Chapter Two

Ana

 Staring at the clock on the wall of the PT room, I dread the minutes until Cal Sanderson arrives. The grumpy, always-has-a-stick-up-his-ass defenseman grinds my very last gears. It's like he takes pleasure in ruining my entire fucking day, which is a shame, really. All that beauty going to waste because he's rotten on the inside. I'm pretty sure the man doesn't even know what a smile is.

I scroll through my social media mindlessly, freezing at one of the messages that pops up in my inbox. Some of the players from the Nevada Devils are pestering me about the reason I transferred, and for anyone who asks, I've told them the same thing. I switched teams because I missed my family and was homesick, but it's more than that. It was the unwanted hands of one of the players gliding across my body that had me taking the next flight out. After I kneed him in the balls and fled the room, the ghost of his hands still lingered, but I knew it'd be his word over mine if I brought it to management's attention. It's the way the world works. Fancy million-dollar hockey player versus a twenty-one-year-old with a mountain of college debt? It doesn't take a rocket scientist to determine which side they'd be on.

And the reality of me running away guts the ever-loving fuck out of me. I'm the type of person who doesn't take shit from anyone. I'm the first to tell you how I feel, bluntness being my strong suit. Fleeing to an airport with a shaking body full of adrenaline was a complete shift. It's been eight weeks since I moved back and only a month since I signed with the Cyclones, but the fear still lingers. I haven't been myself, which is probably why my father offered to take me to lunch yesterday. 

My friends notice. My sister notices. Everyone can tell something is off, and no matter what I do, I can't seem to shake it.

I left my family the second I turned eighteen because I wanted to experience different places. I never wanted to live in Los Angeles forever, so I chose a college in a new state. But at the first sign of trouble, I came crawling back to my father knowing he'd allow me to work for The Cyclones. Deep down, I knew that if any of the players tried that shit here, my father would believe me with no questions asked.

I reply to the message with the same lie I've given everyone else when the door to the facility opens and Cal steps inside. The sheer height of him forces him to duck his head to enter the room, and since I'm only five-four, I have to crane my head to get a glimpse of him. His sharp jawline, slightly crooked nose, and blazing blue eyes make it hard to focus. He's always had a way of throwing me off guard, but I never let him see it. I'm on my toes when it comes to him and his stupid grunts and one-line comebacks.

This session starts the same as yesterday with him hopping up on the table while I get his hot pack ready. I almost drop the tongs but quickly gain control when I catch him staring at me in that unnerving way of his. I can try to tell myself all I want that it's not because of Cal that the day I left has been playing on a constant loop, but I'd be lying. I saw his scars yesterday traveling down his spine, and although I tried to make him at ease by claiming he had fun in bed, I felt the way his body tensed beneath my hands.

I'm smart enough to tie the pieces together. I never knew why he didn't want me to touch him, but the players on this team claimed he wouldn't let the other female therapist touch him either. And if he has an aversion to females with those scars down his back?

Yeah. Let's just say my hatred towards him has decreased. It doesn't give him the right to act like a total ass towards me, but I can understand it.

To a point.

While he heats his shoulder, I grab a few rubber bands before returning to the table. I get him started on some simple exercises until halfway through he says, "You didn't tell your dad about yesterday."

It's a simple sentence, but I think it's the most he's ever spoken to me at once. My jaw drops open before I slam it shut, too stunned to think of a reply. He darts his eyes up to mine for a split second before shifting them back to the clock. He always stares at the clock.

"Why would I tell him about what happened?"

He shifts awkwardly on the bench. "I didn't finish the massage."

"No," I hum in agreement. "You didn't. But you tried, so that counts as effort in my book."

The grunt that sounds like a broken record plays through the silence as he finishes his last set. He drops the rubber band to the ground and asks, "What's wrong with you?"

I snap my eyes to his. "Excuse me?"

"You." He waves his hand over me, eyebrows furrowed like he's dissecting a pig in science class. "You're being...nice. It's not you."

The audacity of this man.

"You normally have snarky remarks for me, but there haven't been any. It's weird."

"I'm sorry." I prop a hand on my hip, his eyes darting to the movement. "Let me get this straight. You're annoyed because you'd like me to be mean to you?"

He rakes a hand through his black touseled hair before he shrugs and says, "Yes."

I laugh, and it's been a minute since I've truly, genuinely laughed. His response is so Cal. Swiping away a few tears once I finally collect myself, Cal's eyes are glued to me, his jaw set and fists clenched at his sides. "What? Okay, I'm sorry I laughed, but...this is the most we've ever talked without biting each other's heads off, and it's because you want me to bite your head off."

The faintest twitch hits his lips, and if I'm not mistaken, I think it might have been the start of a smile—something I thought he was incapable of producing.

"I'd prefer it if you're mean to me," is all he says.

