used to be that. All old stuff, but they enjoyed it. Until Filmore took the room away yesterday so you guys would have somewhere private."

  Making the other players like Forrest even less.

  "Good luck," he said, and moved away.

  "Mike?"

  "Yeah," he said without turning around.

  "Thanks."

  He turned. "For what?"

  "Telling me the truth," I said.

  He gave me the faintest of smiles, still a l
ot better than his earlier expression, and left.

  The room's peeling white walls were plastered with Hogs posters and a few pictures of bikini-clad girls with gravity-defying chests. A ratty couch piled with video game equipment was backed against the wall to leave more than enough room for a top-notch massage table and a rickety desk and stool. Easy to tell who they valued.

  I unloaded my bag onto the desk beside a folded blanket, arranging my oils in their usual order, letting the routine calm me. I needed calming: the more I heard about Forrest, the less capable I felt. If Mike hadn't been able to help, why was Forrest so sure I could?

  I heard a light knock and turned to see Forrest, hair still damp from his shower, wearing a Hogs sweatshirt and pants with snaps along both sides of the legs. "Are you ready, or should I come back?"

  "Come on in."

  He pushed the door shut behind him, not quickly enough to block Corey's, "Have fun, Gump!"

  "Yeah, right," Forrest muttered, standing as far from the massage table as he could.

  Thinking it might relax him, I said, "Do you want me to call you Gump too?"

  "God, no, I hate it. I made the mistake of asking Corey to stop, so now he says it every chance he gets."

  "He does seem that type. Forget him, he's a moron."

  "What did he say to you when he came over?"

  "Nothing," I said. "Now, I was thinking--"

  "Tell me."

  We locked eyes, and I knew he both wanted and didn't want to know. I couldn't repeat the 'washed up' part, or tell him Corey had basically called me a hooker. "He said you're trouble."

  "I probably am." No joking in his voice, no emotion at all, just the robotic neutrality from the night before.

  "Well, let's get to it and we'll see how much trouble you are." I wouldn't let him dwell on Corey another second. "I'd like to do a full-body massage today to see where your issues are."

  "My leg's the only issue. So, no."

  I raised my eyebrows. "I'll spend most of my time on your leg, but your shoulders are brutal. And your back's probably just as bad."

  "Sure, because my leg's messed up. Fix it and I'll be fine. The leg's my only issue."

  No, buddy, you've got more issues than that, from what I've seen so far. Was he shy about getting undressed? "I'll keep you all covered up except for whatever I'm working on. You don't need to be embarrassed."

  He shut his eyes for a second, then opened them and said, "I'm not. See, I'll prove it," before pulling his pants away in two pieces to reveal black boxer briefs.

  I'd never been this close to a half-naked pro athlete before, but if they all looked this good I'd been missing out. The man was built. His legs, nicely hairy without being ape-like, showed great muscle definition, his thighs in particular substantial and strong. And I'd be touching them. Lucky me.

  "Okay, good start." I raised my eyes to his face, resisting the temptation to let them skim over his crotch. "Now the shirt."

  He shook his head. "I told you, just the leg."

  I pulled my mouth to one side and stared at him.

  He stared back, copying my expression, then said, "Don't bother, Tess, it's not happening."

  Did he have some hideous tattoo, maybe a girl's name splayed across his chest? Probably. I'd wear him down eventually. "All right, if you say so. Just the leg."

  "The right one."

  "I know," I said. "You skate differently when it's down. Okay, on your back, please."

  "I do? How?"

  "You don't push off with your right foot."

  "I'd better start." He settled onto the table. "I'll end up weaker on that side if I don't."

  "You'd better not start." I began to cover his bottom half with the blanket so he wouldn't get cold. "Your body's trying to protect the leg."

  "My body doesn't know what it's doing."

  I tapped him lightly on the forehead. "It does too. Don't be an idiot."

  I finished with the blanket, letting the excess pile up over his hips. If he found my touch arousing, the blanket would hide the evidence. My old client 'Wishbone' Keyes had been quite proud of himself the time he'd got it up during a session, but I doubted Forrest would feel the same.

  "Do you care which oil I use?"

  "Whatever works fastest."

  "Oh, that's rose," I said as innocently as I could. "Rose mixed with pink bubble gum."

  "Yeah, that'll make me popular with the guys."

  I laughed, and picked my favorite, fresh-cut grass. I uncovered his left leg, then put one lightly oiled hand on either side of his knee and moved slowly upward.

  He pushed himself onto his elbows. "Wrong leg."

  "No, right leg. Correct one, I mean. I need to know what the good one's like first."

