5
“We should get proper beds as soon as possible. I feel completely drained,” my dad laments, rolling his head back. He sits across from me at our tiny kitchen table, looking utterly exhausted. Dark circles lie beneath his eyes, and his hair resembles a bird”s nest. He”s slept on the sofa bed in the living room for my sake, giving me the single bed in the bedroom. Bill apologized numerous times yesterday for the sparsely furnished apartment, but given the short time frame, there wasn”t much to be done. After all, it”s only been two days since he got the job offer and we arrived. Mr. Flake insisted that we start as soon as possible.
“What do you think about hitting a few furniture stores later? Maybe we”ll get lucky, and they”ll deliver today,” I suggest, taking a sip of my coffee from a glass tumbler. “And some dishes wouldn”t hurt either. We don”t have toilet paper or dish soap.”
“True, I know. Apart from a carton of milk, the fridge is pretty empty. But that”s not a problem; we have enough time to take care of everything. Today”s training, if I remember correctly, is scheduled for late afternoon. Let me check.” Dad reaches for a note lying behind him on the kitchen counter. He scans the training times written on it. “Today is Monday. Normally, the team would have training at eleven. But since they had a game yesterday...”
His index finger lands on the paper and slides down to a marginal note. “... It”s postponed to five in the afternoon.”
“Perfect. It”s only eleven now. We have plenty of time to do the shopping without stress,” I say with satisfaction, mentally compiling a list of all the things we need. My beeping phone grabs my attention. It”s on the kitchen counter behind Dad.
“That”s probably Riley,” I explain as I get up. “I sent her a video of our new apartment earlier.” Riley is my best friend. We”ve grown up together, known each other since kindergarten, and we”re used to doing things together every day. It was tough for both of us when I got this job and had to pack up and move overnight.
While picking up the phone from the counter, I glance at the display. I was expecting a WhatsApp message, but instead, I find a text message. Odd. I open the message from an unfamiliar number and read the following sentence:
*11:30 A.M. in the massage room. Need a treatment.
Frowning, I return to my seat and sit down. What a rude text. There isn”t even a name mentioned. Well, who knows. Brief messages are probably common among professionals, I consider. Time is money, after all.
“What”s up?” Dad looks at me over the edge of his newspaper, which he”s just opened. “Is something wrong with Riley?”
“No, but I received a text from one of the players.”
“Oh yeah? From whom?”
“It doesn”t say.”
“And what does the mysterious man write?”
“Basically, just that he needs a treatment at 11:30.”
“That”s in less than half an hour, and you haven”t even had a proper breakfast. I”ll take care of it for you,” he suggests, setting the newspaper aside.
“No, Dad, it”s fine, I don”t mind.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” I assure him, getting up and heading to the bedroom to change. I exchange the oversized T-shirt I”m wearing for a mint-green polo shirt with the words “Tade – Healing Hands” embroidered over the chest. I slip into white pants and sneakers. Then I head to the bathroom, tying my shoulder-length black hair into a ponytail. This will be my first official treatment. I”m immensely excited, a feeling mirrored on my face. My slightly uneven dark brown eyes seem to gleam. I owe my eye shape to Mom, just as I do my flawless skin. She”s Thai by birth and... oh man, I haven”t even had time to call her yet. I resolve to give her a detailed report later in the evening. It must be tough for her to be home alone in Aberdeen without Dad and me.
With no time to spare, my makeup is minimal – just some eyeliner to accentuate my cat-like eyes and a bit of mascara. I spend a little more time brushing my teeth, as neglecting oral hygiene is something I find repulsive. After spitting out the toothpaste and wiping away the foam, I return to the kitchen where Dad is still engrossed in his newspaper.
“Sure you don’t want me to take over?” he asks.
“Dad, stop worrying. I”ve got this!” I retrieve my jacket from the back of the chair, grab the key to the company car we”ve been provided, and plant a kiss on his forehead. “I need to go, see you later. Love you!” Without waiting for his response, I hurry away. I”m running late.
Four minutes before half past eleven, I arrive breathless in my massage room. Traffic on Portland”s streets is horrendous around noon, I”ve come to realize. Fortunately, the player who requested my services seems to be running late too, as I”m the only one here. That”s fine by me; it gives me a moment to acclimate. I switch on the light, take off my jacket, and hang it on the hook on the wall behind the oil shelf. Then I step into the adjacent bathroom to wash my hands. Since I didn”t get a chance to look around in here yesterday, I let my gaze wander through the small space. Toward the front is a sink and a shelf with towels. Further back, next to a shower, there”s a toilet. The room, much like the team”s locker room, is tiled in white, and, as I notice, equipped with underfloor heating. On the left wall, the grinning devil”s face of the Devils is plastered above a few hooks. They must be quite patriotic here, the logo is everywhere, I think to myself, just as I sense something behind me. I turn around and spot a guy watching me near the massage table.
