Page 12

Chapter 12

APRIL

I ’d just finished taping a handlebar when Gabe entered the shop. I stepped from around the stand so we wouldn’t have a bike between us. “Hey, it’s Pearville’s fastest citizen.” I hiked a thumb toward the clipping hanging behind the counter. Gabe’s first-place finish had earned him a spot in the local paper.

I might have been the one to submit the story and picture. After that race, Gabe deserved a little hometown fame. The hardest part of the submission was picking out a picture from the shots Trevor got. In every single one, Gabe looked like a towering statue standing on the podium.

Gabe laughed. “I don’t know about fastest—” His gaze and smile dropped. “What the hell is that?”

“What? Where?” I whirled around, searching the floor. The week before, Billie had squished a giant spider, only for hundreds of tiny spiders to scatter. It was horrific. So, I just knew Gabe had spotted a baby spider back to enact its revenge.

The tile was a little scuffed but ultimately arachnid-free, so I turned back to Gabe and realized he was looking a few inches below the hemline of my overall shorts—right at my icepack-wrapped knee. I’d been wearing it off and on for a week and had honestly forgotten it was there.

“Oh.” I waved off his concern. “It’s nothing.”

“If it were nothing, you wouldn’t have your knee on ice.”

“It’s just runner’s knee.” I shrugged. “I’m training for an Ironman. Aches and pains are part of the game.”

Gabe wasn’t satisfied with my answer. “When did it start?”

I put my hands on my hips. “You’re the customer right now, Coach. What did you come in for?”

“Baird.” Gabriel stepped closer, and I soon found myself in his shadow. “How long has it been hurting?”

Gabe was such a friendly guy—all bright-eyed and dimpled, but towering over me, sans smile, made the scar running through his eyebrow look more severe. I could picture him as a romantasy character. He may as well have asked, “Who did this to you?”

“I—” I swallowed. “Uh, for a few weeks.”

His face fell. “April—”

“I promise, it’s not that bad.”

“That’s what they all say.” He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “You’ve been doing every workout. Your running hasn’t slowed.”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you.” And even though that seemed like a normal admission to tell my coach, the tips of my ears burned with the words. I couldn’t put a name to it yet, but it was more than just not wanting to let my coach down.

There was a long pause. “Why didn’t you come to me? I’m a massage therapist, specifically sports massage. Helping injured athletes is that other thing I do.”

“I know,” I answered sheepishly. “But I didn’t want to bother you with this. You’re already sacrificing a lot by taking me on as an athlete. ”

“That’s why you should have said something. Because you’re my athlete.” There was nothing romantic in that statement, but the possessiveness of the “ my” made me feel tingly.

“Okay,” I conceded. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes lingered on mine for a moment before he asked, in a softer tone, “Where exactly does it hurt?”

I bent down to the point where the pinching occurred each time I ran. Gabe surveyed the store. We were only ten minutes from closing. It had been dead all day, so Billie left early. Trevor was working on online orders in the back. Other than that, it was just us.

Gabe nodded to a bench in the shoe section. “Okay, lie down.”

If I’d been drinking, I would have done a spit take. “What?”

“I’m going to see if the problem is what I think it is.”

“Right now?” I asked, sounding scandalized.

“I’m not going to give you a full-body massage. Just a quick assessment.”

My brain snagged on the words “full-body massage.” The idea of Gabe’s hands all over me made my tongue feel too big for my mouth.

“Unless, if you feel uncomfortable . . .” He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t have to be the one to do it. There are plenty of capable therapists at our clinic.”

I should have told him I wanted that option. It would have kept clear boundaries between coach and athlete. But that felt weird—sexualizing something Gabe did professionally to help people feel better. I fixed bikes. He fixed people. Same difference. Besides, no one was here to witness it. Even if someone walked by the store, the sofa blocked the bench.

“No,” I finally answered, untying my work apron, removing the icepack from my leg, and crossing over to the bench. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Lie flat on your stomach. Runner’s knee could be from a tight Achilles, but it’s usually a hamstring.”

I did as he asked, trying not to think about how many asses had sat where my cheek touched the bench.

“Now, bend the leg that’s bothering you and try to get it to touch your glutes.” Again, I obeyed, which prompted an, “As close as you can get it.”

I pulled it in, maybe half an inch further.

“That’s as far as you can go?” Gabe asked.

“Yeah. Is that bad?”

“Flip over,” he said instead of answering.

I turned to find Gabe kneeling next to me. He brandished his hands. “If it’s okay, I’m going to feel along your quad—see how tight you are.”

Those words, while looking at his long fingers, were doing a number on my spicy literature connoisseur mind. Heat licked across my chest. “Okay,” I squeaked. And then, to try and show how fine I was with his hands on me, said, “Yeah, cool.”

