Breaking the Ice: Hot Romance - Ice Hockey

1

The sound of his ringing cellphone draws my father”s attention away from the crowd as we make our way towards the dressing room. Walking beside me is Bill Thornton, my father”s old college friend and the coach of the Portland Devils hockey team.

“Max?” Bill Thornton stops beside me, and I follow. My father holds up a hand, asking the caller for a moment, then presses the smartphone to his chest. “I”m sorry, but I have to take this. Go ahead, I”ll catch up.” With that, he turns away and puts the phone back to his ear.

Thornton nods and signals for me to follow him. He”s a tall man with heather gray hair, leading me through a crowded hallway that smells of hot dogs and caramel popcorn. The stadium is alive with excitement, some fans still buzzing from the game. Admittedly, I was thoroughly entertained – the home team, the Devils, methodically outplayed the visitors, the Cougars. Despite my limited knowledge of ice hockey, the drums and cheers of the fan club got me into the spirit, especially after the first period.

“It”s remarkable how many women are here,” I comment as the trainer guides me down a flight of stairs to the lower section of the ice rink. I never expected so many young girls to be interested in this sport, and not just any girls – they”re all dressed up and stunning. I can”t help but feel a bit out of place in my skinny jeans, gray coat, and short boots.

“Yes, we have a growing number of female fans,” Thornton replies with a grin. “Can”t blame them, though. Our team is the youngest and most attractive in the club”s history. Two of our players even made it to the cover of a magazine last month. That”s what the ladies are drawn to.”

I can imagine that.

“I”m just glad you and your father could step in at such short notice. After Patrick, our previous sports masseur, broke his arm while drunk, I was at my wit”s end. Why did that idiot have to party with the players? Everyone knows they”re a force to reckon with.” Thornton shakes his head and takes a turn. “If I could offer you some advice, never try to keep up with the boys when it comes to drinking. They”ll outmatch you without a doubt. Here we are.” He stops before a tall door from behind which I can hear voices. “Let”s introduce you then.” With a proud smile and a wink, Bill gestures for me to enter. You”d think he was leading me into a treasure trove rather than a hockey team”s locker room.

A cloud of steam, carrying the scent of shower gel, greets us as he opens the door, revealing a white-tiled room. My eyes are drawn to the massive blood-red team logo emblazoned on the center of the floor – a grinning devil with crossed hockey sticks, reminiscent of a pirate flag. Lockers line the walls on either side, and in front of each stand two long benches, occupied by about twenty men. Most of them are half-dressed, wearing only the towels around their waists.

“Oh my, who do we have here?” One of the guys notices us. He”s seated on the bench to my left, wearing nothing but snug white boxer shorts. Through the fabric, his... assets are quite visible. Not bad. The question is whether he knows how to use it. I meet his gaze, and he grins back. Surprisingly handsome, he has dark brown eyes and slightly wavy, gelled-back hair. I believe they call this hairstyle ‘the flow’ – quite popular among hockey players. My eyes trail down his heavily tattooed torso. While I don”t appreciate every design, like the faded rose on his collarbone, I do admire his passion for body art. I have a few tattoos of my own. His grin widens as he catches me scanning him – the guy is clearly a Player.

“Wow, Coach, did you bring that beauty just for me? That”s thoughtful, but unnecessary,” the guy next to him chimes in, raising his eyebrows playfully. Towering over his teammate, he”s lean with dark cropped hair, and his eyes are the bluest I”ve seen. Only one tattoo graces his skin – a sun covering part of his chest. He whistles appreciatively. By now, we certainly have the attention of everyone present.

“Oh, wow, sweetheart, I might be finished, but I wouldn”t mind another shower with you,” a big red-haired guy interjects, unfastening his jeans’ belt provocatively.

“Hold on, Toby, I saw her first,” the sun-tattooed guy remarks, inciting a chorus of loud shouts from the other players.

“Forget it, she needs a real man!”

“Hey, gorgeous, want me to show you my moves?”

“Hey, sexy, bet on me – you won”t lose!”

“Quiet!” Thornton”s voice suddenly thunders beside me. There”s something amusing about this little man silencing a group of giants. “Settle down,” he scolds, his gaze sweeping across the athletes. “Let me introduce you. This is Emmina Tade Hoang. She”ll be taking over for Patrick for the rest of the season.”

“Emma is fine,” I interject. I hate my full name – Emmina sounds excessively old-fashioned, and three quarters of people mispronounce Hoang.

