I try to think about what I know about Germany, then I beam. “Germany has pretzels! And beer!”
“You like beer?”
“I’m more of a cocktail person,” I admit. “Sweeter, you know. If I’m going to drink something, I prefer it to be sweet. Sour bubbles are not as nice. Unless you’re one of those people who really like sour bubbles. And there’s always so much! How do you get any conversation in?”
“I think you have just explained why Germans like beer.”
“The sourness?”
“Something to do while avoiding conversation.”
I stiffen.
He stiffens.
My eyes widen—I think.
His eyesdefinitely widen.
“Not that—” He swallows hard. “Not that I do not like your conversation.”
“Undress,” I say.
His eyes round, and I gesture to the massage table, as if he’s forgotten why exactly he is in my massage room. My skin heats, like this is another type of scenario where I’m telling a man to undress.
But to be honest, those scenarios happen far less than I would like.
Hook-up culture isn’t my thing, and a boyfriend hasn’t happened yet.
Maybe one day.
“Most athletes just come here already undressed,” I tell him. “You can leave your clothes in the locker room.”
His cheeks redden, like he’s done something wrong.
“Or undress here,” I say brightly.
“All the way?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Leave your underwear on. And I’ll cover your lower half with a towel too. Except when I’m working on the area.”
He looks mildly terrified.
Shit.
Do they not give massages to hockey players in Germany?
Or it’s me.
Everyone on this team has been so wonderful, and no one has cared that I’m gay.
But I’m pretty sure he does care.
“Welcome to the massage room!” I gesture at the stone walls and eucalyptus.
“It is nice.” He cuts me off before I can launch into the merits of eucalyptus.
“Lie down,” I say.
