“It’ll only be a few more minutes, Mr. Alaric…” The blonde fluffed the beach waves piled high in her ponytail. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Easier said than done in the middle of an office specializing in the most uncomfortable of practices. Didn’t often see this many pricks outside of a locker room, and, usually, those weren’t seventy years old and running to the bathroom every twenty minutes.
The receptionist nibbled on the edge of her pen, glanced down at my chart, and read the reason for my visit. Her pouty lips twisted into shock then dejected resignation. With a sigh, she pushed away from her desk and slowly closed the glass window.
Great.
Wasn’t like I wanted to prove anything to the blonde—or any random receptionist or wanton puck bunny. But my injury had healed, and it did nothing for my ego for every woman purring for a little petting to assume that I’d lost…function.
Or that I’d lost the boys at all.
Amputated Alaric had trended on Twitter following the accident. As did Asexual Adrian and The Gelded Grinder.
Fuck it. Why hadn’t agreed to Clover’s demands when I had the chance? What better way to prove I was perfectly healthy than by knocking up a beautiful woman?
The idea wasn’t all bad. It’d show the world I knew how to have fun—that a man’s most terrifying injury hadn’t slowed me down or shaken my confidence.
Clover offered me a fertile womb. My only job was enjoying myself and doing what came naturally. Then again, impregnating my best friend had with its own distinct set of challenges. The least of which was the fact that the universe, unsuccessfully claiming my manhood in a brush with terror and pucks, had now come for its revenge.
The walls gave a dull groan before a chunk of waterlogged ceiling tile tumbled from above and slammed down between my legs.
A lifetime of hockey had prepared me for a defensemen’s hit at any time, and my reflexes were now as honed as those of a paranoid cat. I twisted, narrowly avoiding certain circumcision by the crashing ceiling.
Dust billowed at my feet. I glanced up, frowning as a droplet of dirty water landed on my forehead. Fortunately, I’d shielded the worst of the blow with my hand.
Christ, was I supposed to wear my cup off the ice now?
“Is this how you guys drum up new business?” I picked my way through the rubble, handing the stunned receptionist the slab of tile. She stared at me, eyes widened with shock. “You know…I’m gonna take that as a sign and go. Tell the doc I’ll follow up with her if I have any problems.”
The receptionist squealed. “Are you okay?”
Unfortunately, I wasn’t naive to pain anymore. “I’ve had worse.”
The phone rang before I could escape. The blonde curled a finger toward me as she answered.
“The doctor will see you now,” she said.
“That’s okay—”
“Second door on the left.” She held a hand over her chest to soothe her jangled nerves. “Wouldn’t want to take a chance, would we?”
Fuck.
She was probably right.
After all…how many more chances did a guy get?
Still, taking a chunk of plaster to the groin would’ve been preferable to the introductory appointment with my new urologist.
Doctor Bethany Stone.
I wasn’t the type to criticize a woman’s chosen specialty, but generally I only trusted that part of me to a woman with puffy lips, gentle hands, and a whole lot of Daddy issues.
However, if the family portrait on the doctor’s desk was any indication, she knew her way around a man’s parts. Six smiling children crowded within the frame, all sharing her frizzy red hair.
Maybe I would get decent care here. After all, the Forge’s trainers had assured me she was the best in the city.
“I apologize for the…accident in the lobby,” Doctor Stone said. She was a professional older woman with thick-rimmed glasses, spastic red hair, and enough models of the male reproductive system positioned around her desk that we might’ve played ping pong with a plastic prostate. “At least you weren’t hurt. No sense re-aggravating any old injuries.”
I hated doctors. The fake empathy. The sterile discussion of anatomic anomalies.
The cold hands.
At least her office seemed relatively warm. No icy metal exam tables that froze a man’s ass or harsh florescent lighting so bright I could count the goose bumps on my own flock of geese. She decorated with leather chairs and soft rugs, bookshelves instead of rubber gloves.
She might’ve been peddling insurance instead of encouraging men to turn their heads and cough.
But that didn’t make it any less awkward.
I sat, shifting against the leather. My boys preemptively ached from this conversation, but the woman had my asshole just as puckered.
This meeting was a mistake.
“I promise—you won’t need a helmet to enter my offices in the future,” she laughed.
Better safe than sorry.
“It’s not a problem.” I waved away her concern. “Accidents happen. Wrong place, wrong time.”
“Seems like you’re often in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
And I wasn’t about to hang around any longer. Last thing I needed was to tempt fate. Her office didn’t have ceiling tiles…
But she had a ceiling fan.
“Look, I won’t waste your time,” I said. “I’m feeling good. I’ve got your number, so I can just call if there’s any issues—”
“Nonsense.” Doctor Stone tutted. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Mr. Alaric. I don’t say this very often but keep your pants on.”
Great.
I returned to my chair as she poured through my file.
“Now, I’ve received a copy of your information from your doctor’s office in Atwood. And, at my practice, I promise that you will be in excellent hands.”
I didn’t want to be in anyone’s hands. Not anymore. Though I’d make the exception for Clover…if doing this was even the right decision.
“So, what brings you to my office today?” she asked.
Doctor Stone pushed a candy dish toward me and opened the lid. She had a sense of humor, offering her patients tiny packages of nuts.
“Help yourself,” she said.
“Thanks, but no.” I stood, awkwardly positioning my hands in front of own walnuts. “I thought I needed a consultation, but…I’m fine. No other issues since the injury, and I’ve made a full recovery. If I need something, I know who I’ll call.”
I unsuccessfully retreated from her desk. I could skate backwards across the arena, but I couldn’t fucking walk through her office.
My heel knocked into a podium, rocking a scale model off its stand. The male anatomy was not flattering in its natural state, but it looked even worse in a model stripped of skin and musculature. The heavy plastic teetered, tipped, then tumbled off the stand.
I flinched as the tap-tap-tap of the model’s bouncing testes ricocheted across the floor. Meanwhile, my dash for the falling penis came too late. The shaft plummeted off the model and imbedded itself in a knothole on the hardwood floor.
I grabbed the penis and yanked. Bad move. The knothole shredded the plastic and snapped off the tip inside the floorboard.
Doctor Stone peered over her glasses. “Mazel Tov.”