Pucked Off (Pucked 5)

“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.

What does he mean he doesn’t like to be touched?

While rumors are typically embellished, based on the many accounts of Lance’s exploits and what happened with Kristi that night at his house, I find that hard to believe—at least when it comes to sex. But I keep this to myself. Beyond it not being an appropriate observation to voice, it’s really none of my business.

“It’s more expensive for me to do home visits,” I tell him. “I have to factor in things like transportation time.”

His panic flares. “Is it about the inconvenience? What if I can come to you?”

“I don’t know—”

“Please, Poppy? Whether you come to me or I come to you is irrelevant. I just want to know that it’s going to be your hands on me.”

Based on his expression and his pleading tone, I don’t think he’s playing games. Or maybe I just don’t want him to be.

“My trainer’s gonna make me do this again, and if it’s you I’ll feel a lot better about it. Please?”