Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(46)

CHAPTER 12


TOO MANY FAVORS

POPPY

Instead of going out for a bite to eat with April on Sunday evening, I tell her I need a night in with a book because I’m tired. Which is sort of true. I also promised Mr. Goldberg a game of cribbage on his front porch, which I’ve already taken care of and of course I let him beat me twice. Plus, I have early appointments tomorrow. I also want to watch the game. Because maybe I’m a little obsessed with Lance Romero. Still. Again. I don’t know.

I should definitely not want him to call me and beg for another home massage session. I should also not be fantasizing about him. Because he’s a client. Because he’s a dog. All the bunny sites tell me that.

But I am fantasizing. Because he’s gorgeous and because he’s been so sweet with me, and maybe a little awkward. Nothing like the guy I met last year at the bar who was drunk and cocky. Okay, so maybe he’s still a little cocky, but that’s not a bad thing.

My focus during the game is one hundred percent singular. I watch Lance, number twenty-one, every time he’s on the ice. When I’m not watching the game, I’m checking my social media feeds. Lance is following me on Instagram and has liked a bunch of my posts. I shouldn’t be all that excited, since everyone follows everyone else here, but I am.

Close to the end of the third period, a fight breaks out between Lance and number forty-four from the other team. If one could even call it a fight. It doesn’t look two-sided from my perspective. The guy from Philly lays right into him. Lance even takes off his helmet, but he never hits the guy. Not once. He does go down hard, though. Hard enough to make me cringe. He’ll be sore tomorrow. I wonder if that means he’ll try to get another appointment with me.

By the time the refs intervene, Lance is bleeding from a gash above his eyebrow. I think it might be the one that had the fly bandage on it the other day. That’ll suck if he reopened the wound.

He still gets a penalty, though. Both teams do. But Chicago manages to win the game being down a player, and it’s late by the time I go to bed.

I have an early morning with an eight o’clock start, and I’m dragging a little as I get myself out the door. I arrive about ten minutes before my first client, but without caffeine in my system, because I slept through my alarm. It’s Lance’s fault. He not only infiltrates all my waking thoughts, but sleeping ones too. It made for a restless, thigh-clenching night.

Bernadette doesn’t arrive until nine, so I don’t get stuck at her desk to chat. I rush to my room, grateful I set up on Saturday night so all I have to do is throw the heating pad on the table to warm it, cue the music, and put the oil in the warmer.

My first client of the day is always pushing the late side, so I have a few extra minutes, but not enough time to run across the street to grab a coffee. I send April a text requesting one if she has time to stop on the way in.

My client arrives at 8:03, and a long, painful hour ensues. She’s an incredibly chipper person. Normally I appreciate her positivity, but underslept and caffeine deprived, it’s a bit much to handle on a Monday morning.

April arrives at my door as I’m stripping the sheets, coffee in hand. I toss them to the floor and practically tackle her for it. “Oh my God, I’m dying right now.”

April’s eyes go wide and she holds out the cup, cringing away from me. “Wow. Do I need to stage an intervention?”

“I slept horribly last night.”

“Yeah. You look like you’re packing for a vacation under your eyes.”

“It’s not that bad.” I check my reflection in the mirror across the room.

April changes the subject. “Have you talked to Bernadette yet this morning?”

I shake my head. “My first appointment was early, so she wasn’t here when I came in. Why?”

She gives me an eyebrow waggle. “You need to come check out who’s booked into your schedule and on a wait list for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think you mean who am I talking about. Bernadette’s been telling everyone who comes through the door. I think you might have a fan.”

“Is it that guy who smells like cheese? Please tell me it isn’t. I don’t think I can handle repeated hours of that.” Every time that guy comes in I’m off cheese for a good week, and normally I love cheese.

April makes one of her signature faces. “Oh, God. No. This is way, way better.”

“So who is it?” My stomach does a little flip, but I quash that quickly. It has to be someone else. It can’t be who I want it to be.

“Guess.”

“I have another appointment in a few minutes. I don’t have time to play guessing games.” I don’t have anyone for another twenty, but I’m not in the mood for this.

“Oh, come on! Why are you so grumpy? You’re ruining all my fun.”

“Fine. Is it that guy who won’t takes his socks off?” I know it’s not him. He only sees Marcie.

April throws her hands in the air. “It’s Lance! You know, the professional hockey player whose ass you had your hands all over last week? The one who asked for your number so you could be his emergency massage therapist?”

“April!” I throw a pillow at her. “Keep your voice down!” While it’s not against policy, I don’t want the whole clinic to know about that.