“What? Little missy is our masseuse?” Toby”s eyes widen. “Well, that”s perfect. She can start with me right away.” With those words, he turns, presenting his back and pulling up his shirt slightly. His jeans also slip down a bit, revealing his hairy rear.

“Come on, Toby, put your ‘butt mullet’ away,” the sun-tattooed guy exclaims, catching sight of his teammate”s exposed backside. Grabbing a nearby towel, he playfully whips Toby”s bare skin.

“Dude, Parker, knock it off!” Toby retaliates, attempting to put Parker in a headlock. Bill Thornton intervenes, calling for silence.

“That”s enough! Neither of you will be getting a massage from Emma.”

“What?” the two protest simultaneously.

“Then who”s going to take care of us?” Parker inquires.

“Her father, Maxwell.”

“I don”t get it. Are we having two massage therapists now?” Toby furrows his brows and pulls up his pants.

“Exactly, genius.” Hands on his hips, Thornton marches through the rows of benches like a sergeant. “After you drove away Mrs. Limes, your previous masseuse...”

“Wait, what? The old hag scared us off! Have you seen her hands?” Parker interrupts the coach, shaking his head in disgust. “Even my grandma doesn”t have fingers that gnarled.”

Ignoring his player”s distaste, Bill continues, “After you offended Mrs. Limes, scared off Ms. Waterbay with your jokes, and upset her replacement, Thomas, I thought you didn”t deserve a new masseuse.”

“That”s not fair, Thomas had it coming! Have you smelled his breath?” Parker interjects, and Bill turns his attention to him.

“Will you let me finish? Or do you want to do extra laps around the rink first?”

“Okay, okay, I”m good.” Parker raises his hands apologetically. “I”m just telling it how it is.”

“Anyway, if it were up to me, you wouldn”t have a new massage therapist. But the board of directors had a different opinion and arranged for Maxwell.” The coach”s gaze shifts to the player, who”s sitting there with a wide grin.

“What? Don”t look at me like that. It”s not my fault Pat tripped and broke his arm.”

“No, Durand,” Thornton growls, “you”re the one who got him drunk.”

“So what? How was I supposed to know he couldn”t handle his liquor?” Before he continues, the player turns his attention to me, locking eyes. “Sorry, Coach, but only those who can keep up should play with the big boys.” His expression as he says this is unmistakable. Durand, the guy with the upper body tattoo, is hitting on me.

Obviously, he believes his charms or that sultry gaze will work on me. I admit, he”s handsome and he seems to have a reputation with the ladies. However, I”m not particularly drawn to show-offs. But for the fun of it, I decide to play along. I give him a meaningful smile and bite my lower lip. A triumphant grin spreads across his face. Let”s see how he handles a little competition, I think, shifting my gaze to Parker, his bench mate. I offer him a brief, innocent smile, and his features brighten, freezing Durand”s grin. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Durand”s bewildered glance towards Parker. I barely suppress a smile.

“Durand”s right. If Pat can”t handle it, he shouldn”t be celebrating with us,” another player joins the conversation, diverting my attention back to the coach.

“I couldn”t care less about your drinking prowess,” Thornton retorts. “I have better things to do than find new masseurs every two weeks. Let me make one thing clear: Emma here...” Bill steps closer to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “...Is your last chance. If you dare to alienate her or her father, I”ll personally ensure that they”re your last enjoyable massage therapists. Then I”ll find some burly, unpolished men to knead you like dough.” As Thornton explains, a mental image forms – a flat-nosed giant with lifeless eyes and a blunt demeanor, bending the players in all directions during massages. Judging by the expressions on the athletes’ faces, similar thoughts cross their minds. Only Durand remains unfazed, looking at me with an inscrutable expression before turning back to the coach. “Don”t worry, Coach, we”ll behave. Right, guys?” His words sound sincere, but Durand”s gaze tells a different story. He looks like he’s plotting something. Amidst the mumbling agreement of his teammates, I wonder what his game is.

“Look...” Durand stands up and raises his palms. “...Emma and her father are in good company with us.” Before Thornton can respond, there”s a knock on the door. My dad enters and apologizes for arriving late. All eyes turn to him, all except Durand”s and mine. The player keeps his dark eyes locked onto me. I see him lick his lips seductively as I meet his gaze boldly. He”s not the tallest, maybe five-foot-five, but he”s undeniably well-built. And he knows it. Confidence oozes from him. Well, I think to myself, there”s likely nothing serious here, but a little flirtation might be on the table. I glance over the other men, most of whom are also quite attractive. Yes, I believe I”m going to enjoy this new job.