Chapter Two Jeremy
Did I hit my head during yesterday’s game? Or maybe the concussion from last season finally caught up with me. It’s also possible I’m still asleep.
How else do I explain why the UPS delivery woman is stripping in my front hallway, singing the “Happy Birthday” song while she lassos a shirt over her head? When the song finishes and she still hasn’t disappeared into my unconscious, I’m resigned to the fact that I am, unfortunately, awake.
It’s midmorning on the day after a late arrival from an extended stretch of away games. The plane didn’t even land till way past midnight. My brain is in slow motion, which is why I hadn’t guessed the most obvious explanation for her raunchy birthday greeting.
My father.
On cue, the man’s text pings. Happy Birthday Sonny! Say hi to Stella for me. Isn’t she a doll?
Ignoring the text, I politely ask doll-like Stella to wait while I grab my wallet. Even unwelcome strippers deserve a cash tip.
“Any fun plans today?” she asks, walking into the living room.
“Dinner,” I answer curtly. The team has the first night off in weeks, so a few of us are meeting at Borderlands. The restaurant transitions from a steakhouse into a popular drinking establishment in the later hours.
I’ll be long gone by then, having made plans for myself and by myself after dinner.
“With someone special?” she asks flirtatiously, while twirling her hair extensions with a taloned finger.
I ignore the question and change the subject. “When did you start working at the Neon?”
My best guess is that Stella works at my dad’s strip club in Dayton. The Naughty Neon is a typical gentleman’s club located at the intersection of two major freeways. Although I’ve been there exactly once—out of curiosity when he begged me to grab a drink with him when I turned twenty-one—I can confirm that the place is as loud and tacky as it sounds.
“I moved from Akron a few months ago because my friend, do you know Candy? She says the Neon has—”
“Here you go,” I blurt as soon as I locate a fifty. I register too late that she’d been talking. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”
“So, you’re a big-time goalie, huh?” She takes the cash and tucks it in her bra. I don’t like how her eyes roam up and down my shirt, as if she’s activating X-ray vision.
“Thanks for driving over. Oh, and let me cover your gas.” I give her another twenty. “Drive safe,” I add. How many cues can I drop to indicate: please leave as fast as your car will take you.
She gets the hint and walks to the front door, slipping her hands into the arms of her UPS shirt. I squirm when she fails to button up before stepping outside. There are kids living across the street, for fuck’s sake. Leaning on the shut door, I don’t exhale until her car drives away.
Pulling up my dad’s last text, my fingers shake with anger.
I’d rather punch something than text my father. Or, better yet, I’d rather punch my father than text him.
Me: Dad, we talked about this. Do not send me strippers EVER AGAIN.
Dad: You’re welcome! And wait till you see my surprise later.
Me: No surprises. I mean it.
Me: No strippers. No surprises.
Dad: I thought she might entice you to come by this week. I wanted to show you my expansion plans.
And there it is. He’s been trying to hit me up for money since the second I turned pro. As frustrating as the exchange is, it is annoyingly familiar.
William Schmidt is a narcissistic sex addict who can’t understand why I’m not the opportunistic manwhore he’s always wanted for a son. What man doesn’t want to own a strip club, after all? ME! The only thing I’m less interested in than a strip club is turning into someone like him: addicted to women and sex.
Not that I can have this conversation with him. I might as well scream into the void for how effectively my dad and I communicate. We are not close. In fact, we’re practically strangers to each other. My father will never understand what it is to focus on a career that requires restraint and discipline.
And I can’t get over the fact that he entered my life when I started to make the news while in college. Instead of admitting that he had abandoned me and mom throughout my childhood and only resurfaced when my hockey career became imminent, he blames her .
Christina Lopez is a Guatemalan immigrant he got pregnant when she was nineteen and he was over thirty. She raised me alone, refused to marry him, and protected me from his influence as much as she could. It’s her last name of Lopez that I carry proudly.
A dull pull at my hamstring sharpens. There’s also a familiar spike of panic that this is it… this is the one that brings it all back…
No. Just no . I shut down the negative thoughts and focus on what I can control. Doctors and trainers have helped me control chronic pain for almost a decade. That’s not changing today.
Because of our stint of away games, I haven’t been at the rehab center for almost two weeks, that’s all. The Mavericks’ medical staff is competent and helpful. However, few doctors have experience with and knowledge about my connective tissue disorder the way a physiatrist like Dr. Kyle Lane does. Now that I’m back in town, seeing him is on top of my to-do list.
I’m scheduled for a two o’clock appointment, but I don’t want to wait that long. I’ll need to see him before my workout, not after.
