Page 19 of Hard Hitter
Finally. Victory was sweet.
She worked in silence for five or ten minutes, and the set of his shoulders began to look more relaxed, and less haggard. She had already gotten used to the silence when he spoke up suddenly. “Does Castro really propose to you every time you touch his feet?”
The question was so unexpected that she let fly a peal oflaughter. “Yes, he does. We could be married a hundred times over by now.”
His back rose and fell with a chuckle. “God. Tell him to get in line behind me.”
“Why, Patrick O’Doul”—she gave his calf a pretend slap—“I’d almost think youlikedthis.”
“It’s tolerable,” he grumbled.
And that’s how she knew he was feeling better.
FIVE
SUNDAY, MARCH 13TH
Standings: 3rd place in the Metropolitan Division
15 Regular Season Games Remaining
O’Doul didn’t go out with the guys after the win. They were in third place again, but celebrating felt premature. And Ari’s impromptu massage had relaxed him enough that he thought he could sleep, which he did.
The jet was wheels up at eight thirty the next morning. Everyone on board looked a little hungover, but O’Doul felt refreshed. Although he should have faked a nap because Tom, the new publicist, decided to sit next to him and review the burgeoning interview request list.
Good times.
When they landed at LaGuardia, O’Doul was just musing over where he might eat lunch. He planned to skip the optional skate and take a rare afternoon off. But—damn it—Henry corralled him at the baggage claim with a bunch of questions about his hip.
“And you have a massage this afternoon.”
“I had two yesterday!” he complained.
“Good work.” Henry clapped him on the shoulder. “But you’re due in Ari’s treatment room at two. Don’t be late.”
So much for an afternoon alone.
He kept the massage appointment like a good Boy Scout. But this appointment was his least favorite so far. In the first place, Ari was wearing a soft pink shirt that somehow managed to emphasize her chest. It wasn’t revealing, but the fabric draped in such a way that the pleasant swell of her breasts was hard to ignore. And he was all too aware of the soft sound of her humming along with the Stone Temple Pilots as she worked on his hip.
Now that he’d decided Ari was no longer a threat, his subconscious had apparently decided it approved of her. A lot. In order to keep his body under control, he spent the whole hour thinking about upcoming hockey fights. Occasionally he made himself picture Sister Odegerde, the unfortunately vile-breathed nun who’d looked after him at the group home where he’d spent his teen years.
The result was a less-than-relaxing hour. “You’re so tense today,” Ari kept saying, clucking her tongue.
“Sorry,” he apologized, wondering what to do. He might ask the trainer if the team had any other massage therapists on call. But that would make Ari look bad, wouldn’t it?Christ. It wasn’t personal.
When his hour was up, they were both relieved.
O’Doul gathered up the personal items he’d dropped onto Ari’s counter and got the hell out of there, stopping for a sixty second shower before donning jeans and a sweater and beating it outside again. It was three thirty, and his evening off could finally commence.
The practice rink was on the very edge of Brooklyn’s Dumbo neighborhood, so he pointed his feet down Front Street. The sun was out, and the ever-present breeze off the river was warmer than he’d felt in months. The pleasant weather had brought out the stroller brigade. There were young families rolling babies down the sidewalk, diaper bags draped over the handlebars. Not one of them spared him a glance.
The anonymity of Brooklyn was perfect for him. While Nate Kattenberger and his fleet of marketers and publicists spent serious coin to try to raise the team’s profile in Brooklyn, O’Doul was happy to go unrecognized. Sometimes people approached him in bars, especially if he was accompanied by other players, or wearing the team jacket. But to most of New York City’s eight million people, he was just some dude walking down the street.
As it should be.
He crossed under the Manhattan Bridge as the subway train rumbled overhead on its way into Manhattan. In addition to the women and children on the sidewalks, there were couples admiring paintings in the windows of the art galleries he passed. That made it a weekend. It was Sunday if he wasn’t mistaken. Professional hockey was a seven-days-a-week job during the season. He played three or four games a week, and the other days were dotted with meetings and weightlifting and charity events. It was disorienting. But it was all he knew.
He claimed a stool in the tavern on Hicks Street and ordered a cheeseburger. The place was mostly empty due to the odd hour.
