Page 16 of Thunderstruck
I recognize Bean at the back of the group—he’s the one who spoke—and one of the ones on the floor looks mildly familiar. The other five haven’t met me yet and have no qualms about staring at me.
I wave, ignoring the bubble of nerves in my belly. “Yeah, Rizzo is great, if you want. That’s what my sister calls me.”
“From that Travolta musical or the rat?” a burly bald man asks.
At the mention of the Muppet character, a snicker cracks through my nerves, and I manage a smile that doesn’t go unnoticed. Those on the floor scramble to their feet, wrapping arms around each other and squeezing in close so they all fit in the small space. “The rat. Don’t we look alike?” I bite my lip, curious to see how they react.
Their smiles and laughter fill me with energy and push away the last of my anxiety.
“You’re way more attractive than the Muppet,” Bean says, and the other guys are quick to agree. Just like before, he looks a lot smaller than the other guys, who all look like they have the sheer power of oxen. That’s not to say Bean is in any way small. These rugby men are built differently from anyone I’ve ever seen, but I have my guesses about his nickname. Compared to the guy whose shoulders he’s holding, Bean looks like a beanstalk, tall and thin.
He also looks the friendliest, though none of these guys look threatening. Even with their size. I can’t imagine they’ll pose any actual threats in a professional setting like this, but it’s nice to see the kindness in their gazes, which haven’t shifted from me for a second.
Mel clears her throat, and the guys snap out of their stupors and shuffle closer to us. The first man holds out his hand, complete with loose and dirtied athletic tape around a couple of his fingers. “I’m Sharkie. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Carissa.” He sounds British. Or thereabouts.
The next man’s hand is sweaty and entirely engulfs mine. “Scratch.” His voice comes out almost hoarse.
The next pushes his way to the front. “French Roast. Welcome to the Thunder.” His accent is decidedlynotFrench, though I have no idea where he’s from. New Zealand, maybe?
“Gator,” the next guy says.
“Ruffles.”
“I’m known as Gary,” the last man says in a thick Australian accent.
That one catches me off guard. “Do you not have a nickname?”
The room bursts into laughter, and he rolls his eyes. “My name is Jeff.”
As soon as Jeff—or should I call him Gary?—lets go of my hand, Mel steps up and puts her arm around my shoulders. “Alright, boys, if you need my help, you can stay. If you’re just here to gawk at our new friend, go hit the showers. You smell terrible.” The men all start talking at onceand pushing forward, but she holds up a hand and silences them. “Realhelp.”
To my surprise, five of the men turn around and leave, grumbling as they go, leaving just Bean and Gator.
Mel sighs. “Shoulder again?”
Gator ducks his head, dark hair bouncing. “It’s Bandit’s fault. Bad tackle.” Now that I’m hearing more out of him than just his name, I’m pretty sure he’s from one of the Polynesian islands. I have no idea which one.
“It was anawesometackle,” Bean says.
Mel raises an eyebrow at him. “And what’s wrong with you?”
Using Gator’s shoulder—hopefully the uninjured one—for balance, Bean holds out his leg. “It’s tighter than a…” He glances at me. “It’s tight.”
“Sit,” Mel instructs him and holds out a hand to Gator. “Let’s see if it’s the subscap tendon again.”
I’m not sure what I should do. I figure watching Mel at work is the best way to get a sense of what she does day-to-day, but my eyes catch on Bean’s stiff movements as he lowers himself into a chair. Frowning, I take a wary step closer to him. “Your hamstring?” I guess.
He nods.
“May I?”
As his eyebrows shoot up, he clearly has no idea what I’m asking but nods anyway, probably too curious not to.
I’ve dealt with plenty of tight muscles, and I have a bit of massage training to go with my PT degree. So I’m hoping I can help him. Crouching down, I tuck my fingers around his massive thigh and dig my fingers into the muscle underneath.
Bean yelps and nearly kicks me in the gut. “Ah, sorry.”
Though I know I’m half his size and far from intimidating, I narrow my eyes at him. “What kind of stretching did you do before practice?”
