I dunno why more dudes don’t get mani-pedis. There’s literally nothing more relaxing than sinking into that massage chair and having someone rub your hands and feet for an hour. Okay, there’s one thing more relaxing than having her rub my hands and feet, but Get Nailed ain’t that kinda place. And I don’t like Alaïa that way. I don’t think she bats for my team, either, but that’s none of my business.
Whatismy business is how good she is with her hands. After an hour with her, my hands feel super smooth for days and smell good enough to eat.
The bell chimes over the door as I walk inside. Alaïa waits at the counter with a huge smile. “How’s my favorite hockey player?” Her eyes narrow. “You’re limping, Goal Stopper. I guess last night’s shut out came at a cost. Third goal?”
Grunting, I don’t need to answer her. She saw the game; she knows how it went down.
She’s not only the best nail technician in Cedar Rapids—she’s a bigger hockey fan than anyone else I know.
“You got overzealous and stretched farther than you needed to, didn’tcha?”
Part of me wonders what her history is. Did she play? Does she play? But every time I try to dig, she pivots and changes the subject. She analyzes my game as though she’s lived it.
“Rookie goalie eager to please?”
I level her with a bored stare. Shifting my weight because I hate how well she can see right through my bullshit. And trust me, I come with a lot of bullshit.
“There’s someone in your usual chair, you wanna wait or sit somewhere else?”
I’m a stereotypical, temperamental goalie, and if I don’t appease the gods of superstition and do all my shit the same way, they’ll punish me between the pipes.
Rationally speaking, that’s obviously not true. But I know what I like, and I don’t tend to stray from my routines. Unless I’m blowing off school for a mani-pedi just ’cause.
A chick with pink hair covering most of her face is sitting in my favorite chair. She’s not chatting to Candice, the woman filing her toenails, and her nose is buried in a textbook that covers most of her thighs. Who the hell brings school with them to a nail parlor?
No one who knows me would call me an empathetic person. My ability to read other people’s feelings isn’t exactly on point. Unless, of course, I’m pressed up against a rock-hard cock or my fingers are buried deep in a soaking wet pussy. Then, it’s pretty obvious.
But this chick’s discomfort is emanating from her like ripples from a pebble tossed into water. She doesn’t look up from her book, and though I can’t even see her face, I also can’t stop staring. When I finally tear my eyes from her, Alaïa has an arched eyebrow and smirk waiting for me.
I roll my eyes and take one of the chairs facing the tiny little elf girl. I’m not sure her feet would even touch the ground if the basin wasn’t attached to the massage chair.
Alaïa gets to work on my feet first, so I pull out my phone and hit up the socials to see what’s being said about the game last night. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, but the weight of my father’s name on my shoulders means I have to keep working hard to stay there.
Plenty of people assume I’ve made the team because my older brothers are already players, and because Papá Dearest contributes money to the university every year. They’re not entirely wrong. I fucked up a lot before I figured my shit out.
Okay, fine. I had no choice but to figure my shit out. Papá threatened to pull all financial support after my last soiree got busted by the cops. Thankfully his PR team was able to keep it out of the news, and the record is sealed so it’s not likely to impact my future. But, he said enough was enough. Fix your shit, or you’re out.
I dunno, some days even I believe he is the only reason I got a slot on the team. But others, I tell that voice of doubt to shut the fuck up and sit down. I’ve got wicked skills, and I busted my ass to get back on the path to hockey glory.
Alaïa works on my digits while I pretend to scroll, sneaking glances so I don’t look like a creeper. Alaïa makes small talk, but my attention is on the girl with the pink hair who stays quiet. The elf doesn't lift her gaze, not once. She finishes her mani-pedi in silence, pays Candace with a quiet “thank you,” and leaves without so much as looking up from her pretty pink toenails.
The quiet ones don’t usually catch my eye, and I’m definitely not enchanted by the smart ones. Quiet and smart aren’t terms I’m synonymous with. But something about that girl has me thinking about her long after I pay Alaïa for making my hands silky smooth.
I could have gone to class, but I didn’t. I also didn’t go to the gym. And if I went to my family’s restaurant, Guac ‘n Roll, Abuelita would twist my ear and haul my ass back onto campus. She’s surprisingly strong for a three-hundred-year-old woman.
Okay, she’s not quite three hundred, but since she doesn’t look anywhere near her age, nor does she ever admit to what that might be. I’m pretty sure she has magical powers. Which means shecouldbe three hundred. I wouldn’t be at all surprised.
I’d love to say I’m not bougie, but tell that to the grande iced brown sugar oat milk chai latte I’m sippin’ on. I give zero apologies for being extra. I mean, sure, my money isn’t my own, but I donate a healthy portion of Papá’s money to charities near and dear to my heart. And being the youngest son of a billionaire isn’t always easy. So, I guess on some level I feel like I’m entitled to treat myself to overpriced drinks from Starbucks on his dime.
A huge slug of chai goes down the wrong way, making me cough and slosh my drink all over my arm. Should have gone to Bitches Brew. Taryn’s oat milk chai latte is way better.
Ugh. I cough again. Oat milk’s probably leaking out of my nose hole right now.
The back of my throat burns, my eyes are watering, and I’m mumbling a string of semi-coherent swear words. Ihatethis bougie coffee after all and dump it into the trash.
What a fucking waste. I hate wasting shit. Even if it is on Papá’s dollar.
“Uh… hi?” A young kid with a backwards ball cap sticks out his hand.
