Page 9 of Breaking the Ice

“Most of the time.”

“So, I guess your approach is ‘shoot first, ask questions later’?”

“Usually.” Caleb seems unfazed by my response, which makes me want to twist his toes.

“Alright now, do you have a boyfriend?”

“What about you, do you have a girlfriend?”

“Yes, I do.” His response comes quickly. By now, I'm sure that I must be sleep-deprived, as I feel a faint disappointment welling up inside me. That's definitely not normal and must be due to my lack of sleep. I really should lie down!

“No, I don't have a boyfriend.”

“Then the men in Aberdeen are either blind or gay.” Under different circumstances, I'd say the guy is flirting with me in the most impertinent way possible. But Caleb's words don't sound like a pickup line; rather, they sound like an observation.

“I'll take that as a compliment. So, thank you,” I say, furrowing my brow, adding a bit more oil and continuing the massage on his other foot.

“Not a problem. I'm pretty sure most of the team agrees with me.”

“I see,” I say with a smile.

“By the way, you've left quite an impression on some of them. They'll be pleased to hear you're not taken.” Parker comes to mind, how he visited me here yesterday and flirted. I get it now, that's the deal.

“Are you here to pry into me for one of the others?”

“No, they manage that just fine on their own.” He props himself up on his elbows, and I see his abdominal muscles working beneath the tight shirt. For a tiny moment, I weaken, and my gaze slips a bit lower to the dark shorts with a noticeable bulge. What is it with these hockey players? Are they all so loaded or what? Durand yesterday, Caleb today, this isn't normal! “I'm here because I want to know if you can handle the guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of the players are unpredictable hotshots, and I can't afford disruption in the team.” Ah, I finally get it. Caleb Whyler is the captain of the Devils. I read that in Dad's team files yesterday. I knew I recognized the name from somewhere. So, as captain, he's worried I might pit his players against each other.

“Don't worry, I don't plan on getting involved with any of them,” I say. At least not in terms of sex or a relationship. As far as I'm concerned that topic is closed, so I refocus my attention on his feet.

“I'm just afraid that won't stop them. You'll see, they'll try to get your attention in every possible way.”

“Please, let them.” I don't have a problem with that. On the contrary, a few flirts will make my time here more enjoyable. But he doesn't need to know that. “Caleb,” I say, because his expression darkens, and I don't want to sour things with him. “You really don't need to worry. I'm here to work, not to cause discord in your team.” For a moment, he looks at me assessingly. In that moment, my heart thumps unusually hard against my ribcage, confusing me. Am I afraid he won't believe me, or is it the deep brown of his eyes, the way he looks at me, that's accelerating my pulse?

“Alright,” is all he says before lying down again, and I start working on his thighs. A few minutes later, I ask him to turn onto his stomach so I can continue on his back. I notice that he has an incredibly hot butt. In fact, this man has an amazing physique. And hey, it means something when I say that, because he's not the first athlete I've seen in minimal clothing.

He remains silent for the rest of the massage, which suits me fine. There's a kind of tension between us. But I notice that with each touch—running my hands over his skin—that tension diminishes a bit. When I finally finish, Caleb even looks relaxed.

“Alright, that's it,” I explain and run my hands over his calves one last time. “Your muscles are warmed up and well blooded. It's best if you head to practice.”

“Got it, thanks.” His voice sounds rough, as if he just woke up. While Caleb sits up, I go to the bathroom to wash the oil off my hands.

“By the way,” I say, looking at the hockey player who's just getting up from the table and pushing his chin-length curls back, “for next time: you don't need to change out there. There are hooks in here.”

“I know,” he says and reaches for his clothes that he laid on the dresser. He knows? And yet he still changes in the massage room? Odd bird.

“Then I don't need to worry that the guys will bash each other's skulls in because of you?” he asks again as I return to him. He's standing fully dressed next to the table, rolling up the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt. The dark blond hair, the sharp facial features, and then those intelligent eyes. Oh man, I have to admit, Caleb looks delicious. If anyone on the team could truly tempt me, it's him. But I stay away from men who are taken. Fishing in unfamiliar waters isn't my thing.

“As I said, I don't intend to get involved with any of them.”

“Good.” That serious expression returns to his face as he nods and heads to the door. I turn my attention to the table, about to remove the linen cover to prepare it for the next client when Caleb—his hand on the doorknob—pauses. He turns around to face me once more, seeking my gaze.

“Thank you,” he says, and for the first time, I think I see a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

“No problem.”

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