“Well . . .” Ari replayed the words he’d just spoken, trying to find a clue to his reluctance. “Because I can help you? I won’t hurt you, I promise. Careful massage can reduce inflammation, and relax surrounding muscles, too. Is it possible that you had a bad experience with massage before?”
He gave his head a shake, as if her suggestion did not compute. “Nah. I just don’t like having, uh, weak spots.”
“Everyone does, though, right?”
“I suppose. But I don’t grab yours.”
She put a hand on his muscular wrist, the way she would anyone. But his eyes traveled down to that spot immediately, and she wondered if she’d just made another mistake. Had any other client ever been such a mystery?
“Hey,” she tried. “You told me a few minutes ago that you’d tried to get a massage at a hotel once. What happened that time?”
“Didn’t work out.” He gave her a wry grin. “It’s not you, I swear.”
“Why didn’t it work out? Besides the harps. Why did you book a massage?”
He gave what was supposed to be a casual shrug. “I’d slept funny on the jet, and my neck hurt. No big deal. So I booked a massage at the spa. Left after ten minutes. I guess I just don’t like hands on me.”
“You don’t like to be touched.”
He looked at his hands. “It isn’t my favorite thing, no.”
The hair stood up on the back of Ari’s neck, and she had to restrain herself from asking why. Not liking to be touched wasn’t a common attitude. “Everybody’s different,” she said softly. “But we still have to work on your hip flexors. I have one idea that might help you.”
“Good.” He made a sheepish face. “Because I’m fresh out.”
She patted his wrist again—intentionally. If they were going to work together, he needed to become at least a little more accustomed to being touched. “Let’s try a more active technique. It will feel more like a gym exercise and less like massage. Can you roll onto your good side and bend your knee for me?”
He complied, turning his broad back to her. She adjusted his bottom leg to be somewhat straight, and then wrapped her hand around his right ankle. “Bend this knee a little more for me.” He did. “All right. I’m going to brace your outer hip. Like this.” She gripped the muscle as far in as she’d gotten before he’d begun fighting her touch. “And you’re going to put your own hand on the trouble spot. Show me.”
He pushed his fingertips into his flesh between his hip and his groin.
“Now, don’t use your back.” She put one hand on his lower back and tapped. “Don’t activate these. Instead, use your hip and leg. Press down and straighten that leg. Go.”
With a lazy-sounding rumble from his chest, he did as she’d instructed.
“Good! How’d that feel?” She dug her hands into the accessible muscle at his hip, warming it, working it as best she could.
“Not too bad.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, captain, right?”
He chuckled. “No, ma’am.”
“Ugh. You ma’am’d me like an old woman. Just for that you’re going to do it four more times.” She grabbed his ankle again. “Bend.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For that? Six times.”
“Yes, master.” She watched the taut muscles of his back shake with laughter.
Ari placed her hands on his body again, her palm warmed by the smooth skin of his lower back, the fingers of her other hand gripping his sturdy hip through the thin cotton of his navy blue briefs. “Ready, big guy?”
“Ready,” he rumbled.
“Push and go.” Together they worked around his trouble spot while he extended his leg. And the sigh he let out was a good sign. “Okay?”
“Yeah. It feels a little looser than it did a half hour ago.”
Ari’s small victory was like a warm tingle in her chest. Smiling, she made him repeat the exercise a few more times. “Now roll onto your stomach,” she insisted. “For fifteen minutes I want you to pretend you enjoy massage. Just to stroke my ego, okay?”
Chuckling, he rolled over. She spread a bit of oil on her hands and went to work on his calves, slowly working her way up to his hamstrings. Bit by bit she felt his body relax beneath her touch. “How am I doing?” she asked. “Feel free to lie.”
“Aw. This is the best massage I’ve had all year.”
She let out an un-ladylike snort. “This is the only one, right?”
“Yeah, but still.” He rolled his handsome face into the crook of his arm and sighed again.
Skipping his hips, she went to work on the muscles at the juncture of his lower back and his rather beautiful ass. “Do you have much pain here? The risk with a hip strain is that you’ll overcompensate by using your lower back.”
“By the end of a game, I’m feeling it there for sure.”
The honest answer surprised her. She gave him a pat on the back. “Okay. At your next visit, we’ll keep working on these trouble spots. Each time you put on a burst of speed on the ice, you demand a lot from these muscles. If we keep you loose, it’s going to help. I’m going to work into your hip a little now—but only from the back. But I’m not going to hurt you. And you’re lying on the trouble spot, right? No one can touch it.” She hoped his defensive position on the table would prevent him from tensing up.
“Got it. Do your worst.”
They were tough words from a tough guy, but now she knew better. Patrick O’Doul had some serious issues with having hands on his body. His reluctance probably stemmed from a refusal to make himself vulnerable.
She could work around that, though. She’d have to.
Eddie Vedder sang “Black” through her speakers and Ari hummed along, rolling the waistband of his briefs down just an inch, giving her better access to his skin. She oiled up her hands again and leaned into him, closing her eyes, applying all of her strength to the task at hand. Muscle and bone pressed against muscle and bone. Skin met skin. She let the oil do its work, reducing friction, bringing her hands into better contact with the body she was trying so hard to heal.
That’s when she felt it—finally—that beautiful connection, the moment when the client opens himself up to the treatment. He seemed to go slack beneath her, his muscles relaxing beneath the rhythm of her hands. If it wouldn’t have disturbed his newfound peace, she would have hooted in victory.