“Maybe I could come back and see you?”

The receptionist coughs a little, and Poppy fidgets with her clipboard. She looks tense. Kinda like I was when I first came in here.

“Can you check the schedule for later this week, say Thursday or Friday?” Poppy asks.

I lean on the counter and observe her profile. The bridge of her nose and her cheeks are dotted with pale freckles. A faint sunglasses tan circles her eyes. She’s been enjoying the unseasonable weather and sunshine over the past few days. I wonder what she looks like in a bikini. I bet her ass is amazing.

The receptionist clicks away on the computer for a minute before giving Poppy an apologetic look. “You’re fully booked both days.”

She taps her pen against her lips. “What about Marcie, or April? Do they have any openings?”

“No,” I bark.

Poppy jolts, looking up. “I’m sorry?”

“I want you.” I honestly don’t mean for it to come out sounding like a line, but based on the shade of red she’s turning, it does. “I mean, you’ve already worked on me, so it’d make more sense for me to come to you, right?”

She clears her throat. “If that’s what you prefer.”

“It is. I do.” I lick my lips. “I prefer you.” I don’t know why her touching me feels different, but it does, and I want that feeling again.

“What’s Saturday look like?” she asks the receptionist who’s now gawking between us.

“You have one opening left, but it’s only half an hour at four in the afternoon.”

“We fly out for our last exhibition game on Saturday.”

Poppy taps her pen against her lips. She’s not wearing lipstick. They’re dark pink, full. I bet they look good wrapped around a cock. I bet they’d look amazing wrapped around mine. Fuck. I need to stop this shit. I can’t be imagining a blow job from my massage therapist. Even if she is hot.

“What if I put you on a waiting list? If there’s a cancellation, I can call you. Then if it works, you can come in before you leave for your game.”

The receptionist’s eyes widen, which tells me this isn’t something Poppy usually does.

“You’d do that for me?”

She looks away for a moment. “I’d do that for any of my clients. You need another session before your game and you’re right, I already know the issues. Bernadette, can you make sure Lance’s number is in the system so I can call if something comes available?”

“Other than workouts and practice, I’m open to come in almost any time.”

The bell over the door to the clinic chimes, drawing Poppy’s attention away. Her eyes go wide, and once again her cheeks flush.

“Hey, Romance, you all loose and limber now?” I hear Miller ask.

Randy snorts. “He’s always loose.”

I turn away from Poppy, annoyed by the interruption.

Miller looks at her and his face changes. “Hey! Poppy from the garden?”

Poppy’s expression is somewhere between embarrassment and mortification. “Heeeeyyy,” she says.

“How crazy is this? How you doin’?”

“I’m fine. Good. And you?” She’s focused on his forehead.

I look back and forth between them. He better not have fucked her. “You two know each other?”

Miller frowns. “Uh, yeah.” He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at Poppy.

When I turn back to her, she’s making hand gestures that she quickly turns into a ponytail adjustment.

“It’s nice to see you again. I have another client.” She gestures over her shoulder and looks at me briefly. “If something comes available before Saturday, I’ll be sure to have Bernadette call you.” She spins around and rushes off down the hall.

Bernadette confirms my number, and I take one of Poppy’s cards, slipping it into my pocket as we leave.

I wait until we’re outside before I start with the questions. “How do you know Poppy? Did one of you fuck her?”

Miller stops walking to stare at me. “What?”

“Poppy. You know her. How?” Jesus. Why the hell do I sound so pissed off?

“You seriously have no idea?” Miller seems surprised.

“No idea about what?” I glance between him and Randy, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Miller runs a hand through his hair. “She’s been to your house before, dude.”

I guess that explains why she looked familiar. “So she’s a bunny?” I don’t like that possibility. She doesn’t seem like that type, or maybe I just don’t want her to be that type. I try to place her in my memory, but come up with nothing.

“No, man, she’s no bunny,” Miller replies.

The only girls who come to my place are the ones looking to get fucked by a hockey player. “Why was she at my house then?”

“Because you invited her.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh, fuck.” Randy smacks Miller’s arm. “Isn’t she the chick who rubbed the dick off your forehead last season?”

Miller grimaces. “That’s the one.”

I vaguely remember pictures of a dick drawn on Miller’s forehead going viral on the internet last year. But I don’t remember Poppy at all, let alone her being the remover of the dick. However, that night is pretty fucking vague, as are many nights over the past couple of years.