Tempting the King: An Opposites Attract Grumpy Hockey Player Romance

Chapter 1

Emee

“No more hockey players!” I shout into the air above my keyboard. “I hate to generalize, Milt, but really, they are the worst, worst clients.”

It’s crazy to think I have professional hockey players as clients in the first place. I pinch myself every day, wondering how I ended up here.

Not here as in sitting cross-legged in my velvety mint-green office chair, inside my posh office on the ninth floor of a fairly bougie building in midtown Detroit’s revival district. But, from a 1958 single wide with a childhood devoid of hugs, to becoming a professional cuddlist.

The irony is thick as syrup.

Yeah, it’s a thing. A cuddlist.

A lucrative thing as well.

I adjust my phone so it’s sitting at a right angle to my keyboard on the glass top of my lacquered white desk, then blow at a speck of lint on the screen, clicking my mouse, analyzing and adjusting my schedule.

5:15 am Wake

5:15 – 5:30 am Use restroom, brush teeth, moisturize face, take morning supplements

5:30 – 5:45 am Sunrise yoga, drink twenty ounces of water

5:45 – 6:05 am Shower, towel dry hair, try new frizz taming product

6:05 – 6:30 am Gratitude journal, pick out clothes, get dressed, make bed

And so it goes. Organization calms me. When I know what’s coming, I feel in control.

Milton, one of my undergrad professors turned friend and colleague, sighs on the other end of the line. He’s been my biggest champion as I started my practice, and even co-signed on this office space. The building is brand-new, and the leasing agency never would have taken a chance on me without his backing.

The building is so new, in fact, mine is the only occupied office on my floor right now.

“Come on, Emee,” he says. “The league pays well. Think of that thirty-acre listing in Metamora you showed me at lunch the other day. I’m trying to help make your Martha Stewart dreams come true. I want you out of that slum lord hovel you’re in.”

It’s cliché, but after reading Anne of Green Gables as a little girl in the tin can we called home, I always dreamed of living on a farm. I thought that’s where happiness lived. Combine that with my obsession with all things Martha Stewart and I’m on the hunt for my own Turkey Hill.

But, even with my generous per-session pricing, the dream farm that just came on the market requires a down payment that my bank account isn’t ready to support.

Thanks in part to my inability to say no to my brother.

With a degree in kinetic psychology, there was a high probability I would be waiting tables before settling in bitterly as an underperforming suburban real estate agent. So, I’m grateful for where I’m at.

But impatient.

“Milt.” I keep my voice even, applying a coat of Tart Cherry lip gloss, rubbing my lips together before continuing. “The last player you sent me kept burping and…well, something far less appropriate than burping. Let’s just say, he needed to lay off the chili.”

“I’m begging you. This guy’s got a two-game suspension which is still under review, and could be up to five games if he doesn’t show proactive steps toward anger management. Between the two of us, I’m sure we could get him back after only missing two games. Maybe three.”

He sounds stressed, and although I respect him, I also know he’s a mad fan of the Detroit Blades. And, I owe him. Big.

“What did he do?” I ask, ticking away on my keyboard, arching my back, working to break the habit of slumping when I’m at my desk.

“Well, most recently he took umbrage with a hand gesture from a member of the opposing team and proceeded to knock out four of his teeth, as well as punching the referee attempting to stop him. Off the ice, last week he rammed a guy’s car in the parking lot of Lucky’s Steakhouse. Seven times. Apparently, the guy parked his Hummer across three spaces at the front of the restaurant, including one of the handicapped spots.”

“Sounds charming.” I say my lips tucking into a frown, looking out the window with a stab of jealousy at a helicopter circling a high rise, wondering if one of my billionaire clients is inside.

I bet whoever is in there could buy their own Turkey Hill a hundred times over.

My desk chair squeaks as I lean back, reaching toward the African Violet sitting on the corner of my desk. I pinch off a wilting flower, remembering the hot guy that gave it to me on our first date a couple months ago, after my friend Anita signed me up for Hollar, the latest, hottest dating app.

The guy was clever and funny in our chats, and finally after a week of back and forth on the app, we set up a coffee date.

He greeted me wearing a Tom Ford suit and lavender tie that matched the blooms on the little plant he offered as a gift.

He was also eighteen, not the twenty-six on his profile. Turns out, he was here on a student visa, which was expiring, and he thought ‘I looked like a nice, lonely lady’ and would be willing to help him out.

And marry him.

Funny thing, that was one of the best dates I’ve had since I set upon the Lewis and Clark style expedition that is online dating.

A pounding on my office door tightens the invisible binding around my chest as I pop a finger on the mute button. It’s after hours, I have no more clients scheduled, and my floor is empty except for my office.

