Page 9 of Hard Hitter
“Ugh. You ma’amed me like an old woman. Just for that you’re going to do it four more times.” She grabbed his ankle again. “Bend.”
“Yes,ma’am.”
“For that? Six times.”
“Yes, master.” She watched the taut muscles of his back shake with laughter.
Ari placed her hands on his body again, her palm warmed by the taut skin of his lower back, the fingers of her other hand gripping his sturdy hip through the thin cotton of his navy blue briefs. “Ready, big guy?”
“Ready,” he rumbled.
“Push and go.” Together they worked around his trouble spot while he extended his leg. And the sigh he let out was a good sign. “Okay?”
“Yeah. It feels a little looser than it did a half hour ago.”
Ari’s small victory was like a warm tingle in her chest. Smiling, she made him repeat the exercise a few more times. “Now roll onto your stomach,” she insisted. “For fifteen minutes I want you to pretend you enjoy massage. Just to stroke my ego, okay?”
Chuckling, he rolled over. She spread a bit of oil on her hands and went to work on his calves, slowly working her way up to his hamstrings. Bit by bit she felt his body relax beneath her touch. “How am I doing?” she asked. “Feel free to lie.”
“Aw. This is the best massage I’ve had all year.”
She let out an unladylike snort. “This is theonlyone, right?”
“Yeah, but still.” He rolled his handsome face into the crook of his arm and sighed again.
Skipping his hips, she went to work on the muscles at the juncture of his lower back and his rather beautiful ass. “Do you have much pain here? The risk with a hip strain is that you’ll overcompensate by using your lower back.”
“By the end of a game, I’m feeling it there for sure.”
The honest answer surprised her. She gave him a pat on the back. “Okay. At your next visit, we’ll keep working on these trouble spots. Each time you put on a burst of speed on the ice, you demand a lot from these muscles. If we keep you loose, it’s going to help. I’m going to work into your hip a little now—but only from the back. And I’m not going to hurt you. And you’re lying on the trouble spot, right? No one can touch it.” She hoped his defensive position on the table would prevent him from tensing up.
“Got it. Do your worst.”
They were tough words from a tough guy, but now she knew better. Patrick O’Doul had some serious issues with having hands on his body. His reluctance probably stemmed from a refusal to make himself vulnerable.
She could work around that, though. She’d have to.
Eddie Vedder sang “Black” through her speakers and Ari hummed along, rolling the waistband of his briefs down just an inch, giving her better access to his skin. She oiled up her hands again and leaned into him, closing her eyes, applying all of her strength to the task at hand. Muscle and bone pressed against muscle and bone. Skin met skin. Shelet the oil do its work, reducing friction, bringing her hands into better contact with the body she was trying so hard to heal.
That’s when she felt it—finally—that beautiful connection, the moment when the client opens himself up to the treatment. He seemed to go slack beneath her, his muscles relaxing beneath the rhythm of her hands. If it wouldn’t have disturbed his newfound peace, she would have hooted in victory.
She finished up the massage at his big shoulders, now supple. His eyes were heavy. His breathing was steady. And if she checked his pulse, she knew she’d find it at a slow, relaxed rate.
It almost seemed mean when she had to pat the back of his neck gently and tell him that time was up.
His eyes widened. “Okay,” he said a little sleepily. “Thanks.”
“Here,” she said, placing a towel on the edge of the table. “You don’t want to get massage oil on your clothes.”
She turned her back and washed her hands at the little sink in the corner, giving him a moment alone to peel himself up off the table and gather his things. “See you tomorrow in Detroit,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll text you a location. I think we’ll be at the hotel.”
“Right. I’ll be on time,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”
“Be well!” As he opened the door to leave, she stole a look at his face. The expression she found there tugged at her heart. It was a little dazed, as if he couldn’t quite make sense of how he’d spent the last hour. She gave him a smile, and the corners of his rugged mouth turned up, too.
Then he was gone, probably to the showers. The hot water would do him some more good and keep him loose. But it would also give him a few minutes to pull himself together. Somehow it hadn’t been easy for O’Doul to let someone touch his body. But he’d done it. He’d let down his guard. Now he’d have to pull it back up again for game night. In afew hours he was expected to mow down the visiting team from Washington D.C., and maybe take a few punches to amuse the fans.
Although Ari found some aspects of hockey barbaric, she had tremendous respect for the competitive demands these men placed on both their bodies and their psyches. While she was donning her coat and wondering what to eat for dinner before the game, two dozen men would think of nothing but victory for the next seven hours. Cameras would follow their every move on the ice, then reporters would argue afterwards about their odds of making the play-offs for the first time since Nate Kattenberger bought the team.
