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Miller gives Randy a look. “You’re not taking a bunny off Rookie’s hands?”
“I’m tired. I just wanna sleep.”
“That’s a first,” Miller scoffs.
“Look, man, I know you’re stressed about Sunny and the baby and shit, but you think you can cut me a little slack here?”
Miller blinks a few times, jaw working as the hardness in his expression eases a little. He nods. “Yeah, man. Sorry. There’s a lot going on.”
“You wanna crash in our room?” Randy asks, breaking the tension.
“You cool with that?” I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my messages. There aren’t any new ones since Tash messaged me earlier, and I haven’t read them. Yet.
“Yeah, man. Of course. You sure you’re all right?” Randy asks.
“Yeah. Just one of those days.”
The whole scene is losing its appeal. It brings me more trouble than it’s worth these days, especially since the guys I’m tight with on the team are all committed to someone. I don’t know if it’s that or the crap with Tash, but if I’m going to feel alone—which I know I will—I’d rather actually be alone as well.CHAPTER 12TOO MANY FAVORS
POPPY
Instead of going out for a bite to eat with April on Sunday evening, I tell her I need a night in with a book because I’m tired. Which is sort of true. I also promised Mr. Goldberg a game of cribbage on his front porch, which I’ve already taken care of and of course I let him beat me twice. Plus, I have early appointments tomorrow. I also want to watch the game. Because maybe I’m a little obsessed with Lance Romero. Still. Again. I don’t know.
I should definitely not want him to call me and beg for another home massage session. I should also not be fantasizing about him. Because he’s a client. Because he’s a dog. All the bunny sites tell me that.
But I am fantasizing. Because he’s gorgeous and because he’s been so sweet with me, and maybe a little awkward. Nothing like the guy I met last year at the bar who was drunk and cocky. Okay, so maybe he’s still a little cocky, but that’s not a bad thing.
My focus during the game is one hundred percent singular. I watch Lance, number twenty-one, every time he’s on the ice. When I’m not watching the game, I’m checking my social media feeds. Lance is following me on Instagram and has liked a bunch of my posts. I shouldn’t be all that excited, since everyone follows everyone else here, but I am.
Close to the end of the third period, a fight breaks out between Lance and number forty-four from the other team. If one could even call it a fight. It doesn’t look two-sided from my perspective. The guy from Philly lays right into him. Lance even takes off his helmet, but he never hits the guy. Not once. He does go down hard, though. Hard enough to make me cringe. He’ll be sore tomorrow. I wonder if that means he’ll try to get another appointment with me.
By the time the refs intervene, Lance is bleeding from a gash above his eyebrow. I think it might be the one that had the fly bandage on it the other day. That’ll suck if he reopened the wound.
He still gets a penalty, though. Both teams do. But Chicago manages to win the game being down a player, and it’s late by the time I go to bed.
I have an early morning with an eight o’clock start, and I’m dragging a little as I get myself out the door. I arrive about ten minutes before my first client, but without caffeine in my system, because I slept through my alarm. It’s Lance’s fault. He not only infiltrates all my waking thoughts, but sleeping ones too. It made for a restless, thigh-clenching night.
Bernadette doesn’t arrive until nine, so I don’t get stuck at her desk to chat. I rush to my room, grateful I set up on Saturday night so all I have to do is throw the heating pad on the table to warm it, cue the music, and put the oil in the warmer.
My first client of the day is always pushing the late side, so I have a few extra minutes, but not enough time to run across the street to grab a coffee. I send April a text requesting one if she has time to stop on the way in.
My client arrives at 8:03, and a long, painful hour ensues. She’s an incredibly chipper person. Normally I appreciate her positivity, but underslept and caffeine deprived, it’s a bit much to handle on a Monday morning.
April arrives at my door as I’m stripping the sheets, coffee in hand. I toss them to the floor and practically tackle her for it. “Oh my God, I’m dying right now.”
