Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(22)

“I would’ve waited to see you either way, so it doesn’t really matter.” The last part comes out heavily accented, sounding more like It does nae reee-lly mah-ter.

“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say to that. I don’t understand why he’d wait to see me, unless he wanted to make sure I didn’t jailbreak his phone.

He looks down and smoothes his hand across the counter. His knuckles look sore, and his nails are bitten to the quick, a bad habit I used to share, but have worked hard to curb. There’s nothing quite like wearing your worry on your hands for everyone to see. He makes a fist when he notices me looking and drops his hands to his sides.

When he doesn’t say anything else, I shut down the computer and push up from the chair. “Well, I’ll just go get your phone for you.”

I beeline for my massage room and try not to freak out on the way there. His phone sits where I left it: on top of my pile of towels, where I could see every message come in while I massaged my other clients.

Lance is standing in the same place when I return with his phone. He has thirty-seven new messages, six missed calls, and two voicemails from DO NOT FUCKING REPLY. I only know because the tally appears every time the phone lights up again.

I pass it over to him. “You missed a lot of calls.”

At the quirk of his brow, I rush to explain. “I wasn’t snooping. It just went off a lot.”

The phone buzzes again. His grin drops and his eyes go wide as he scans the screen and does some scrolling.

“Fuckin’ell.” He jams the device in his pocket and shakes his head. “I, uh—thanks for holding on to my phone for me.”

“Of course.” I’m anxious now. His proximity does things to me that I don’t know how to handle. And he’s staring. “Did you forget anything else?”

“You.”

I blink a couple of times, certain I’m misunderstanding. My heart does this stupid fluttery thing. “I’m sorry. Pardon?”

Lance shakes his head. “My teammate Miller says I know you, but I don’t remember, and I should.”

“I don’t—”

“I should remember someone as beautiful as you.” It sounds very much like a line, but he taps the desk again. He’s agitated, his frustration obvious. “I want to remember you.”

I look away, because I don’t want him to see my hurt. I should be relieved, but I’m really not. “It’s not a big deal. You meet a lot of peop—”

Lance interrupts me. “I hope I wasn’t an asshole. I get that way sometimes; when I’ve been drinking I’m not always nice. I wouldn’t have wanted to be a dick to you.”

“You were perfectly fine.” It’s only sort of a lie. He was nice to me until Kristi got in the way and made it clear she was interested in a lot more than conversation.

He watches me for a few long seconds, and I know he’s assessing whether I’m telling the truth. “I probably wasn’t if I don’t remember you. I must’ve been fucking wasted, so however I acted, with you and your friends, I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.” I adjust a few of the papers on the desk to have something to do with my hands. I could say something. Maybe I even should, but I clam right up instead, too caught up in my own embarrassing memories.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket again and hits a few buttons on the screen, mumbling something I don’t catch. “Can I get your number?”

When I just stare at him, likely with that blank look store mannequins can pull off effortlessly, he’s quick to correct my stupid assumption that he’s asking me out. Because that would just be crazy.

“So I can call you for massages. Do you do home visits?”

“Pardon?”

“Like, have table, will travel? You do that, right?”

I don’t even know what to do with that question. “You want me to come to your house?” I can’t tell if this is some sort of weird proposition, and whether I want to be flattered or affronted.

Lance runs his jagged nails through his hair and drops his head, his jaw working. When he raises his head, there’s a hint of panic behind his pale green eyes. “I’ll come see you again here if that’s the only way I can do this, but it’d be good if you could come to me…if there’s, like, an emergency situation or something.”

“Emergency massage?” This is the worst pick up in the history of the world. Except, as I observe his mannerisms and expression, I don’t think he’s trying to pick me up at all.

“Sometimes I get into fights on the ice.”

“So you want me to be your on-call massage therapist? What about the team therapist?” I can’t treat him on a regular basis. Well, I can, but I’m not sure I should. I might have successfully managed myself around him so far, but I’m not sure if that’s going to last. Not with the way I feel right now, and how upside down this all seems.

“I—I don’t really like it when people touch me. It makes me…uncomfortable. But it wasn’t like that with you today. So it’d be good if you were the person I saw when things like this happen.” He gestures to his face. “If that’s okay with you.” He bites his split lip, staring intently at me while he waits for a response.