Chapter Eleven Jeremy
“What should we work on today?” Vanya asks while entering the examination room, stylus poised over an iPad she’s studying intently.
“Should I start the timer now or…” I tease.
The doctor’s head jerks up, eyes narrowed. Obviously, I’m joking. However, if her tight, stern mouth is any indication, she’s unimpressed by my comedic attempt.
“Too soon, huh,” I concede with a grin.
“Let’s do this again,” she states after a deep breath. “How are you feeling? Is there something specific we should focus on in the next hour?”
All business, as expected.
“The tightness on my hamstring came back after last night’s game. My right hip is sore, too, more than usual. Which reminds me, would you be willing to show the lead physical therapist at the Mavericks a couple of your stretches? Kyle’s worked with Lionel before. Your technique is different, though.”
“I’ll have to consult official policy. But if the practice’s medical insurance covers it, I personally wouldn’t mind.”
“Awesome. Sabrina knows the game schedule.”
“Good thing she’s in charge of my schedule, too, then.” There’s an edge of irritation to her tone.
“Are you mad that I went through her?”
“Jeremy, if I didn’t want to take you on, I wouldn’t be here.”
Her tone is indifferent; almost bored. Nothing at all like the woman who moaned over warm cookies.
“Besides, we’re creating a completely new pain management plan,” Vanya continues. “It makes sense to involve everyone, including the Mavericks trainers.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Go ahead and lie down while I pull up the notes from last time.”
I do as I’m told, face down and shirt off. Like our previous meeting, Vanya pokes and prods to measure whatever it is she’s recording. When the massage begins, I try to relax.
Last night’s game left me feeling like a human pretzel, but I’m trying to breathe through the discomfort. As long as I stay on top of the pre- and postgame regimens, my pain is manageable. The alternative is too shitty to consider. I was diagnosed with EDS in middle school, but the years before that were hell. I wasn’t a tight pretzel after a game; I was a lump of debilitating pain.
A deep inhale delivers a rush of Vanya’s particular fragrance. It isn’t perfume in the usual sense, but rather a mix of eucalyptus and lavender. It’s calming, like a fancy spa.
“Alright, Jeremy, let’s start with your hamstring. On a scale of one to ten, how’s the pain today?” she asks, her hands gently kneading my leg.
“The hamstring is at about a five,” I manage, trying not to wince. “But it’s my right hip. Been bothering me since the last game.”
She makes a sound of agreement. Vanya gets it. Of course she does. She’s Dr. Kapur, Harvard super doctor and muscle whisperer.
“Goaltending is uniquely taxing to your connective tissues,” she explains. “Any change in your training routine or game intensity?”
“We’ve been pushing harder now that the season is in full swing,” I answer. “But this is… worse than usual.” Saying those words to her—words I don’t feel comfortable saying to the Mavericks trainers—is a relief.
“Let’s address that,” she says, her hands moving in a way that makes me think of a wizard casting a spell. “Hypermobility has its pros and cons. Your joints are more flexible than other people’s, but your muscles and tendons compensate by tightening up to provide stability.”
I try to follow along, but honestly she could say anything, and I’d agree as long as she continues whatever she’s doing. The knots that tightened at first touch are unraveling under her expert kneading. I swallow at regular intervals to avoid drooling.
“It’s like everything’s out of balance,” I mumble past my moan when she moves her palms from the back of my knees to right under my ass. Up and down in a rhythm that soothes, stretches, and feels so fucking good.
“Exactly,” she agrees, shifting her attention to my troubled hip.
She massages the area. By area, I mean the side and over parts of my ass. Her touch is firm but gentle. Vanya repositions so she’s at the head of the table, fingers working the muscles under my skull and along the spine.
With my head settled on the massage table’s face holder, I can’t help but notice her Crocs. They’re plain black, which is why they didn’t stand out last time. Details jump out at me today. There’s a tiny golden Oscar statue on one foot and on the other, a small pair of dancing high heels. The trinkets make sense since she’s confessed her love of musicals. These aren’t like other Crocs. These are the Crocs of someone who knows every word to every song in Singin’ in the Rain . The realization makes me smile.
