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“Caution tape, but there’s more.” I fill them in on what happened last night: how I was nice enough to let him sleep on my couch despite his being a giant a-hole and that I found out this morning that he’s my brother’s teammate, Bishop Winslow, the guy who was injured in last night’s exhibition game.
“Whoa, wait, you’re telling me you have a professional hockey player living across the hall from you with a groin injury?” Pattie’s eyes light up like a disco ball.
“Who is on my brother’s team and who thought I was my brother’s mistress until this morning, yes.”
Jules makes a face. “That’s just . . . ew.”
“Very ew,” Pattie agrees, “but I guess I can kind of see where he might have gotten the idea.”
“That I was a puck bunny?”
“Yes. No. I mean, why else would a hot woman suddenly move into an empty penthouse in the middle of the night that is supposed to be for your brother, right? It’s not like you broadcast that you’re related to Rook. You don’t have any pictures of him on your social media, and all of these guys are new to each other. I’m just saying I can kind of see how he might make that mistake, and if you think about it, maybe it’s a good thing he was an asshole to you.”
“How is him being an asshole a good thing?” I pop a grape into my mouth.
“He thought you were screwing a married guy with a family. At least you know he has a moral compass.”
“Ooh, good point.” Jules nods her agreement.
I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I guess it sort of makes sense, especially with his “morally defunct” and “home-wrecker” comments. “He called me a boner-killer.”
Pattie makes a face. “You are definitely not a boner-killer. My guess is he said that because he thought you were a bunny. Anyway, I have a spectacular idea.” She pauses, maybe for effect.
“Which is what?” Jules quirks a brow.
“You should offer to help him with PT.” Pattie smiles widely, as if she’s handed me the Holy Grail.
“Why would I do that when he’s been nothing but a huge jerk?”
Pattie grins. “If for no other reason than his being a jerk is the top of the list.”
“That makes no sense.” I pluck another grape from my container. “Besides, the team will already have a physiotherapist working with him.”
“Yes, but groin injuries are hell, and they take weeks to heal. It’s Seattle’s first season. Every single player on that team—apart from your brother, who waived his no-trade clause—has something huge to prove. They’re all seconds. They weren’t good enough to save, but they’re good enough to start a new team. That has to mess with a player’s head.”
“Especially when he gets injured in the first exhibition game of the season,” Jules adds.
“Exactly.” Pattie points her carrot stick at me. “He’s going to want to be on the ice sooner rather than later.”
“Okay, I can see what you’re saying.” I imagine if RJ were the one with the injury, he’d do everything he could to get back in the game.
“I bet all it would take is the suggestion that more PT is better than less to get him to agree. And if he does, you’ll have experience working with an NHL professional, which is more than anyone else on our staff can say. Also, you said he’s hot, and you’ll get to help him stretch out his groin, which will be hella uncomfortable for him and payback for you. It’s all win.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll agree to let me help him.”
Jules snorts. “Do you want to know why seventy-five percent of your current clients are either women over fifty or girls with injuries?”
“Because I’m new?”
“Because the managers don’t trust the jocks not to hit on you.” Pattie takes a long sip of her iced tea.
“Or fake groin injuries so you’ll rub down the inside of their thighs.” Jules waggles her brows.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on.”
“Seriously, we overheard two of the managers talking about it yesterday because you had like five thousand requests, and every single one is a dude.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
“You’re hot, Stevie. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
Jules clinks her iced tea against Pattie’s. “Might as well use it to your advantage.”I don’t get home until after seven. Thankfully, I don’t run into Joey again, although he does text me, asking when we can get together to start planning for the gala. I ignore the message rather than respond with something along the lines of When the eleventh circle of hell opens and clowns are running the show.
I’m barely in my door when there’s a knock. I press my eye to the peephole and find my neighbor’s chiseled jaw taking up the window of space. I can’t imagine what he could possibly want, unless he’s left something in my apartment.
