I woke up to the sound of the shower running. It was early on a cool summer morning in our hotel room, the running of the water the only sound in our suite besides the Chicago traffic below. The melancholy of the night before still hung in the air; a loss in triple overtime is never easy but especially not in the opening game in the Stanley Cup finals. He didn’t say a word as we came in last night, the loss weighing heavy on his mind.
I laid there just a little while longer, curling up onto his side of the bed and taking in the smell of him on the sheets; Irish Spring soap and a hint of musk. He was always much too hard on himself, “I’m the goalie. If they win it’s because I let them, nobody else.” Even with a 93% save average he took each loss personally. It was just how his mind worked, perfectionist just like me. I think that’s why we connected so quickly. Ever since our chance meeting outside TD Garden on the street he spent every moment trying to make everything perfect….probably because of exactly HOW he met me. I was out running errands for the day when he was leaving the garden from practice. In his haste he ran into me and spilt the coffee I had in my hand all over the sidewalk. Being the gentleman he is, he insisted on walking with me back to the Dunkin Donuts and buying me a new one and by the time we got back to his car I had a date with the Boston Bruins very own Tuukka Rask. The rest, they say, is history.
Turning on the coffee pot, I walked back into the bedroom to grab Tuukka some clothes for once he got out of the shower, something that he could never remember to do out of habit. A pair of sweatpants and boxers in hand I slipped into the bathroom to place the clothes on the edge of the sink.
“Trying to sneak a peek at me?” I heard from behind the shower curtain. Tuukka poked his head out, wet curls dripping on my toes.
“Morning babe, I was just putting out some clothes so you didn’t have to run around the place naked.” I answered, turning to leave.
“But what if I wanted to run around naked?” He replied in a snarky tone, giving me a tilt of his head and a raise of his eyebrow.
“Well then I’ll just take these with me!” I skipped out of the room and back to check on the coffee.
“Hey not fair!” I heard him mumble as he staggered out of the bathroom in a towel. The game last night had taken a toll on him and even though he’s rather flexible (being a goalie) he hobbled like an old man. He tried to hide his wincing but I could see it in his eyes.
“You alright? You look sore” I left the clothes on the dresser and went to assess the damages.
“It was a long game. A puck got me between the pads too” He pointed out a purple welt on his side where the padding doesn’t cover, a weak point in his plates of knightly armor. I wrapped my arms around his damp body and kissed the battle wound gently.
“I think you need a massage, go lay down on the bed and I’ll be right back.” He couldn’t do anything but oblige, after all who would ever turn down a massage? Rifling through my bag and grabbing the Arnica Montana I returned to my man who looked like he was ready for a spa day; lay out with nothing but a towel covering his behind.
“Ooh, Arnica. That’s the good stuff” he nearly moaned. The homeopathic cream was the secret of all the trainers because it eased sore muscles and healed bruises quicker than anything else. Straddling his back, I rested myself on his lower back and squeezed a dollop of arnica into the palms of my hands before beginning to work on his strong, defined shoulders.
“Damn, your traps are so tight they might snap!” I remark, kneading my thumbs into his shoulder blades. The rest of my fingers tried to untangle his traps, working from his collar to his shoulders and back.