“Tell me more about your hip,” she prompts.
“At times, there’s…” I trail off, trying to decide how much to disclose. Her patient silence is what prompts me to continue. “There’s an aching soreness after a game, but that’s most of my body. But at its worst, it feels like something is grinding inside.”
“Hmm,” she mutters, her fingers still probing. “The connective tissue disorder can cause pain and discomfort, especially after stressful physical activity.”
“Stressful physical activity is an occupational hazard.”
She ignores my sarcasm. “I don’t want to do too much with the hip until I talk to your trainer. However, it won’t hurt to integrate targeted exercises to strengthen the muscles and improve stability.”
I nod. “Sounds good. Do your magic.”
“It’s science, not magic,” she says with a light snort.
As her fingers massage away my tension, I try not to think too much about how good she smells.
“Turn sideways, toward the cabinet, please,” she instructs. “We’re going to do an assisted hip flexor stretch. This will help with the tightness and improve your range of motion.”
I move as I’m told.
“I need more height and leverage to control this stretch,” Vanya explains. “Are you OK if I get on the table behind you?”
“You’re the boss.” If anyone can untangle my pretzel of a body, it’s her.
I feel a shift as the table accommodates her weight. She leans forward, placing her hands on my pelvis to stabilize me. Using her body weight to press my hip down while bending my leg slightly, Vanya deepens the stretch. It feels incredible, but so does the pillowy press of her chest against the outside of my thigh.
“Are you OK? It’s important to relax and breathe through it,” she whispers, her hold steady. I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath. She takes an exaggerated inhale and a long exhale, synchronizing us in a soothing pattern.
“That’s perfect, Jeremy,” she says quietly. “You’re doing so well.”
I don’t know if it’s the tone or the words that affect me, but a switch flicks in my traitorous body. Her casual praise, you’re doing so well , travels through my bloodstream.
Suddenly, I’m achingly conscious of her body against my leg, the pillowy press of her breasts like a heavenly cushion. Her warm breath teases my senses, making me want more. She smells like something I want to drown in. The fabric of her scrubs against my bare back is a reminder that we’re connected. My skin tingles there and in other places. The way she’s positioned over my hip, it must be her thighs bracing my lower back. Curvaceous thighs that I noticed when I drove her home the other night.
Blood shoots south. Shit. Shit , I cannot have a fucking hard-on right now. Not again! What is wrong with me? Think of something else, you idiot. Anything!
Kale. Rice cakes. Fuck, I need something more disgusting. Tripe!
Vanya shifts her body so she’s perpendicular to me, her hands rubbing the outside of my leg from hip to knee.
“Can you take more?”
Her voice is too sultry for my sanity. Why does everything that comes out of her mouth sound sexual?
Kale. Rice cakes. Tripe.
“Now, I want you to push your knee gently into my hands, about 25 percent of your strength.” I focus on the movement and am rewarded with a steady unfurling of my body’s knots.
“That’s good,” I manage. “Really good.”
“Excellent.” She sounds like a teacher who’s as caring as she is sexy. Had no idea that combination would do it for me, but here we are.
“Hold it for five seconds, then relax,” Vanya prompts.
I concentrate on her instructions and not on the way her palm glides over my skin.
“Perfect, Jeremy. That’s it.” It’s barely audible which makes her words even more intimate. “Can we do it a few times? Would you be OK with that?”
That’s difficult to answer, because although my hips are better, my control is shit. Vanya’s precise application of resistance relaxes me. Unfortunately, the feeling of being tucked into the cocoon of her care is creating tension elsewhere. I keep my mouth shut and think of other things.
Kale. Rice cakes. Tripe.
“That was excellent. You can get on your back now,” she says while sliding off the table.
Nope. No way can I get on my back and display my tented pants.
“Mind if I take a bathroom break?” I ask to buy some time.
“Of course. I’ll prepare the TENS unit.”