  He dropped back down. "Is this your way of sneaking into a full-body massage?"

  "Never you mind. Take deep breaths and relax."

  I spent a few minutes learning him, how his muscles lay beneath the skin, where his tension tended to collect, how his body felt healthy and strong. I closed my eyes to better visualize what I was feeling, opening them only to make sure I wasn't missing a spot or heading into his blanket-buried crotch.

  When I'd finished, I held the feel of him in my mind as I re-oiled my hands and moved to his right leg. He tensed at my first touch, light though it was.

  "If it hurts at all, you tell me," I said softly, not taking my hands away. "Got it?"

  "It has to hurt to get better."

  The hell of it was, it did have to eventually. I'd have to dig in to find the problems and encourage circulation, and he wouldn't enjoy it. I needed him to relax, though, and that didn't require hurting him. "Not today, it doesn't."

  "Do it right," he said, his leg tightening even more beneath my hands. "I'll deal with it."

  I made tiny circles with my palms, just moving the skin without interfering with what lay beneath, until he raised his head and said, "What?"

  "I can't work if you're holding yourself tight against the pain."

  "You have to," he said, "because I can't help it."

  The neutral tone had returned. Mike had mentioned Forrest being distant with the psychologist. He probably spent his three sessions a week refusing to open up and share what he was thinking and feeling, which explained why the therapy wasn't helping. In the same way, I couldn't help him unless I knew when I did too much and when I didn't do enough.

  I'd learned a technique in school; it was meant for nervous kids but it might work, might let Forrest hide himself away but still communicate.

  "Talk to me," I said. "Be the injury and talk to me."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me. What's your name?"

  "You've forgotten my name?"

  "Not your name." I laid my hand gently across his right inner thigh. "Its name."

  He studied me. "You're serious."

  "Totally."

  "A million sane massage therapists in the world and I get you."

  "I know, aren't you lucky?" I said, and he laughed. Unwillingly, but still a laugh. I smiled at him.

  "Tess, this is crazy."

  "Could be, but you're not getting out of it, so let's go. What's your name?"

  I ran both hands over his skin, no pressure, just soft and soothing strokes, until he said, "Corey put you up to this, didn't he?"

  "Learned it at school."

  "Where, clown college?"

  "What's your name?"

  "Insane," he muttered, but he lowered his head.

  I continued the gentle stroking, feeling his tension beginning to release beneath my hands, until he said, "Wayne, I guess. For Wayne Gretzky."

  I smiled even though he wouldn't see it, happy he was going along with me. "Nice to meet you, Wayne. How do you feel?"

  His leg tightened again, then he released it all at once and said, "I hurt."

  I hurt, too, hearing the unshed tears in his voice. So much pain behind those two little words. I didn't have a chance to say anything comforting, though, befo
re he sat up.

  "This is stupid, there's no point." He fought to free his body from the blanket. "I want to go."

  I moved behind him and put both hands on his shoulders before he got loose, and he stopped struggling. "No, Forrest, we can fix this."

  He sat in silence as I rubbed my thumbs over his tight trapezius muscles to make them lie more comfortably between his shoulders and neck. "Let me help you," I said softly, my heart aching. "We'll get you playing again."

  He said, "Promise?", so quietly I could barely hear him.

  On the first day of massage training, and on many occasions afterward, they'd told us never to promise results. Promise a certain number of sessions, promise to give a certain treatment, promise to avoid or work on certain areas. But don't promise results, because you don't know if you can deliver.

  "I promise."

  Chapter Four

  I signed the contract, of course, and over the next few days Forrest and I settled into a routine: a short massage before practice and a longer treatment afterwards. Other than a daily swim, I spent the rest of my time on my miniature about Forrest, exploring what little I knew about him.

  He'd introduced himself as Wayne when he'd arrived for his second massage, and Wayne and I worked together during treatments, discussing what hurt and where my touch had the most effect. Forrest himself, if asked directly, would only say he was fine, so I'd stopped asking.

  His leg was less tense beneath my hands, though, and I could work more deeply now without hurting him. His skating, to my untrained eye anyhow, looked more fluid and comfortable, and he said it felt better too.

  My art itself was going well, but the selling process was at a standstill. Jen, better at Internet searches than me, had managed to find one Toronto gallery accepting submissions from new artists. The word 'submission' didn't sit well with me, but I'd photographed some of my pieces following their directions and sent them in. The longer I went without a response, the more I dared to hope.

  As for my swimming, I did miss walking my beautiful path before every swim but having the huge but never-used pool at Forrest's gym all to myself gave me a freedom I'd never had at the community centre.