“Oh, hi,” I greet him, wondering if he”s the player who summoned me. I can”t recall seeing him with the others when Bill introduced me yesterday. I would have remembered that face!
“Hi,” he replies curtly, his baritone voice filling the room.
“Have you been standing there for long?” I ask. For some reason, he makes me nervous. The way he”s studying me with those dark eyes feels eerie.
“No,” he answers matter-of-factly, and I don”t know why, but I”m certain he”s lying.
“Okay, so I assume you sent me the text message,” I say, feeling apprehensive, and move toward him. “I”m Emma,” I introduce myself as I stand before the man, who”s about six-foot-three, and extend my hand. I don”t want him to sense my insecurity, so I smile at him nonchalantly.
“Caleb,” he says, shaking my hand. The sensation of his warm skin against mine is almost uncomfortably intense, causing me to retract my hand quickly. This has never happened to me in my twenty-one years.
“Okay, so you need a massage?”
“Yeah, I”m about to head to the weight room.” While Caleb speaks, I position myself casually at the head of the massage table – putting some safe distance between us. I don”t know what it is, but this man has something about him that makes me nervous. Maybe it”s his voice, which slips beneath my skin stealthily, like a mosquito bite. Or maybe it”s the way he”s looking at me. With that gaze that conceals his thoughts. He definitely irritates me, and I don”t like it. No one can easily throw me off balance; then why am I reacting this way to him?
“Which muscle group are you planning to work on?”
“I”m working on my legs.”
“Particularly the calf muscles, I presume?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Alright, please take off your jeans and socks and lie down,” I say, gesturing toward the bathroom, and turn to the oil shelf. As I search for a circulation-enhancing oil, I hear him unfastening his belt behind me. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. What”s he doing? Why is he changing in here with me? I turn to face him, about to suggest the bathroom, when he sits on the massage table and lies down on his back. Out of courtesy and because it”s a golden rule in my profession, I avoid looking at his intimate region. “I actually meant for you to lie on your stomach,” I say, prompting him with my suggestion, as he gives me an expectant brow furrow.
“Patrick always started face up.” And from Caleb”s tone, it seems he insists on keeping it that way, I note.What”s his problem? Why is he acting this way? Is he trying to provoke me? Even if he is, I won”t let it affect me. Mr. Flake demands that his guys get what they want. So fine, I”ll adapt. I force a smile and approach him at the table. Keeping my back to him, I stand at hip height next to him and put some oil on my hand. It carries a faint scent of arnica. Then I place both hands on his right thigh. The touch triggers a fluttering sensation in my chest, which I ignore. With smooth strokes, I work my way down his muscular leg. Caleb says nothing, and I stay silent too. Instead, there”s an electric tension in the air between us. Who knows, maybe I”m just sleep-deprived and emotionally unstable as a result.
Minutes pass as I force myself to concentrate on my work. As I stand at the foot of the table to attend to his feet, allowing him to see my face, he unexpectedly initiates a conversation.
“So, you and your dad are new to the city?”
I lift my head, meeting his inquiring gaze.
“We arrived yesterday, yes.”
“And where are you from?”
“Aberdeen.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Did the Devils provide you with an apartment?”
“Yes.”What”s with this interrogation? First, he barely says a word, and now he”s bombarding me with questions out of nowhere.
“And a car?”
Okay, what”s this supposed to be? Your own one-man quiz show? Sorry, buddy, that”s not going to work with me; It”s time to turn the tables.
“Yep, that was part of it. We need to be available at all times. What about you? You”re not from Portland, I can tell by your accent. Where are you from?”
“Two Rivers. And do you have family and friends back in Aberdeen?”
“Loads of them. But I”m sure you can relate, right? It probably wasn”t any different for you,” I remark, my hands pausing in their motion – I”ve stopped massaging. Instead, I”m giving him a challenging look.
“And did you leave a boyfriend behind?”
Caleb”s directness borders on impudence. I”m about to answer when he continues, “I”m sure someone like you is already taken, right?” The guy seriously has a nerve. And I”m just as guilty because somewhere deep in my subconscious, a voice wonders what it would be like to be his girlfriend. That”s insane, though! Why am I thinking something so absurd? I don”t have, nor do I want, a boyfriend. Life is too short to be bothered with men. No, I”d rather just flirt with them and spare myself the relationship drama.
“Are you always this straightforward?” I steer around his question. After all, it”s none of his business whether I”m taken or not.