She means the machine that sends electrical nerve stimulation through my body. What sounds like torment actually aids pain management. When I return, Vanya hooks me up using adhesive electrode pads.
“You’ll feel a mild tingling sensation when I turn it on. Let me know if it becomes too intense at any point.”
She attaches the small clips from the TENS unit to each pad and then adjusts the settings on the device.
“Alright, here we go. I’m starting at a low intensity. You should feel a slight tingling.”
I’ve done this before, so I know the range I can take. The session requires me to receive electric stimulation for ten or so minutes. Getting zapped is another example of the glamorous life of an NHL goaltender.
“Are you heading to Musical Monday next week?” I ask Vanya, who has yet to stop scribbling on an iPad. “It’s West Side Story . The redo from a few years ago. It’s so much better,” I state confidently.
“I don’t think it’s better. The first film was revolutionary.” Eyes widening, she presses a hand against her chest, as if insulted.
“I can’t believe you are going to defend lip-syncing and brown face. Nearly every Puerto Rican character in the original movie was played by a white person with darkening makeup,” I argue, truly insulted.
“I know, I know.” She rolls her eyes. “Just that it was such a big part of my childhood. As an Indian kid living in a majority white neighborhood, it was cool to see brown people on the screen.”
“You imagined yourself as Maria, didn’t you?”
“Obviously!” That wide smile makes her face glow.
I decide not to bug her about the fact that Natalie Wood, the actress who played Maria, was as white as snow.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t like the new one. It’s good.”
“Good? The choreography alone is exceptional. And the new scenes have an original soundtrack. C’mon, you need to go on Monday. You can’t say it isn’t a better representation of Puerto Ricans.”
“Latinx culture brought to you by Steven Spielberg.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’m glad I caught you, Jeremy.” Kyle walks into the room suddenly and stands beside Vanya. “How’s the session going?”
“Great,” I say curtly, because I’d rather return to the West Side Story debate I plan to win.
“I’ll update the report,” Vanya states. “I’m recommending an ultrasound for his right hip prior to our next session.”
“Sure, sure,” Kyle says distractedly before sitting down. “So, Jeremy, do you think you can get me some tickets for next Thursday? My sister and her family are visiting from Wisconsin.”
“How many do you need?”
“Three, if you can swing it.”
“I’ll leave them at Will Call under your name.”
“Thanks so much.” He stands and gives Vanya a slight nod before leaving.
“Does that happen all the time?” Vanya asks when the machine dings to signal the end of my session.
“Someone challenging my taste in musicals? Honestly, never.”
She grins and shakes her head. “I mean getting hit up for hockey tickets.”
“I don’t mind. My mom lives in Tucson and most of my friends are on the ice with me, so it’s not like I make frequent arrangements for comp tickets.”
“Didn’t your mom raise you here? You mentioned living in your childhood home.”
“Yeah, she raised me here, but her Guatemalan heritage finally won out. That woman is done with winters.”
That’s the simpler explanation. No need to get into the other reasons. It’s not like Dr. Vanya Kapur is ever going to meet Christina Lopez in person.
“Who can blame her?” Vanya chuckles. “Well, Jeremy, you did great. How do you feel?”
My legs are great but my dick hurts.
“Ready to get on the ice,” I declare, grateful that the doctor and I are past our rocky start. The only thing difficult about this arrangement is how I get when she’s near. My reaction to my doctor is not only unusual, it is unprecedented.
For one, I don’t constantly think about sex the way my dad does. I’m not a manwhore like him.
Also, the stereotype of the promiscuous hockey player is a generalization that never applied to me. The idea is almost laughable. Unlike some of my teammates, the idea of sleeping with a stranger—no matter how superficially appealing—repels me.
The truth is, most of the time, I’m indifferent. Physically, I might have a reaction. However, simple attraction isn’t enough for me. So why have I gotten spontaneously aroused by Vanya from the first day I met her? Why can’t I stop thinking about touching her ?
The questions are irrelevant. What matters is getting over my unprecedented reaction. And soon.