If I’d been a turtle, I would have ducked into my shell. Fortunately, Gabe seemed unaffected by my awkwardness. He was all business.

His fingers skated over my knee, and goosebumps immediately sprang up. He’s trying to find the root of the problem, I told myself, like running diagnostics on a bicycle.

But then he made a slow, gentle sweep up my leg. And no. It was not like working on a fucking bicycle because a bicycle didn’t have to bite back a moan .

He slowed down—his fingers catching at my upper thigh. He made another sweep and got snagged on the same spot. His eyes looked far away as if picturing the muscle in his mind. His index and middle fingers made small circles, and his brows furrowed. “I think we found our problem spot.” His deep voice did nothing to douse the flames his touch had ignited. Gabe’s dark eyes met mine. “A little pressure. Okay?”

I nodded, but his warning hardly registered because he’d started back at my knee, and I was distracted by the bulge in his biceps as he pressed down harder. It wasn’t until he was at my thigh that I realized by a “little pressure,” he meant pain.

I thought of Viking Steve and how he’d said Gabe had him sweating and crying on his massage table. I could see how. He wasn’t even leaning his entire body weight on me, and I still couldn’t contain the groan when he reached my upper thigh.

He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a, “Hey, April, can you—Oh!” My head whipped around to find Trevor frozen at the opening to the back. As if I were a guilty teenager found canoodling on the couch, I jolted upright.

Trevor slapped a hand over his eyes. His face turned crimson around his hand. I felt my skin color match his.

Gabe’s hand had been up my overall shorts, his body nearly on top of mine. And that groan could have easily been mistaken for a moan.

I felt my soul leave my body.

“Trevor—” I started, wanting to hurry up and explain so my cousin didn’t think he’d just walked in on something.

“I didn’t see anything!” He pivoted for the office, but with a hand still over his eyes, he smacked into the door frame. “Ow! Fuck!”

His glasses clattered to the ground, and he reached for them, eyes on the floor as if making eye contact with one of us would turn him to stone.

“Trevor, we weren’t—he was just giving me a massage.”

He closed his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, April. Do not give me details!” Then he snatched up his glasses and disappeared into the back.

Gabe sat back on his haunches, staring at where Trevor had exited. He ran a hand through his hair from front to back, making it stand up wildly. “Does Trevor think we were—”

“Yep,” I answered before he could finish. Silence stretched for the longest, most awkward moment of my pathetic existence, and then Gabe tipped his head back and released loud, unbridled laughter.

I stared at Gabe, mouth agape, until laughter erupted out of me, too. Just like that, the embarrassment took on a lighter shade. Something was solidifying about sharing the weight of a mortifying moment with someone else.

“Good news,” Gabe said after our laughter settled down. “I think I can help you with your knee pain.”

“And the bad news?” I asked, sensing it lingering.

“I came here to get Trevor’s advice on dog food.” He looked at where Trevor had retreated, a scowl on his face. “He’s not going to attack me in defense of your honor, is he?”

I laughed. “That doesn’t seem like his style, but he’s average in height—so like half your size. Push comes to shove, you could take him.”

He rolled his eyes as he stood. “Thanks for the pep talk, Baird.”

I hadn’t been to a massage parlor often, maybe twice in my life, but Gabe’s room seemed different. No soft flute music, scent diffuser, or mood lighting.

That was because most massages were to help you relax—chase the stress away with deft and sure fingers. Gabe didn’t need low lighting because he was in the business of fixing. Even still, I decided to mess with him a bit.

“Where is the menu? I think I’ll start with hot stones or a facial.”

Gabe shook his head, but he was fighting a smile. “Get on the table, Baird.”

“And how much will this massage set me back?” I asked, not meaning to sound cheap, but I was a small business owner with a large Audible bill.

“I’m not charging you.”

“Yes, you are. I’m not letting you spend your time and . . .” the word service escaped me, so I settled on, “ talents without you getting payment. That’s not fair.”

“You are already paying me for coaching. This is me doing my job, making sure my athlete performs well.”

“But—” I started.

“On the table,” he said, cutting me off with a tone that brooked no argument.

Okay. Well. Him being bossy had no reason to make my stomach feel like a lava lamp, but here we were.

As I lay down, Gabe emptied his pockets. When he went to put his phone on the counter, he stopped to smile at it. I pictured him reading a text from a girlfriend and felt an unwarranted wash of jealousy.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “One of my friends sent my mom the picture from the paper. She’s a little pissed to be the last to find out about my race.”

“Why didn’t you tell her? You two aren’t close?”

“What?” He stopped washing his hands to look over his shoulder at me. “No. We are. I just didn’t think this race was that big of a deal, but I should have known better, considering she comes to all my races—the big ones and the hometown sprints. She would have been at this one, but she’s spending a few months in Mexico—visiting family.”

