12. Joey
12
Joey
I wish I’d never agreed to work for Brent. Whenever I’m in his presence, I seem to make a bigger fool of myself. The uncomfortable silence on the drive back from Connecticut had lasted until we neared his building. I practically fell out of the car in my haste to flee when he pulled up to the subway stop, refusing his offer to drive me all the way home.
But here I am at his door, gathering my composure and willing myself not to light up like a heat lamp when he opens the door. Of course I do just that as soon as he appears, sweaty and shirtless. His shorts hang low on his hip bones, providing an excellent view of every defined muscle from shoulders to just above the pelvis. One would think I’ve never seen a half-naked man before when, in my line of work, I’ve seen—and touched—hundreds.
“Come on in. What’s all this?”
If Brent hadn’t spoken, I’m pretty sure I’d have continued to stand in place and drool. Giving myself a mental shake, I walk past him with two large tote bags. One is filled with groceries to make him a meal and the other with a few therapy tools so I can treat him properly.
“Since you had a car pick me up, I was able to bring some torture instruments—I mean toys—to use on you.” I hope I succeed in sounding lighthearted and teasing, in a friendly way. I look at him only when I hear him groan. “Are you in pain? Sit down. You should have waited for me to tape your knee up before you worked out. Let me just put some of this stuff in the kitchen.”
“I’m fine. Just doing upper body today. What’s with the food?”
“I thought I’d make you dinner, as a thank-you for the car service.” I smile at him uncertainly. “I hope that’s okay. I mean, unless you had plans to go out—”
“No, no plans. Eating at home over the weekend reminded me how sick I am of eating takeout. I need to hire a chef before the season starts.”
I make a mental note to ask my nutrition class teacher if she knows of anyone.
“Finish your workout,” I tell Brent. “We can do your therapy after I start dinner.”
I retreat to the kitchen while he returns to the gym area he’s set up in a corner in front of the towering windows. It has everything—treadmill, stationary bike, weight bench, barbells, and a kick-ass universal weight machine.
Brent turns up the hip-hop music so it blasts from hidden speakers before resuming his chest presses. Afraid he’ll catch me staring, I drag my gaze away from the rock-hard, straining muscles and cast it around the penthouse as I unload the bags.
The open floor plan is arranged into functional spaces and sitting areas. Low, narrow shelves provide separation between the various areas. A few art pieces rest on them, but they are otherwise uncluttered. I’d have filled them up with books, framed photos, and knickknacks in no time.
The kitchen has stainless-steel appliances, contemporary brown cabinets, and gorgeous countertops with brown and amber glass embedded in the material.
A dining set made of metal and glass separates the kitchen from the rest of the massive penthouse. Several leather chairs and couches form a semicircle in front of the biggest screen I have ever seen outside of a movie theater, hung on the far wall.
Along the interior wall is a wet bar and game room area that has a pool table and a poker table. One part of the wall has framed jerseys and shelves filled with trophies, signed footballs, and other memorabilia. Another has four midsize flat-screen TVs. I assume it’s to keep an eye on all the games of rival teams—when he’s not on the field himself.
It’s a cliché bachelor pad with almost everything in shades of brown with cream accents. No pastels, no flowers, no fabric anywhere. And no clutter. Only leather, wood, glass, and metal—and as opposite as possible from his childhood home, which, to this day, is filled with frills and explosions of color.
The gossip pages estimate his place is worth tens of millions, sitting as it does on the northern edge of Central Park with an expansive view of the entire park and towering buildings beyond. From my vantage point in the kitchen, I can only see the wide terrace beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Cushioned lounge chairs and a tiled patio table are set under a large pergola draped with wisteria growing out of giant pots. There’s even a hot tub on a raised platform.
I can’t imagine living in something so big or luxurious. It’s hard to believe I know someone who does. But Brent has worked incredibly hard for the success he’s achieved, and he deserves to reap the rewards of it. I’m so proud of him.
Once I have the chicken and vegetables prepped for dinner, we start his session. He lowers the music, and I guide him through a series of exercises for the knee—heel slides, leg raises, single-leg squats. I put a hand on his leg at times to ensure he keeps the pace slow or on his back for support when he’s on the balance board I brought.
After stretching out his legs, I allow him to rest with ice and a TENS unit while I finish cooking dinner and pretend he’s not watching me. When the timer I set dings after fifteen minutes, I remove the ice and peel off the sticky pads from around his knee. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, if you want to take a shower.”
I’m tossing the salad when he comes out a short while later, his hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s changed into another pair of gym shorts and a navy-blue T-shirt that is just tight enough to outline his well-defined muscles magnificently. And he’s barefoot. Why does it seem so intimate to see his bare feet?
“Can I help?” he asks, standing on the other side of the island.
“No, thanks. Just about done.”
“Smells great. What is it?”
“Chicken with veggies, quinoa, sweet potato, and a baby kale salad.”
“Sounds…healthy.”
I laugh at his poorly hidden grimace. “Well, hopefully it’ll taste good too.”
“Hopefully? You’ve never made this before?”
I decide I like the bantering and tease him by not answering his question. “Just set the table…or island,” I say, unsure where he normally eats his meals.
“Let’s eat outside.”
He sets the table on the terrace and helps me bring everything out.
Dusk is falling, and the strings of lights come on automatically, transforming his terrace into a magical, romantic spot. Probably not what he intended. He keeps the conversation casual, talking about the upcoming season, playing for a new team, and my work. This is the longest, most comfortable one-on-one conversation we’ve ever had.
“I’m seriously impressed by this dinner,” Brent says, sitting back in his chair with a hand over his flat stomach. “I’ll admit I had my doubts as soon as you said ‘quinoa.’ Maybe I can hire you to be my chef too.”
I laugh. “Yeah, right. This can’t compete with your chef in San Diego.”
“Why do you do that?” He frowns at me.
My eyes widen, wondering what I did to suddenly irritate him. “What?”
“Sell yourself short. You did the same thing about being hired by the Firebirds, as if knowing me or DeShawn got you the job instead of your own abilities.”
I bite my lip, not knowing what to say. I’ve got issues was a little obvious.
“I’m serious about the chef thing. I’ll have food during training camp, but once the season starts, it would be great to have someone who doesn’t just cook delicious food but can do it with nutrition in mind.”
I wonder if he’s serious, but I don’t find any hint of teasing. “Let’s see how it goes. Ready for your massage now?”
We go back inside, and I have him lie on the mat. I should ask him to buy a therapy table if I’m going to continue doing this for him.
I take a deep breath as I kneel next to him, my nervousness back. He’s completely relaxed, his hands behind his head, eyes closed. I knead the warm flesh over supple muscles with my thumbs, telling myself to pretend he’s just another client.
Except he isn’t. It’s Brent, the only man who makes me want more, and the only one who makes me wish for the impossible.
I run my fingers over his feet and work my way up the ankle and shin of one leg, searching for tight spots. He hisses in pain when I discover one over his IT band. I make a mental note and keep going, moving to his quads then the psoas, near his hip bones. I hesitate before going to the adductors, which run along the insides of his thighs.
Just another client, I tell myself. I take a deep breath and let it out, closing my eyes as my hands move over his muscles.
Just another client…