Page 43 of Hard Hitter
“I really don’t think so.”
“That song is really about a girl who’s making some toast.”
“Toast?” Her hands paused on his shoulder.
His cool blue eyes twinkled up at her. “Yeah. See, she’s standing in front of the refrigerator. And she”—he broke into song—“can’t find the butter, man! She can’t find the butter, maa-aa-aan.”
“Oh. My god,” she laughed. “That is the worst pun ever.”
He lifted a hand and pushed a lock of hair away from her face. “You’re smiling now, though. So I think I did okay.”
Ari felt the moment stretch and take hold. His eyes smiled up at her, and a flush of gratitude filled her chest. Even if it had been a mistake to sleep with him, Patrick O’Doul was a valuable and unexpected friend.
He dropped his hand to his side, still smiling. “I think I’m getting the hang of this massage thing. You schooled me.”
She moved behind his head and worked on his well-developed neck muscles. “You could teach a course on how to get a massage.”
He snorted. “Massage for Dummies. Chapter one—how to lie on a table and let a beautiful woman touch your naked body.”
She tapped his shoulder. “Don’t do that—don’t make fun of yourself for not liking it. Everyone is different.”
His eyes slid closed. “But I do like it now. Don’t even think about quitting this place, because I’m used to you.”
“I have no plans to quit. It’s too much fun making a room full of hockey players do sun salutations.”
“Doesn’t it bug you, though?” he asked quietly. “You teach us a whole lot of Zen shit, and then we use it to beat the crap out of each other.”
“I want business cards with that title—Teacher of Zen Shit.”
His eyes rolled up to find hers. “You know what I mean.”
“It doesn’t bother me at all. In the first place, there’s plenty I admire about your team. The dedication to success is impressive. And I like working with people who understand their bodies. I never have to convince an athlete that a mind-body connection exists. You guys all get it.”
“But you still hate the fighting,” he prompted.
“The fighting isn’t my favorite,” she admitted. “But I don’t think it’s your favorite either.”
“Not all the time,” he admitted. “The hours before a fight are the worst. I spend a lot of time worrying about how to make this guy my bitch without getting too hurt, while he tries to make me his bitch without getting hurt.”
“So you get anxious.”
He made a face. “It’s more like dread.”
“Okay, dread.” Because macho men weren’t allowed to experience anxiety. “Maybe we can find you a meditation for those hours. Something that redirects your energy in a more positive way.”
His expression was skeptical. “I don’t think I’m very good at meditating.”
“Neither am I,” Ari said. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t helping. An old Buddhist monk told me once that the mind is like an untrained monkey. If you don’t give it something to do, it will tear your house apart and smear shit on all the walls.”
“Really?” On the table in front of her, Patrick’s eight-pack shook with laughter. “I want to meet this monk.”
“Really. He said meditation gives your monkey something better to do. Even if you think you’re bad at it, the monkey is still busy.”
Patrick reached up and gave her wrist a squeeze. “I like your style, sweetheart. But I can’t always connect to the meditations you give us during yoga. It’s like I can’t shut off my cynical brain. You tell me to soar like an eagle, and I’m thinking, there aren’t any eagles in Brooklyn.”
“Uh-huh. So you need the Brooklyn version of a guided meditation? More trash on the beach? Fuhggeddaboudit?”
“Yeah.”