"Fine." Tossing him a red band, I instruct him to do the same exercise, grinning when he curses from the resistance. "Too much for a big strong hockey player like yourself?"
"No," he replies through gritted teeth.

"You sure?" I lean in closer, inspecting his form. "Seems like you're struggling."

The closeness has his woodsy scent hitting me like a fucking train, and it's an effort not to inhale more of it. He may be a dick, but he's not ugly. Far from it, actually.

"See, if you let me follow through with your massage therapy, your muscles wouldn't be trembling. You could do this exercise with the red band without a problem by now."

He curses, dropping the band to his side with a bead of sweat on his forehead. He continues to stare straight ahead at the damn clock, but his nostrils flare from my closeness. "Just do the damn massage."

"Wow. Are you letting me get my way so easily? No snarky remarks from you today? I thought we were at each other's throats again."

He jerks away from my proximity, lying facedown on the table with a white-knuckled grip on the edges. My body heats when he reaches behind his head to strip his t-shirt off, but when his scars come into view, my stomach clenches. Whoever created those...

"What happened yesterday that made you fly off the table?" I ask, grabbing the oil from the cart beside me. Only silence greets me, which causes me to release a frustrated sigh. "If you want help to fix your shoulder, we need to communicate, Cal. Outside of these walls you never have to speak to me again, but in here? If you want to get back on the ice? I need to know what your limits are when it comes to a massage."

Another beat, and then, "There was nothing wrong with the massage."

"Then why did you flee like that?"
"Because it felt—" He clears his throat. "I'm not used to the feeling."

"You're not used to what—oh."

Oh.

My cheeks heat at the realization that despite how infuriated I make him, my hands seem to elicit pleasure, and if those scars are what I think they're from, I'm sure the feeling would be foreign. Any female could do this and it'd produce the same response from him, which is why he's avoided female therapists all this time.

"Okay, well how about I start, and if you begin to feel..." Oh, god. How am I supposed to keep this conversation professional? "Just tell me if it's too much, okay? I'll stop immediately. You have my word." Because I know what it's like to tell someone to stop only for them to continue. And while Cal has had it far worse than me, I can understand the feeling of unwanted touches.

After a simple nod, I lather oil into my hands and work within the same circle as yesterday. His muscles are wound tighter than any player I've worked on, but I assume that's because not only does he have an injury, but this massage isn't enjoyable for him, either.

I've always enjoyed a challenge, which is partly why I chose to get into physical therapy. People can walk in assuming they'll never live normally again, or their pain will never end, and after a few months of sessions, they sing my praises for my healing capabilities. Something is satisfying about watching hard work pay off, and maybe that's why I've always been drawn to Cal. He's the biggest challenge of all. Not only in the physical sense but an emotional one too. I've tried to crack him for years when he played for the Devils and had no success. He's the only man who hasn't tried to stick his dick in me, and while the other players' unwanted advances grossed me out, the thought of Cal making a move never did.

Even now, as my fingers work into his skin, I feel a connection thrum between us. Whether it be hatred, loathing, or uncertainty, it's there, and as the oil warms, so does my blood. It rushes south at the same time Cal clears his throat and says, "Stop."

Immediately, my hands pull back, and it's not until now that I realize I'm panting. Cal remains facedown on the table, his back rising in quick breaths that match my own. I watch as he shifts uncomfortably on the table, then nods to continue after another minute.

The entire time his fingers remain white-knuckled, but unlike yesterday, he's able to withstand all of today's session. I step away from the table, watching his body instantly relax before he grabs his shirt from the floor and sits up to drag it over his head.

His chest crafted with corded muscles is decorated by tattoos. They cover both arms and pecs, a mixture of swirls of smoke and some sort of writing. I've tried but have never been able to stare at them long enough to understand the meaning.

"Is our session done?" He asks. The way he raps his fingers against the table indicates he's itching to leave, and it shouldn't bother me, but it does. My presence bothered him so much that he traded teams to get away from me. He'll never admit I was the reason, but Connor, the team captain of the Cyclones gave me that little tidbit when I visited home for the holidays last year.

Why would he trade different teams just to escape me?

Sure, I try to get beneath his skin, but it's only been to figure him out. Nothing else cracked his facade. He's exceptionally good at ignoring me and pretending I don't exist unless I get in his face and tease him about his broodiness.

"Yeah, it's done. I'll see you tomorrow?"

He shakes his head. "I've got a thing tomorrow. Can we move it to Friday?"

What thing? A date? It's never dawned on me that he could have a girlfriend and that's the reason he remains so closed off. Maybe she's overprotective and he's terrified of giving her a reason to lash out at him.

Or maybe you're going insane.

He clears his throat, one thick eyebrow arched as if he wants a penny for my thoughts.

"Sure, we can do Friday. I'll pencil you in for the same time."

Then, in Cal-like fashion, he grunts and practically runs for the double doors.

A/N:

*SIGH* I LOVE CAL

I just LOVE a broody man!!!!

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