My heart leaps into my throat when it’s my brother’s voice that comes through the door. “Carrot.” He uses the nickname he gave me when we were kids, so I already know he’s not stopping by with a maple bacon flavored cheesecake.

Which is a thing. A good thing, as Martha Stewart would say.

He knocks again, harder. “Let me in. I know you’re not snuggling some lonely billionaire in there, it’s after five.”

The muscle in my forehead ticks as I reach under my desk and press the button to buzz him through.

He bursts through the door, and it takes only a few seconds for me to assess that he’s lost more weight. His eyes are more sunken than when I saw him a week ago for breakfast and gave him rent money.

His dark hair is slicked back, olive skin showing a few new sores, reminding me of how different we are. Not only in looks, but the opposing directions our lives took.

We were like peas and carrots growing up, hence my nickname. But even with my red hair, our parents never could keep straight who was peas and who was carrots.

I point to the cream-colored leather sofa under the expansive windows to my left, making a ‘be quiet’ gesture with my finger to my lips, which he acknowledges with a salute. An homage to his other nickname for me, which is ‘sergeant’.

The late-afternoon April sun streams around him as he flops down on the sofa with a dramatic sigh, retrieves his phone from the back pocket of his dirty jeans, and starts scrolling.

The phone I pay for.

I draw a deep breath, my head falling back, gripping the front edge of my desk.

I give it a solid shove, sending my chair spinning.

I have too many men in my life, and none of them give me orgasms.

What wrong turn did I take that I spend most of my waking hours with men, many of them attractive and most of them wealthy, and I’ve yet to find one I’d let get inside my pants?

I drop my foot to the floor, stalling my chairy-go-round with a jolt, and consider the color-coded schedule displayed on the screen of my Mac. Then I shoot a glance at Benjamin, noting a fading bruise under his eye and the streak of dirt on the arm of the sofa where his left foot is resting. The band around my chest ratchets down and pressure builds behind my eyeballs.

“Please, I’ll double your hourly rate.” Milton says.

Now we’re talking.

I’m silent as he goes on.

“Playoffs are coming, they need him. This city needs him.” He clears his throat, there’s a quick pause, and I remember what my used car salesman grandfather always told me about negotiating. When they throw out an offer, let it sit there.

Whoever talks first, loses.

I hold my breath, fluttering my fingers under the auto dispenser of lavender hand sanitizer on my desk. A spurt of cool gel streams into my palm as I rub my hands together and wait.

One one thousand.

Two one thousand.

Three…

“Okay,” Milton’s exasperated voice comes through, “fifteen hundred. Fifteen hundred an hour, Emee. That’s as high as I’m authorized to go. For four sessions, that’s six grand.”

Ah, the sweet taste of victory with zero calories.

“Fifteen hundred a session,” I counter. “A session is forty minutes. If this testosterone tornado is one minute late, I cancel his appointment and I still get paid.”

Benjamin starts to cough, the horrible hacking sound growing deeper and more foreboding every week.

Pressure pops in my ears as I grind my molars. Benjamin pushes onto his feet, striding toward the hidden closet on the wall, slapping his palm onto the door and helping himself to a Coke from the mini fridge inside.

Then he turns my way, pointing to his head, squinting at me. “What’s with your hair?” he says, as I flap my hand, gesturing for him to shush.

“When?” Milton sounds relieved. I aim my mouse over to the available time slots on my screen as he adds, “I’ve got him waiting outside if you can fit him in.”

I roll my eyes at Benjamin slurping on the soda, mockingly twirling his finger in an imaginary tendril of hair.

I bought this new…beach waver contraption off a Facebook ad and took my lunch hour today figuring out how to use it to tame my Lucille Ball red curls into pageant-worthy spirals. It worked, even if I agree I look a little ridiculous.

“What’s his name?” I ask Milton, clicking on the ‘add new client’ tab in my scheduling program.

“King Hertzof,” Milton says, as Benjamin sputters the Coke onto the white carpet, which takes what’s left of my fifteen hundred dollar per session dopamine high and stomps it out.

“King Hertzof?” Benjamin repeats, his bloodshot eyes snapping wide, swiping the back of his hand across the dripping soda on his chin, as droplets of the brown liquid seep into the white carpet in front of his worn, mud-covered Nikes.

“That’s his name?” I question on a sigh, not caring which one of them answers.

“Yep.” Milton confirms.

“I can’t see him tonight,” I say, my belly rolling in anticipation of my third date tonight with the latest guy I met on Hollar. “But I had a cancellation at eight am tomorrow. And go over the Cuddler Client Code of Conduct and prep work with him. I’m not giving him any leeway. He screws up, I still get paid.”

Milton thanks me, and we wrap up the appointment details, signing off as my tense attention turns to the mess of my sibling, who has taken a seat on the edge of my Adrian Pearsall glass-topped coffee table.

