Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(50)

“At your house. I didn’t pay you. I need to do that.”

I’d totally forgotten to even prepare an invoice for that massage. “You could email-transfer the funds for that one if you want.”

“Why don’t you add your email to your contact?” Lance passes me his phone.

My name comes up as Pretty Poppy, and it’s accompanied by the picture April accidentally snapped of me. I look like I’m yelling at her. Probably because I was. “April took that picture by accident when you left your phone here.”

“So it’s not a selfie?”

“If I was going to take a selfie, I’d make sure I didn’t look like a troll.”

“I think you look cute.”

“That’s even worse.” I type in my email address and am about to delete the picture when Lance snatches the phone back.

“That’s my phone. You can’t delete my pictures.”

“But it’s a picture of me!”

“Which I like, so I get to keep it. It’s not my fault your friend has a slippery finger. What was she even doing with my phone in the first place?”

“Trying to jailbreak it so she could get all your personal information,” I say.

“Seriously?” Lance looks legitimately worried.

“No. Not seriously. Although she did check to see if it was locked, which was when she took the picture. I forced her to give it back to me.”

“So you were trying to protect my privacy.”

“Mmm. That I was.” I swipe his credit card.

“So you think maybe you can fit me in again this week?”

“I’m fully booked, but I can see if someone else is available.”

“No,” he snaps, then amends, “I mean, no thanks. Like I said before, I only want it to be you.”

“I could try to fit you in at the end of a day again, if that works?” That’s the opposite of what I should do right now, but I’ve decided I’m not going to keep questioning myself. I want this time with him. What I’m doing is helping him, and beyond how much he seems to appreciate it, I like who he is when it’s him and me and I’m treating him, even if this relationship is supposed to be strictly professional.

“Yeah, sure, whenever you can. I have practice a lot this week, cause the official season starts this weekend, but I can usually do these later ones. Unless you want to treat me at my place or yours.”

“It’s better if we do it here.”

He chews on his bottom lip. “All right. If that’s how it’s gotta be.”

Like last time, he walks me to my car. This time I have the flowers with me, which makes getting in my vehicle even more awkward. Lance takes them for me so I can unlock my door and toss my purse on the passenger seat. When I turn back to him, he has this strange look on his face.

He takes a step toward me, and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me. In that instant I’m transported back to that closet at the party. But he doesn’t kiss me; instead he leans past me and drops the flowers on the dash. Then he straightens and wraps his arms around me. The hug ends as quickly as it began. He steps back, shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks at the ground, as if he’s embarrassed.

“Thanks for taking care of me again.”

“You’re welcome.”

He holds my door open and waits until I’m in the driver’s seat before he gestures to the flowers. “Is it weird that I gave you those?”

“Not weird. Unexpected and unprecedented, maybe.”

“Okay. I can deal with unprecedented. Night, Poppy.”

“Night, Lance.”

I wait until he’s in his Hummer before I move the poppies to the passenger seat and start my car. I’m not sure what just happened, but this feels different than any of my other client-therapist relationships.





CHAPTER 13


UNPLEASANT

CONCESSIONS

POPPY

It’s been a week since I’ve treated Lance. I haven’t been able to fit him in at all, though against my better judgment I did try. The nights where I could’ve tacked him on to the end of my day, he had practice, and then he had back-to-back games to open the official hockey season.

I watched those in the privacy of my living room, alone, almost like it was porn.

And he texts me daily. Sometimes multiple times. He always starts off by asking if there have been any cancellations. When I tell him no, he resorts to begging. Occasionally he sends me pouty-faced selfies, which I secretly love.

Today we’re finally making our schedules work, which is good, at least for him, because he told me if I don’t treat him, he won’t be able to play the next game. I squeezed him in as my last appointment of the day, working against the tingles in my tummy to convince myself this will be the very last time.

As I work out the horrible knots and kinks in his back, neck, and shoulders, I promise myself that after this massage I’m going to tell him someone else has to treat him. I don’t think I can keep up the professional front much longer, and I’m getting attached to these appointments. I don’t want it to become an issue, or another source of humiliation.

He’s talkative tonight, so I’m learning new things about him. His teammate, Miller, the one who had the penis drawing on his forehead, just had a baby, and Lance has plans to visit him tomorrow. I imagine him holding a newborn, and it makes my insides feel all warm and melty. Lance only goes back to Scotland once every two years. His favorite color is green, followed by orange, and his favorite foods are anything traditionally Scottish. He loves chocolate but breaks out in a rash when he eats it. Gummies are a special weakness for him. His favorite music is mellow, but he listens to heavy stuff when he works out.