Pucked Off (Pucked 5)

“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 13UNPLEASANT

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.

I steer clear of discussing my childhood or my going-out habits. Mostly the conversation is easy and limited to safe subjects. Except there are a couple of times when he seems to want to say something, but can’t quite get it out. He starts and stops and then goes quiet.

When I’m finished, I leave him to change while I wash my hands. It’s another late session, so the reception area is empty when I go out there to manage Lance’s invoice.

It takes a few minutes for him to change, whether because he’s slow to get off the table, or because he has an issue to manage in there, I don’t really want to know. Well, I sort of do want to know, which is the main reason I can’t keep treating him.

When he comes out, he’s got his hat in his hand, and he’s twirling it around his finger, chewing on his bottom lip. His nervousness ramps up my own. I have no idea how I’m going to broach this subject, because knowing I have to and actually following through on it is not at all the same.

He drops his hat on the counter and taps anxiously. “I want to tell you something.”

Please don’t mention your hard-on again. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know. It depends on how you react.”