Page 7 of Hard Hitter
She’d asked him once in casual conversation whether he saw a private massage therapist. Some players were so into massage that they paid up for a private masseuse to visit them at home every morning. As a veteran, O’Doul could afford to hire a staff of thousands if he wished.
But when she’d asked, he’d just shaken his head.
Ari had a theory about O’Doul, though. He didn’t seem to like to be touched. At all. During yoga class, she never corrected him with her hands, because she’d noticed early on that his postures got worse instead of better when she adjusted him. At first she’d assumed he was embarrassed to be corrected by a woman.
But his reluctance to have a massage had shifted her thinking. Maybe O’Doul didn’t like to be touchedat all. She’d tested this theory the other night at the bar, laying a hand on his broad shoulder in passing. He actually flinched a little.
Weird.
The training team was worried about a strain to his right hip flexors, so they’d asked for her help. And now here she sat watching both the door and the clock. If O’Doul didn’t show this time, she’d have to tell Henry—the head trainer—that she might not be right the right therapist for O’Doul’s needs. If the man was sensitive to being touched, he might do better with a therapist he chose himself.
This possibility made her jumpy, though. It shouldn’t be the end of the world if one player snubbed the staff therapist. But job security was always in the back of her mind, and she really wanted to do well for this team. She wanted to do well, period.
Every hockey team had a staff masseuse, but the role was usually held by a man. Ari was proud of her position on the Bruisers. And since the breakup with her boyfriend of eight years, her job was the one steady thing in her life.
Luckily, this train of thought was interrupted when the door to her therapy room flew open to admit O’Doul. Right away she was struck by how absurdly handsome he was. It ought to be against the law to have a jaw that rugged and eyes the color of a tropical sea. As a massage therapist, Ari believed that all bodies were beautiful and miraculous. However, some were more miraculous than others.
But when she checked his expression, her confidence faltered. O’Doul was the only player who walked into her treatment room wearing the same expression that another man might wear to have a tooth extracted.
“Good afternoon,” she said, hopping down as he took off his coat.
He turned to face her the way a guy might face the firing squad. “Afternoon.”
“I’ll step out while you change,” Ari said, placing a folded sheet on the table. “If you’d feel more comfortable you can leave your undergarments on. When you’re ready, lie down on the table, using the extra sheet as a cover.”
“Got it,” he said, pulling his team sweatshirt over his head.
Ari stepped out of the room for a moment. She tied up her hair and fetched a bottle of massage oil off the warmer where she’d left it. Then she took a minute to close her eyes and visualize how she wanted the hour to go.
The team often snickered when she led them through visualization exercises, but Ari knew their power. It was hard to achieve something if you couldn’timagineit working. With her back to the door, she first formed his name in her mind.Patrick. When meditating on her clients’ needs, she always used first names because they seemed more personal. When you put your hands on someone’s body, it was personal whether you wanted it to be or not.
Today I’m healing Patrick.
In her mind’s eye, he relaxed on the table. With firm but gentle hands, she’d probe his trouble spots. She pictured his hip flexor muscles, overlapping one another, the nervesstretching toward his groin in one direction and around to his lumbar spine in the other. She visualized her hands bringing him comfort, easing the strain, recruiting the deeper hip flexors. She’d try to ease any pressure he’d been shifting to his lower back. At the end of the hour, he’d be looser and more flexible. He’d feel more confident whenever he moved.
Ari opened her eyes. She could help Patrick if he’d let her. She knocked twice before reentering the room.
“C’mon in,” came the gruff response.
She let herself in, then stopped for a moment at the stereo she kept on the countertop. She cued up a playlist and then washed her hands. “Daughter” began to emerge from the little set of speakers she kept on the counter.
“Pearl Jam?” he asked from the table.
“You don’t like it?” she asked. She would have figured him for a grunge rock guy. He was thirty-two years old with a macho streak a mile wide.
“No, I love it,” he chuckled. “Once I tried to get a massage at a hotel, and they were playing harp music. My ears were bleeding.”
“Okay, no harps. Got it.” Ari approached the table and looked her client over. Bodies were an everyday sight for a massage therapist. But this was a particularly stunning example. All athletes were muscular but O’Doul wascut. Even lying flat on a table he looked like a tightly coiled spring, ready for sudden physical exertion. The sheet had been casually draped across his waist, but everywhere else rippling muscle was visible, from his stacked shoulders to his thick calves.
He tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “How long does this take?”
Ari laughed in spite of herself. “Sixty minutes, usually. And I haven’t killed anyone yet. I swear.”
“Okay. Sorry.” His mouth formed a tight line.
Right. Ari rubbed her hands together to warm them. She was oddly self-conscious for someone who gave six or more massages a day. “I’m going to ease toward your hip flexorstrain, okay? I’ll want to relax the surrounding muscles, so they don’t contribute to your pain. You’ll let me know if anything hurts, and if you don’t approve of the pressure.” She folded the sheet back to reveal his thigh. She patted his knee to announce her presence, then used her left hand to palm his lower quad, and her right to slowly manipulate the muscle just above his kneecap.
Slowly she worked her way up the outside of his hip. So far, so good. “Just checking in, here. How’s the pressure?”