Instead of dialing the main line, I call Sabrina. She’s the office manager and married to the Mavericks captain, Dexter Whitby. More importantly, Sabrina used to be a goaltender for the women’s league. I don’t have to explain last-minute appointment changes to a fellow hockey player. The body needs what it needs.
“Hey, Jeremy! What’s up?” she answers cheerfully.
“Hi. Nothing much. Wondering if Kyle can see me earlier than my two o’clock appointment.”
“Let me check.” She puts me on hold for a minute. “He’s booked, but if you come before lunch, we’ll try to squeeze you in.”
“Thanks. See you at noon.”
“Perfect. Text me when you arrive.”
I show up at quarter to twelve and park in the employee lot behind the building. I’ve worked with Kyle even before he created this behemoth of a building, ever since he diagnosed me as a kid. It’s a relationship the Mavericks took advantage of when they drafted me, integrating his medical treatment costs into my contract.
The benefit of being a longtime patient is that I don’t go through the regular channels. Instead of checking in at the front desk and getting unwanted attention from other patrons, I have a key card that gives me access to the back entrance of the medical wing.
I text Sabrina. I’m here. Should I go to his office?
Sabrina: Wait in exam room 4. He’s got a patient across the hall, but if you leave the door open, you’ll see him as soon as he’s done.
I do as I’m told and get comfortable by removing my jacket and track pants, leaving only athletic shorts. He’ll need access to my hamstrings and lower back, which he’ll massage and attach to an EMS unit. It’s an electronic stimulation machine that helps with tight muscles. My condition includes hypermobility, which is fantastic for reflexes and agility, but goddamn painful if left untreated.
“Jeremy Lopez?” The voice crests over my shoulder, prompting me to turn around. A woman stands at the threshold, clutching a stethoscope around her neck and staring at me with heavily lashed brown eyes. Tall and curvaceous, I can’t help noticing the way her blue scrubs stretch over a full chest.
Then, she smiles. It changes her features from symmetrically appealing to full sunshine. Cheekbones lifted, eyes crinkled at the edges, full lips curved up and framed by deep dimples. The woman doesn’t need makeup for all her features to hit me in high definition. Her eager attention steals my ability to speak for a moment.
I’ll concede my dad one point: he’s never “surprised” me with anyone this wholesome ; as in, naturally pretty instead of overtly sexual.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Vanya Kapur. I didn’t think you’d be arriving till later. It’s such a pleasure to see you, Mr. Lopez.” She steps in with her hand outstretched.
Nicely done, Dad . A hot doctor is definitely more creative than a scantily dressed nurse.
Instead of shaking her hand, I rush to find my wallet and get some cash before she does her “Happy Birthday” number. Maybe I can pay her before Kyle finishes with his other patient. No one else has to know about the second parental indiscretion of the day.
“I’m sorry, I only have a twenty. But you don’t have to do anything. Here, take this. Please leave.”
I hold out the bill between us. She looks at my hand and tilts her head.
“Excuse me, but are you paying me to leave?” Her voice is incredulous, and her smile is replaced by a scowl.
“Well, yeah,” I answer with an added shake of the twenty before I drop it on the counter. “And you don’t have to strip at all,” I hurry to add.
Her brown eyes widen to stare at me so intently, I’m worried she’s lost the ability to blink.
“Mr. Lopez, why in the world would I strip ? Are you,” she pauses and lowers her voice, “are you feeling well? I only had access to your file a few minutes ago, but we can review your pain medication for—”
“Oh my god, enough already!” I interrupt with an impatient sigh. “You’re not gonna leave until the job is done? Good for you.” I sit down and cross my arms over my chest. “Well? Get it over with, then.”
Her face reddens and her tiny nostrils flare.
“I see,” she mutters with a mouth that barely moves, the line is so stern. “You think because you’re a hotshot hockey player you’ve got some superpower that makes women shed their clothing. Unfortunately, your delusions of sexual irresistibility can’t be cured with our treatment of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. You’ll have to go to a psychiatrist for that. Shall I write you a referral?”
How the hell would this stripper know about my EDS? Before I can ask out loud, Kyle opens the door across the hallway.
“Oh, good!” he says, entering the exam room. “You’ve met Dr. Kapur. We went over your file earlier so—”
“She’s actually a doctor?” I erupt, struggling to wrap my mind around the fact that I treated her like one of my dad’s employees.
“Yes, Mr. Lopez,” she answers with thick condescension, “women make excellent doctors. That is, when they can resist your…” She lifts the twenty that I put on the counter and shakes it in front of me. “Your charms .”