Page 21 of Goalie Secrets
Last night’s game left me feeling like a human pretzel, but I’m trying to breathe through the discomfort. As long as I stay on top of the pre- and postgame regimens, my pain is manageable. The alternative is too shitty to consider. I was diagnosed with EDS in middle school, but the years before that were hell. I wasn’t a tight pretzel after a game; I was a lump of debilitating pain.
A deep inhale delivers a rush of Vanya’s particular fragrance. It isn’t perfume in the usual sense, but rather a mix of eucalyptus and lavender. It’s calming, like a fancy spa.
“Alright, Jeremy, let’s start with your hamstring. On a scale of one to ten, how’s the pain today?” she asks, her hands gently kneading my leg.
“The hamstring is at about a five,” I manage, trying not to wince. “But it’s my right hip. Been bothering me since the last game.”
She makes a sound of agreement. Vanya gets it. Of course she does. She’s Dr. Kapur, Harvard super doctor and muscle whisperer.
“Goaltending is uniquely taxing to your connective tissues,” she explains. “Any change in your training routine or game intensity?”
“We’ve been pushing harder now that the season is in full swing,” I answer. “But this is… worse than usual.” Saying those words to her—words I don’t feel comfortable saying to the Mavericks trainers—is a relief.
“Let’s address that,” she says, her hands moving in a way that makes me think of a wizard casting a spell. “Hypermobility has its pros and cons. Your joints are more flexible than other people’s, but your muscles and tendons compensate by tightening up to provide stability.”
I try to follow along, but honestly she could say anything, and I’d agree as long as she continues whatever she’s doing. The knots that tightened at first touch are unraveling under her expert kneading. I swallow at regular intervals to avoid drooling.
“It’s like everything’s out of balance,” I mumble past my moan when she moves her palms from the back of my knees to right under my ass. Up and down in a rhythm that soothes, stretches, and feels so fucking good.
“Exactly,” she agrees, shifting her attention to my troubled hip.
She massages the area. By area, I mean the side and over parts of my ass. Her touch is firm but gentle. Vanya repositions so she’s at the head of the table, fingers working the muscles under my skull and along the spine.
With my head settled on the massage table’s face holder, I can’t help but notice her Crocs. They’re plain black, which is why they didn’t stand out last time. Details jump out at me today. There’s a tiny golden Oscar statue on one foot and on the other, a small pair of dancing high heels. The trinkets make sense since she’s confessed her love of musicals. These aren’t like other Crocs. These are the Crocs of someone who knows every word to every song inSingin’ in the Rain. The realization makes me smile.
“Tell me more about your hip,” she prompts.
“At times, there’s…” I trail off, trying to decide how much to disclose. Her patient silence is what prompts me to continue. “There’s an aching soreness after a game, but that’s most of my body. But at its worst, it feels like something is grinding inside.”
“Hmm,” she mutters, her fingers still probing. “The connective tissue disorder can cause pain and discomfort, especially after stressful physical activity.”
“Stressful physical activity is an occupational hazard.”
She ignores my sarcasm. “I don’t want to do too much with the hip until I talk to your trainer. However, it won’t hurt to integrate targeted exercises to strengthen the muscles and improve stability.”
I nod. “Sounds good. Do your magic.”
“It’s science, not magic,” she says with a light snort.
As her fingers massage away my tension, I try not to think too much about how good she smells.
“Turn sideways, toward the cabinet, please,” she instructs. “We’re going to do an assisted hip flexor stretch. This will help with the tightness and improve your range of motion.”
I move as I’m told.
“I need more height and leverage to control this stretch,” Vanya explains. “Are you OK if I get on the table behind you?”
“You’re the boss.” If anyone can untangle my pretzel of a body, it’s her.
I feel a shift as the table accommodates her weight. She leans forward, placing her hands on my pelvis to stabilize me. Using her body weight to press my hip down while bending my leg slightly, Vanya deepens the stretch. It feels incredible, but so does the pillowy press of her chest against the outside of my thigh.
“Are you OK? It’s important to relax and breathe through it,” she whispers, her hold steady. I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath. She takes an exaggerated inhale and a long exhale, synchronizing us in a soothing pattern.
“That’s perfect, Jeremy,” she says quietly. “You’re doing so well.”
I don’t know if it’s the tone or the words that affect me, but a switch flicks in my traitorous body. Her casual praise,you’re doing so well, travels through my bloodstream.
Suddenly, I’m achingly conscious of her body against my leg, the pillowy press of her breasts like a heavenly cushion. Her warm breath teases my senses, making me want more. She smells like something I want to drown in. The fabric of her scrubs against my bare back is a reminder that we’re connected. My skin tingles there and in other places. The way she’s positioned over my hip, it must be her thighs bracing my lower back. Curvaceous thighs that I noticed when I drove her home the other night.