Page 4 of Breaking the Ice

“Come in. Mr. Flake should be here any moment now,” Bill leads my father and me into an elegantly furnished office. The floor is made of dark marble, and expensive-looking paintings hang on the walls. Towards the back, in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, is a massive desk. I believe it's made of mahogany. In any case, it's polished to a high shine and practically screams wealth. Thornton's phone rings and we turn towards him. “That's the General Manager; he's calling about a player transfer. Please take a seat; the boss will be here shortly,” he explains, gesturing towards two chairs in front of the desk. As we follow his instructions, he exits the room.

“So, what do you think?” Dad asks as soon as we're seated. His hazel eyes are fixed on me.

“About what?”

“Well, about all of this.” He smiles and draws circles with an elevated index finger. “I know I sprung the job on you. But it's a great opportunity, trust me.”

And it really is. Originally, I had planned to start working at my father's practice after completing my massage therapy training. He's been a self-employed therapeutic masseur with various additional certifications for many years – including sports massage. In our hometown of Aberdeen, he's a renowned expert. Typically, his schedule is booked months in advance, and he doesn't take on new patients. So, it surprised me even more when he suddenly closed his practice to work for the Portland Devils. Fresh out of university, he brought me along in his paternal care. While that's incredibly kind of him, it's also quite stressful for me. I mean, this job is throwing me into the deep end.

“What if I make mistakes?” I voice my biggest concern. “The Devils are professionals; imagine if I use the wrong technique and pull a muscle on one of them.”

“You won't, Emma.” Dad places his hand on my knee and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Stop doubting yourself, okay? You're an excellent masseuse, and you'll excel at this job.”

“Let's hope you're right, and that the players and him here see it the same way.” I nod my head towards the opposite side of the desk. It strikes me that there's neither a chair nor an executive chair over there. Odd.

“If you encounter any unexpected problems, come to me,” he insists. “But you'll see, you'll handle all of this effortlessly.” Now, before I can respond, the door behind us opens.

“Ah, excellent, you're already here,” a husky voice sounds. We turn towards it and discover a dark-blond man in his mid-forties. He sits in an electric wheelchair and rolls straight towards us. “Glad you could arrange to come so spontaneously,” he remarks, stopping in front of my father. My father stands up and extends his hand. “Mr. Flake, pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Tade. I've heard quite a bit about your magical hands. One could say your reputation precedes you. And you must be the daughter, Emmina.”

“Emma is fine, and yes, I'm his daughter. Nice to meet you,” I reply, shaking our new boss's hand and studying his appearance a bit more closely. He's slender, wearing a designer suit, and polished shoes. His eyes are a deep-sea blue, and his nose is straight. Overall, he would be a dapper man if not for that nasty scar on his face. It's about as thick as a finger, resembling a burst sausage, running across the lower right side of his face. It has left behind a swollen pink area where it crosses his lips. I have to resist staring at the disfigured spot.

“Well, I assume Coach Thornton has already introduced you to the guys,” Mr. Flake inquires as he rolls his wheelchair behind the desk to his seat.

“Yes, Bill has already introduced us. You have a great team,” my father answers, visibly swelling the owner's chest.

“To be honest, the team is my pride and joy. You know, my wife thinks the Devils are a pure waste of time and money. And yes, I admit, the team doesn't bring in nearly as much as my other projects.” From Dad, I know that Flake is involved in European real estate trading and is quite wealthy. “But it's not about money for me. This team is more of a hobby, a passion, if you will.” Flake's lips curl into a sincere smile. “I want the guys to achieve what I couldn't after my car accident.”

“You played hockey yourself,” I deduce, seeing a painful expression flit across his features. His reaction is swift, like a flutter of wings, but I don't miss it.

