Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(14)

I ignore her and grab fresh sheets so I can dress my table.

April stops before she opens the door. “I can’t believe you went to school with him. I want a firm ass report.”

“Way to keep it professional.”

She slips out of the room, leaving the door open a crack. I finish putting fresh sheets on the table and arrange the pillows before I take a few deep, cleansing breaths to prepare for what is likely going to be a painful hour.

There’s so much irony in this situation. If this was a year ago, I probably would’ve fainted at the sight of Lance’s name scrawled across a patient sheet. But no matter how I feel, I need to put aside my personal issues and focus on the purpose of him being here. People come to see me when they’re in pain. If Lance is here, it’s likely an issue that’s impacting his ability to do his job, and my role is to help. I manipulate the human body in simple, gentle ways to help make that pain go away. I can keep this professional.

Armed with my clipboard, I walk down the hall to the waiting room. Lance is impossible to miss. Despite the fact that he’s wearing a sweatshirt and the hood is covering half of his face, he’s more than six feet of broad, hockey-playing man.

He’s so wide his shoulders encroach on the chairs on either side, which would explain why no one is sitting next to him. He’s slouched down so his head rests on the back of the chair, and his hands are clasped in his lap, a baseball cap hanging off one knee. His lips, plush and soft—I know since I’ve had them on mine; it might have been a decade ago, but I remember it clearly—are parted. He looks like he’s asleep.

I clear my throat. “Lance Romero?”

He doesn’t move.

Bernadette, the receptionist, gives me a meaningful look.

I clear my throat again and call his name a second time. He jolts awake and the hood falls back, exposing his face. It’s not in good shape. He has a black eye and bruises on his left cheek. There’s a fly bandage across one eyebrow.

Sadly, he’s still hot.

He blinks a few times, yawns, and smacks his lips, his tongue touching the split in the bottom one. His gaze sweeps the room and finally lands on me. Heat explodes in my cheeks and courses through my limbs, warming me from the inside out as he starts at my sneaker-clad feet and roams up over my yoga pants to my company-issued T-shirt before stopping at my face. I can’t look directly at him for more than a couple of seconds. I sincerely hope he doesn’t remember me. I cannot go there and also be professional.

I’m sure the smile he gives me has melted many a panty off a slutty bunny. Mine stay right where they’re supposed to, wedged up my ass.

I force a polite, professional veneer. “I’m ready for you now.”

He pushes slowly out of the chair, a tic in his left cheek indicating some discomfort.

I extend a hand when he’s close enough. “I’m Poppy. I’ll be your massage therapist this afternoon.”

I note the newly formed scabs on his knuckles and how warm and wide his palm is when it envelops mine. I try not to think about that night a year ago. About the way it felt when he put that hand on my back and led me through the crowd to the bar. About the feel of his lips against my ear when he asked my name. How it was too loud to hear, and I didn’t correct him when he got it wrong. How Kristi got in between us and hijacked him less than a minute later. How I let that happen, even though I didn’t want to.

I doubt he remembers any of it. He was drunk. Everyone was. Even I was tipsy, which isn’t something I do all that often. I’m typically not a much of a drinker at all. Still, the entire horrifying night is clearer than polished glass in my memory.

His sleepy eyes stay on my face long past what’s comfortable. He wets his bottom lip and smirks. “If I sniff you, will I get high?”

I hold his gaze, not returning his flirty grin. It falters, and he blinks a few times. When I try to free my hand from his, he grips it more tightly and cocks his head to the side, as if he’s trying to place me. I look away, afraid he’s going to see through me.

Eventually he allows me to pull my hand free. I spin around, calling over my shoulder, “You can follow me.”

Oh yes, this is going to be an unpleasant hour for sure.

My palms are sweaty as I lead him down the hall. After we left the bar that night, it was almost like I didn’t exist. It had felt a lot like high school, except with more R-rated activities. God, this is humiliating. Hookerslaw. My face is hot, which means it’s definitely red. Mortification is hard to hide as a freckly redhead.

I inhale deeply as I open the door to my therapy room—a bad idea because Lance smells delicious—and motion him inside. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. He glances at me, and then at the massage table.

“You can go in. I promise it’s not a torture chamber.”

He makes a sucking sound with his teeth and looks me up and down—not in a sexual way, but in an assessing-whether-I’m-serious way. He seems a little edgy.

Eventually he steps inside, but he doesn’t go very far. I have to slip in behind him because he takes up so much space. My arm grazes his, and he jerks out of the way, muttering an apology. Jeez, he’s as tense as I am.

I close the door and pat the massage table. “You can have a seat. I’d like to go through your profile and discuss the purpose of your treatment today.”