I put my phone on silent, stuff it in my pocket, and close my eyes. The messages and problems aren’t going anywhere. They’ll all still be waiting for me after this torturous massage.

CHAPTER 4

THIS IS NOT

A HAPPY ENDING

POPPY

April sticks her head in the door and makes a face. “Good Lord, Poppy, how do you manage? It looks like you sheared a black lab in here.”

“He’s as friendly as one.” Mr. Stroker has more hair on his back than a hibernating bear, but he’s a nice man. He also has a herniated disc, and vertebrae three through five have been fused, so his mobility depends a lot on his weekly visits. Excessive hair aside, I like that my treatments help alleviate some of his pain.

The sheets I’m rolling into a ball are covered in his black fuzz. I wonder if his wife has ever suggested waxing and what kind of bribery would be required before he agreed. I have to use an excessive amount of oil on him to avoid ripping out too much hair. Even so, the sheets are always covered in man fur when I’m done with him.

The bodies I’m exposed to on a daily basis are as interesting as they are disgusting at times. But despite the excessive hair on my last client, I’m still starving.

“Want to run across to the bakery with me? I was thinking about walking to the park and eating there since I have lots of time before my next appointment. It’s such a beautiful day.” I’m irrationally excited for a ham and cheese croissant—and maybe one of those delicious tarts—and an ice-cold soda. It’s a warm day, and I want to take advantage before the cooler fall weather sets in.

I toss the sheets in the laundry basket.

April makes another face, along with a weird, sucky sound.

“I don’t like that face, or that noise.”

“About your dinner break…” She trails off, still making the face.

I prop a hand on my hip. “Don’t tell me they booked me another appointment.”

Her expression holds genuine apology. “We’re all back to back today, and you had the only spot left. It’s a favor for some big NHL player or whatever. You know how Tim’s always trying to get them in here for rehab. Well, it looks like you’re the guinea pig.”

Tim is the owner of the clinic. He’s a nice guy, but I don’t like him much right now. I’m also the one he comes to when he’s in a bind because I’m the least likely to say no.

Normally I’d agree that this is a fantastic opportunity. Athletes tend to have interesting muscular issues, and helping to resolve those is something I’m usually excited about.

I loved studying human physiology in school, and while I wasn’t great at sports, I was always good at figuring out how to manage the injuries that occurred, which is a big part of the reason I went into this field. Helping people makes me happy.

But not so much when it interferes with my dinner plans.

“So I get to rub oil all over an NHL player instead of eating? Awesome. I’m overwhelmed with joy.”

April rolls her eyes and passes me the clipboard with his information. “If it’s any consolation, he’s a serious hottie. I’m sure most women would trip over themselves for the honor.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not most women.” My experience with NHL players, while limited, hasn’t been particularly fantastic. The form is covered in masculine, barely legible scrawl. I blink a few times as I read the name, positive I can’t be seeing this right.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then open them again. Heavy black pen still spells out Lance Romero across the top of the page.

Talk about ruining what started as a moderately decent day... I must groan out loud because April makes another one of her faces. It should be unattractive, but April is stunningly beautiful, so it’s just animated.

“What’s wrong?”

I try to pass her back the clipboard. “Why don’t you treat him and I’ll treat your client. Who is it?”

April’s jaw drops, and she taps the paper, right beside Lance’s block letters. “Are you high right now? Do you even know who this is?”

Oh, I know exactly who Lance Romero is. He’s number twenty-one for Chicago. I saw him for the first time in more than a decade just over a year ago—not that he remembered me from when we were kids. If I could never see him again, that would be awesome, and extremely preferable to being locked in a room alone with him. For an hour. Where I have to touch him. With my hands.

I don’t say any of that, though, because then I’d have to offer an explanation. No thanks to that.

“Can you trade?” I ask again.

“I would love to, but I have Ms. Thong next, and that won’t fly. What’s the deal? Why wouldn’t you want to get your hands all over this guy? Maybe he’ll want a glute massage.”

Sometimes we nickname our clients. Ms. Thong is seventy-six years old and wears the kind of panties you’d find on a stripper. Usually I think that’s funny, but right now I’m panicking.

“April.”

“Seriously, Poppy, what’s the deal? Why’s your face red? Why don’t you want to treat him? Do you have a secret crush on him? Do you lurrrve him?”

April and I have become good friends over the past year, since we took massage therapist positions at this clinic. We were in the same program in college, but we had opposite schedules, so we only ever saw each other in passing. We’re pretty close now, though.

Sometimes we even go out on the weekends together. Most of the time we just watch movies, because I’m not much for partying, and most of the time neither is she. On rare occasions we’ll go to a bar and laugh at the ridiculous guys who try to pick us up. But I have never, ever talked to her about the time I spent the night at Lance Romero’s house. Not in his bed. Oh no, my no-longer-friend Kristi was the one who had the pleasure of messing up his sheets. I know all about how outstanding Lance is in bed, thanks to her detailed recount.