“Yes, for many years. I was a forward for the Milwaukee Rangers. In my last year on the ice, we had just made it to the playoffs when the accident happened.” He rests his forearms on the table and laces his fingers together. “That was over twenty years ago. I've grown accustomed to my new life and made the best of it. I found a new challenge in real estate, and as it turned out, I had a knack for it. You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all of this. Well, as you've noticed, even after all these years, my heart still beats for ice hockey. Missing out on the playoffs back then still weighs on me. It's like something is missing from my life. Something that can't be bought with any amount of money in the world.” Even though Mr. Flake doesn't show it, I'm certain that opening up about this issue affects him. “Anyway, I'm very invested in seeing my Devils win the championship. When it comes to the team, I spare no expense or effort. The guys should have everything they need to succeed. And that's where you both come in.” Flake looks at my father and then at me intently. “I expect your full commitment. All team members, if they wish, will receive pre-training and post-game massages. It's essential to avoid strains or muscle tears. Moreover, I expect you to be available at all times, day or night, until the end of the season. The guys should be able to call on your magical hands anytime. Naturally, I'll compensate you accordingly for your efforts. In addition to your agreed-upon fee, I'll pay you a bonus of eight hundred dollars for each round the guys make it through unharmed.” Wow! Eight hundred dollars as a bonus – and that's per won game? I feel my mouth drop open and quickly close it again. Dad beside me seems less surprised by the information. He appears unfazed and merely nods. “You see,” Flake continues, “I truly care about the Devils and the championship. So, please do me the favor and give it your best.” While the owner and my father discuss a few more trivial matters, I ponder what I could do with all that money. There are six games left until the playoffs. The playoffs themselves have seven rounds, then comes the semifinals... Even if they only make it that far, that's thirteen games, if I'm keeping it straight in my head, which means $10,400. Insane!

After the conversation with Flake, he sends us down to the basement, where Thornton is waiting for us. Now that the corridors are no longer swarmed with visitors, he gives us a tour. We're shown everything from the souvenir shop to the stands, the VIP area, the commentator's booth, the gym, and the ice rink. Lastly, Bill leads us to our new workplace – two comfortably furnished massage rooms with adjoining bathrooms. They're right next to each other. My father's room is slightly larger than mine and features a desk. Otherwise, the rooms are identical. Both have a massage table, a sideboard filled with towels, a shelf with massage oils, and some greenery in the form of dragon trees. The ceiling lights are dimmable, and the floor is made of parquet, giving the room a pleasant warmth.

“In case you work with aromatherapy, we're well equipped in that area,” the coach explains, placing a hand on a top shelf. Numerous brown glass bottles stand there. “Our first massage therapist insisted on relaxation music. If you want something like that, just let us know. In fact, if there's anything you need, just tell us.”

“Well, for my part, I could really use a proper coffee right now,” my father remarks. “Emma and I have been on our feet for fourteen hours.”

“Right, I completely forgot. You two just arrived today. Alright then, let's go upstairs and get you some coffee and something to eat. After that, I'll show you your apartment.”

“That sounds like a fantastic idea,” Dad says, walking alongside Bill towards the door. “Emma?” He turns to me when he realizes I'm not following them. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah, in a bit. I just want to take a look around.”

“I can understand that. Come on, Max, let your daughter have some time to explore everything.” With that, Bill pats my old man on the shoulder and winks at me. “Alright then, we'll wait for you upstairs.”

“Got it.” While the two of them disappear through the open door into the hallway, I survey my new workplace. I run my fingertips over the shelves and the sideboard, gaze at the landscape paintings on the walls. Unbelievable, they're actually giving me, a newcomer, my own treatment room. I wouldn't have dreamed of it. I had actually thought I'd be more like an assistant, just helping out my father. I never would have dared to dream that I'd be seen as a full-fledged massage therapist. Honestly, I couldn't have found a better job. Even Dad's practice pales in comparison to this. My chest tightens with excitement. Although I still feel a sense of admiration for it all, I can't wait to get started.

Smiling with anticipation, I stand at the head of the massage table and admire it. The thing looks brand-new and incredibly expensive. It's covered in buttons and levers for adjusting height and who knows what else.

“I figured I'd find you here,” a male voice startles me. I glance towards the door and see the guy with the sun tattoo leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh, hey, I didn't even hear you come in. Parker, right?”

“Ethan Parker,” he confirms, entering and extending his hand towards me. “But you can just call me Parker; that's what everyone does around here.” The look he gives me as I shake his hand is captivating. His eyes are a unique ice blue, as I can see up close. I feel like I'm drowning in them if I look long enough. The dark lashes enhance the effect. Back when I was a young girl, I would have mentioned his sensational eyes. I probably would have misinterpreted his gaze and thought he was just being friendly. Today, I know how men work, and I'm aware that he's here because he's interested in me. I find that sweet, he's sweet. Even though he's not exactly my type. But he's perfect for a little flirting and to make the time more enjoyable.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say, pulling my hand back while letting my thumb lightly brush against the back of his hand. The touch is delicate and appears accidental. And for that reason, I'm aware, it has its full effect.

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