“There are many places here meant for sitting.” I push back from my desk, grabbing a handful of Kleenex from the box next to my monitor, then step around my desk, dropping them on the Coke stain, applying pressure with the toe of my white sneaker. “Do you need something? I need to get ready to go somewhere.”

He doesn’t ask where, which is no surprise these days.

His face erupts in a wide, forced smile, showing off the hit his teeth have taken from his lifestyle choices. “I’m in a bind, Carrot.”

Here we go.

My gut turns sour as I drop to my knees to work at the last stubborn specks of the brown stain. If that spot doesn’t come out, I won’t be able to sleep.

Benjamin looks strangely excited. “You working with Hertzof? That’s promising.”

“You are not supposed to know about that,” I bark, pointing the handful of tissues his way while silently admonishing myself for allowing him to overhear my conversation. “You hear me? That’s confidential.” Following rules and keeping my practice squeaky clean are front and center in my business plan. One screw up as a newly-licensed therapist could spell disaster.

He raises his hands, the can of Coke wobbling as my temples throb. “Don’t get your tutu in a twist. I’m just saying—”

“What do you want? I have things to do.” It’s nearing six o’clock and contrary to what most people may think, cuddling people all day can take it out of a girl.

“Okay, okay. Just, my rent is due—”

I cut him off, dabbing angrily at the carpet. “I gave you rent money already this month. Try again.”

“I have business I’m trying to get off the ground, Em. I just need…like, a grand. Two at the most. Takes money to make money, ya know?”

“Two grand?” I huff, swallowing down a string of curse words. “A thousand, and that’s it for this month.”

The pressure inside my skull grinds toward the point of no return. The co-dependence is strong here, which only makes me feel more helpless.

I push to my feet, covering the five steps back to my desk, grab my vintage Dior purse from the bottom drawer of my credenza and count out ten hundred-dollar bills from the envelope of cash one of my clients always hands me on his first appointment of the month, paying in advance for his two sessions a week, where I simply sit with his head in my lap while he naps.

I’m pretty sure the cash isn’t from above board business dealings, but I have no proof, and even underworld mob bosses need a safe, soft place to land from time to time.

Benjamin sets the dripping can of Coke on the coffee table, right next to the stack of coasters, rubs his hands together, and wobbles to his feet.

I shove the money his way, swallowing down all the questions and bottom lines I’d like to discuss. But it’s my turn for a little stab at some happiness.

Or at least some distraction.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as he whistles and counts the bills, then I grab his shoulders, spinning him toward the door with a soft shove.

“Thanks, sis,” he says with a wink, and a sadness creeps through my heart, hearing Mom’s voice, telling me it’s the woman’s job to be responsible because men are pigs.

Her own actions said otherwise, but I was always the pleaser.

Still whistling, he’s out the door, stuffing the cash into his pocket, phone in his other hand, dialing God knows who. I know that money will likely be gone by midnight.

Not my problem right now, I tell myself as I lock the office door and check my Apple watch.

6:04 PM. Heartrate 180.

Shit. I’m off my schedule. I wanted to be getting dressed by six.

I scurry into the back-office space, the patchouli oil and citrus blend in the oil diffuser sending a calming fresh scent billowing around the room. There’s an oversize low king bed, covered in cream and white linen bedding and pillows. There are two overstuffed chairs in a dusty blue, and a sumptuous sofa draped with faux fur throw pillows and blankets.

This is where the cuddling happens, along with a lot of tears and confessions. Also, some snoring. And, at least I hope, some healing.

I swing open a door to a large closet filled with mostly yoga pants, t-shirts and tank tops with my company name and logo.

Something that is not usually inside is the scarlet red dress I scored at one of the resale shops I scour weekly when I need some retail therapy.

This dress is unlike anything I’ve worn before. It’s vintage Galliano, with its cinched waist and corset-looking bodice. My boobs are going to look epic, I think as I strip down and tiptoe into the washroom to freshen up.

With my hair already done, I contemplate wearing a pair of Skims mid-thigh control deals that I bought to go with the dress, but decide to give-no-fucks and step into the dress, then wiggle and tug the stretchy fabric over my hips. The side zipper fights me for a second on the way up, pinching at my pale skin, but I win the battle without so much as a curse word.

With a new coat of Tart Cherry Everlast lipstick, I slip on my new boots, then add a squirt of perfume, grab my keys, credit card and ID, re-homing them into a sparkly little black clutch purse, and I’m out the door.

The dress is second skin snug, but I feel womanly and sexy, and I don’t miss the look Jack the security officer behind the desk on the main floor gives me as I pass. He’s harmless, so whipped by his wife it’s cute. I’m a curvy girl, but I have no shame about my body. I eat well, enjoy life and do yoga daily.

If someone is turned off by a type-A size-fourteen redhead with a high emotional IQ, that’s on them, not me.