Real(8)

“I’m not used to such big hands. My student’s hands are usually easier to rub down.”

His dimples are nowhere in sight. Somehow I’m not sure he hears me. He seems especially engrossed in watching my fingers on him. “You’re doing fine,” he says, his voice low. I become entranced in the planes and dips of his palms, every one of his dozens of calluses. “How many hours do you condition a day?” I ask, softly, as the jet takes off so smoothly I barely realize we’re airborne.

He’s still watching my fingers, his eyes at half-mast. “We do eight. Four and four.”



“I’d love to stretch you when you’re done training. Is that what your specialists also do for you?” I ask.

He nods, still not looking at me. Then his eyes flick upward.

“And you? Who pats your injury down?” He signals to my knee brace, visible through my knee length skirt, which rose slightly when I sat. “No one anymore. I’m done with rehab.” The idea of this man seeing my embarrassing video makes me queasy. “You Googled me too? Or did your guys tell you?”



He pulls his hand free from mine and signals down. “Let’s have a look at it.”

“There’s nothing to see.” But when he continues staring at my leg through those dark lashes, I still bend and lift my leg a couple of inches to show him my knee brace. He seizes it with one hand and opens the Velcro with the other to peer down at my skin, then he strokes his thumbs across the scar in my kneecap.

There’s something wholly different about him touching me.

His bare hand is on my knee, and I can feel his calluses on my skin. I. Can’t. Breathe. He probes a little, and I bite my lower lip and exhale what little air remains in my lungs. “It still hurts?”



I nod, but still can only really think about his large, dry hand. Touching my knee. “I’ve been running without a brace, and I know I shouldn’t yet. I just don’t think I’ve ever really recovered.”

“How long ago was this?” “Six years ago.” I hesitate, then add, “And two…the second time it happened.”

“Ahh, a double injury. So it’s sensitive?”

“Very.” I shrug. “I guess I’m glad that by my second, I’d already started my masters for rehab. Otherwise I don’t know what I would have done.”

“It hurts not to compete anymore?”



He looks at me with complete openness and interest, and I don’t know why I’m even answering. I haven’t talked about this openly with anyone. It hurts in every part of me. My heart, my pride, my very soul. “Yes. It does. You’d understand, right?” I ask, quietly, as he lowers my leg back down. He holds my gaze as his thumb lightly strokes across my knee, then we both glance at his touch, as though equally stunned to realize how easy it was for him to leave it there while we had an entire conversation—and for me to allow it. He lets go and we say nothing.

I put back my Velcro but underneath the brace, I feel like he’s just doused my skin with gasoline, and it will burst up in flames any second he touches me again.

Shit.



This is so not good, I don’t even know what to do myself. My relationships with my clients have always been informal. They call me by my name, and I call them by theirs. We do a lot of work and have a lot of contact, but they never touch me. Only I do. “Do this one.”



He puts his farthest hand out to me in a fist as he speaks, and I’m kind of grateful for the opportunity to get seriously accustomed to touching this man for work purposes. Shifting to my side, I take his hand in both of mine and spread it open with my fingers. He leans back on the seat and stretches his free arm, the one closest to me, all along the seat behind me. Hyperawareness of that outstretched arm sizzles through me even if he isn’t touching me, and once again, I’m awed and strangely compelled by his palm, how rough, firm, and callused it is.

I don’t know why he seats himself in a bench instead of a single seat, but suddenly his thigh is too close, his knees folded, his legs spread wide, taking up two seats and leaving me with one, and I can feel and smell every inch of him.

Our other four flight companions laugh up front and his eyes flick up there, then back to me. I’m entirely aware of his gaze as I press into his palm with my thumbs, pushing hard into the tissue until I feel the little knot I found fade away. I keep probing and searching for more but can’t find any, so I move to his wrist.

He has the broadest, sturdiest wrist I’ve ever seen, and his forearm is powerfully built and corded with thick veins that run up his arm. I hold his hand as I twirl his wrist , and I’m lost in the movement of his joint, perfectly mobile. I probe into his forearm then his bicep, which hardens and clenches for me. I close my eyes and work deep within the muscle. All of a sudden, the arm behind me folds, and his hand curls around the nape of my neck. He leans in and whispers, “Look at me.”