AllFreeNovel
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“When I was twelve.”
It’s a rich girl hobby. I’m not surprised.
“Did you?”
“No.” There weren’t a lot of pianos available at the trailer park, unless the keyboard had a Casio logo on it and took five double-A batteries.
Her lips hitch into a small smile before she tugs her hand from mine. She stands and walks to the mantel over a fireplace I never use. I moved here when the weather was warm. I haven’t had the chance to kick back in front of a fire and sip whiskey yet, but it’s a goal.
She picks up a framed photo of me running a touchdown for the Bucks. My buddy Dax had it framed for me the day I was drafted for the Dolphins. Catarina examines the photo then sets it down next to a grouping of shells I took from the beach in Miami before I flew back to Columbus for good.
“Why ‘bad boy of the NFL’?” she asks of my stupid nickname.
“You say that like it was intentional. Like I picked it.”
“You do things that land you squarely in that category, Fox. Are you telling me it’s accidental?”
“Not accidental.” I shrug. “Just not intentional. Guess I never shook my roots.”
“Were you a rule-breaker as a kid?”
“I was a shit,” I tell her honestly. “Until I became interested in sports. I played a lot of touch football with my friends. When I was finally old enough to work, I saved up to join the high school team.”
“Did scouts find you and offer a scholarship like in a movie?”
“Something like that.”
Her head tilts like she’s considering. I shift on the couch, uncomfortable with the attention. I don’t mind attention for being an asshole, but attention for doing well has always made me uncomfortable. Probably we could blame my upbringing, but let’s not go full-on therapy session here.
I roll my shoulder and wince. I’m paying the price for too many swings and honestly, I pushed past my comfort level to win that last game.
“You hurt yourself.” She sounds concerned.
“Eh, it’s just sore.”
She rounds the couch and stands behind me, brushing her fingers along my shoulder. I flinch, air hissing through my teeth in preparation for the pain. Instead of digging her fingers into my muscles, she tenderly touches here and there until she finds a spot to the right of my spine. With her thumbs, or what feels like her thumbs, she manipulates the tissue there, working it this way and that with gentle but firm presses to my flesh.
“There,” she announces a few minutes later.
“There?”
“Yeah. That should help. There’s a muscle right here”—she touches the spot that she’d been working on which is surprisingly sore now—“that will help your shoulder release. Make sure you ice it later. Twenty minutes on, forty minutes off.”
When she rounds the couch, my eyebrows are at the top of my forehead. “You a voodoo doctor or something?”
“I dabble in acupressure. Mostly for my dad’s benefit. He’s always had back trouble. I work out a few kinks for him when I can.”
Her comment suggests closeness with her father. I definitely never had that with mine.
“You seem surprised.”
“I can’t imagine shaking my dad’s hand let alone doing acupressure on him.”
“Are you two not close?” A tiny frown bisects her brow.
“We didn’t have a lot in common.” Except that we both liked the money I was paid as a professional football player.
“I’m sorry. You don’t see him much?”