So what? He’s close to his mom and doesn’t think making first place is a big deal.

Fuck me. Why was that hot?

Gabe approached the table, and I used humor to battle the nerves. “Do you have patient confidentiality?”

His head cocked.

“I just want to make sure my crying isn’t going to become a party story.”

Gabe laughed. “What are you talking about?”

“Just thinking about Viking Steve’s warning.”

“ Viking Steve?”

“Sorry. Inside joke. Just thinking about what Steve said about you making him cry.”

He searched my face with an amused expression. “I’m not planning on making you cry today, April.”

“Is that what you told Steve?”

“He was being dramatic, but I will say—” he said, stopping to point at me, “—and if you repeat this, I will deny it. But women, generally, have a higher pain tolerance than men. In fact, the burlier the man, the harder time they have on my table. ”

“More muscle to get through?” I guessed.

“Sure,” Gabe said. “Let’s go with that.”

I wanted to hear more about beefed-up men being babies, but Gabe pumped some oil into his hands, and the application on his long fingers transfixed me.

“Let’s get you feeling better,” he said. And for one long, dumb-ass second, my brain glitched, and I thought he’d read my dirty little thoughts. Then I rebooted and remembered what I was there for: knee pain.

I managed a nod, and as Gabe’s fingers ran gently up my shin, I prayed I’d stay solid instead of liquifying beneath his touch.

Soft laughter broke my concentration. “Try to relax.”

I realized I’d had my legs locked. Releasing a slow breath, I willed myself to act normal.

“Much better,” he praised.

Minutes into the massage, I forgot all about my nerves. Every cell released an exhale. I was putty on his table.

As he rubbed and leaned and smoothed, I watched him get lost in his work, a slight furrow to his brow as he concentrated. My attention was drawn to the scar that sliced there.

Finally, my curiosity won out. I pointed at the mirrored spot on my own brow. “How’d you get that?”

Gabe’s hand slipped on my leg, and his eyes met mine. They were so dark, it was hard to tell where pupil ended and iris began.

“Sorry,” I offered. “That was rude. You don’t have to say.”

“No. It’s okay.” He went back to watching his hands work. “I fell when I was a kid—hit my head on the corner of a coffee table.”

“Ouch.”

Gabe shrugged. “One perk of blacking out is that you don’ t feel any pain.”

I was about to ask him more about it when he made a pass at my upper thigh. It twinged in protest at Gabe’s touch. His hand made another sweep, and he gave a sympathetic wince. “That’s definitely the problem spot.”

“What’s the protocol? Do I scream into a pillow? Or are the other clients used to hearing crying from your room?”

“April.” I had him going again, and I didn’t know what was better, the sound of his laughter or those dimples. “It’s just going to be some pressure.”

“Bamboo under the fingernails—just some pressure,” I said because I was addicted to his laugh. “Burned at the stake—just some heat. Waterboarding—just some hydration.”

He fixed his features into a neutral expression, but he couldn’t keep the laughter from his eyes. “Are you finished?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

He positioned himself so that his forearm rested against my outer thigh. “Then take a deep breath.”

After some hesitation, I finally obliged, and on the exhale, Gabe pressed down, sliding his forearm against tense muscle. At first, it wasn’t too bad, but then he leaned more of his weight into it, and my breath snagged.

“Keep breathing, Baird,” he said without letting up.

It was work, exhaling without groaning, but I did it. I focused on my breathing, let it ground me through the pain—sorry, pressure— as he worked mercilessly.

“That’s it,” he encouraged. “You are going to feel so much better when I’m done.”

By the time Gabe finished the massage, my eyes were dry, but my fingers were sore from gripping the table's edge so hard. Viking Steve had not been kidding. My thigh muscles felt like they had been rolled out like dough.

Gabe washed the massage oil off his hands, then came around to the table to help me down, which was appreciated. I wasn’t sure my legs would work anymore.

“How does it feel?” Gabe asked, his hand still holding mine as I tested putting weight onto that leg.

“Tender.” He released my hand as I took a few steps. “But also like I have new legs.”

Gabe nodded. “You’re going to want to drink lots of water and stretch over the next few days. I’ll change your plan to swimming and walking this week. By your next run, you should feel much better.”

“Thank you,” I said. And I meant it. He didn’t have to spend his time and his talent, but he had.

“You’re welcome.” Then he ducked his head, his dark eyes searching mine.

“What?”

“Just making sure I didn’t make you cry.”

I pretended to check by prodding under my eyes. “Would you look at that? Now I can rub it in Viking Steve’s face.”

Gabe laughed. “Go home, Baird. And I’m serious about the water and stretching.”

“Yes, Coach,” I said, saluting with my exit.