“Most of the time.”
“So, I guess your approach is ‘shoot first, ask questions later’?”
“Usually.” Caleb seems unfazed by my response, which makes me want to twist his toes.
“Alright now, do you have a boyfriend?”
“What about you, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Yes, I do.” His response comes quickly. By now, I”m sure that I must be sleep-deprived, as I feel a faint disappointment welling up inside me. That”s definitely not normal and must be due to my lack of sleep. I really should lie down!
“No, I don”t have a boyfriend.”
“Then the men in Aberdeen are either blind or gay.” Under different circumstances, I”d say the guy is flirting with me in the most impertinent way possible. But Caleb”s words don”t sound like a pickup line; rather, they sound like an observation.
“I”ll take that as a compliment. So, thank you,” I say, furrowing my brow, adding a bit more oil and continuing the massage on his other foot.
“Not a problem. I”m pretty sure most of the team agrees with me.”
“I see,” I say with a smile.
“By the way, you”ve left quite an impression on some of them. They”ll be pleased to hear you”re not taken.” Parker comes to mind, how he visited me here yesterday and flirted. I get it now, that”s the deal.
“Are you here to pry into me for one of the others?”
“No, they manage that just fine on their own.” He props himself up on his elbows, and I see his abdominal muscles working beneath the tight shirt. For a tiny moment, I weaken, and my gaze slips a bit lower to the dark shorts with a noticeable bulge. What is it with these hockey players? Are they all so loaded or what? Durand yesterday, Caleb today, this isn”t normal! “I”m here because I want to know if you can handle the guys.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of the players are unpredictable hotshots, and I can”t afford disruption in the team.” Ah, I finally get it. Caleb Whyler is the captain of the Devils. I read that in Dad”s team files yesterday. I knew I recognized the name from somewhere. So, as captain, he”s worried I might pit his players against each other.
“Don”t worry, I don”t plan on getting involved with any of them,” I say. At least not in terms of sex or a relationship. As far as I”m concerned that topic is closed, so I refocus my attention on his feet.
“I”m just afraid that won”t stop them. You”ll see, they”ll try to get your attention in every possible way.”
“Please, let them.” I don”t have a problem with that. On the contrary, a few flirts will make my time here more enjoyable. But he doesn”t need to know that. “Caleb,” I say, because his expression darkens, and I don”t want to sour things with him. “You really don”t need to worry. I”m here to work, not to cause discord in your team.” For a moment, he looks at me assessingly. In that moment, my heart thumps unusually hard against my ribcage, confusing me. Am I afraid he won”t believe me, or is it the deep brown of his eyes, the way he looks at me, that”s accelerating my pulse?
“Alright,” is all he says before lying down again, and I start working on his thighs. A few minutes later, I ask him to turn onto his stomach so I can continue on his back. I notice that he has an incredibly hot butt. In fact, this man has an amazing physique. And hey, it means something when I say that, because he”s not the first athlete I”ve seen in minimal clothing.
He remains silent for the rest of the massage, which suits me fine. There”s a kind of tension between us. But I notice that with each touch—running my hands over his skin—that tension diminishes a bit. When I finally finish, Caleb even looks relaxed.
“Alright, that”s it,” I explain and run my hands over his calves one last time. “Your muscles are warmed up and well blooded. It”s best if you head to practice.”
“Got it, thanks.” His voice sounds rough, as if he just woke up. While Caleb sits up, I go to the bathroom to wash the oil off my hands.
“By the way,” I say, looking at the hockey player who”s just getting up from the table and pushing his chin-length curls back, “for next time: you don”t need to change out there. There are hooks in here.”
“I know,” he says and reaches for his clothes that he laid on the dresser. He knows? And yet he still changes in the massage room? Odd bird.
“Then I don”t need to worry that the guys will bash each other”s skulls in because of you?” he asks again as I return to him. He”s standing fully dressed next to the table, rolling up the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt. The dark blond hair, the sharp facial features, and then those intelligent eyes. Oh man, I have to admit, Caleb looks delicious. If anyone on the team could truly tempt me, it”s him. But I stay away from men who are taken. Fishing in unfamiliar waters isn”t my thing.
“As I said, I don”t intend to get involved with any of them.”
“Good.” That serious expression returns to his face as he nods and heads to the door. I turn my attention to the table, about to remove the linen cover to prepare it for the next client when Caleb—his hand on the doorknob—pauses. He turns around to face me once more, seeking my gaze.
“Thank you,” he says, and for the first time, I think I see a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
“No problem.”
“And welcome to the Devils.” With that, he presses the doorknob and disappears into the hallway.