Go Small or Go Home (work in progress)
First Draft: June 2, 2008 to July 23, 2008, complete at 86,000 words
Second Draft: September 4, 2008 to November 11, 2008, complete at 84,000 words
Critiques and Feedback: November 11, 2008 to December 31, 2008
Final Revisions: January 5, 2009 to February 2, 2009 (longer if needed)
Tess is a massage therapist and wannabe professional artist living in Toronto who takes a job massaging stressed but attractive hockey star Forrest. Her art career soars thanks to his gallery-owning mother, but her creativity plummets under the weight of rules and deadlines, and soon she's losing the freedom and joy she'd always found in her art. Tess must decide whether having the career she longs for is worth losing doing her art her way, or whether somehow she can have both at once.
Chapter One
I locked eyes with my fellow job candidate, trying not to smile at his surprise. "Yes, I'm serious. Turn around."A mottled flush crawled up his neck. "I can't ask you to do that." He shot a glance at the receptionist, the only other person in the late-70's era waiting room plastered with Toronto Hogs hockey team posters and memorabilia, but her focus on her computer remained absolute.
"You didn't ask, I offered. And your shoulders are right up to your ears. Don't look a gift massage in the mouth."
I'd already been waiting a good ten minutes, although they'd flown by in his company, so I probably didn't have long before my interview, but I couldn't leave such a nice man without at least trying to reduce the awful tension I'd noticed in his body.
Besides, I'd get to touch him again, like I'd wanted to since our brief introductory handshake. Something about him, and not just his cuteness, called to me. He felt wounded somehow. Fragile, despite his height and size.
He'd arrived seconds after me, and when I'd looked back to hold the door for him he'd paled when our eyes met, recoiling as if I'd lunged at him. Once I took a seat, though, he'd exchanged a few quiet words with the receptionist and sat beside me, confessing with a shy smile how nervous he was and how badly he wanted to be the team's equipment manager. I'd admitted to a touch of nerves myself about my interview for the massage therapist job, and we'd chatted non-stop until my offer to take some of the stress out of his shoulders.
He hesitated a moment longer then turned in his chair with a sharp movement and looked back over his shoulder. Tried to, anyhow: he barely had any mobility. "Are you sure?"
"Face forward," I said, ignoring the question, "and don't push your neck to turn like that, okay? Trust your body to know what it needs."
Massage through a t-shirt isn't as effective, but I could hardly ask the man to strip in the waiting room. Why he'd worn a t-shirt, even a Hogs-branded one, and jeans for a job interview, I didn't know, but his questionable fashion sense wasn't my concern. I rested both hands on his shoulders, as always willing myself to recognize what my client needed, then let my fingers explore.
He was more muscled than I'd expected, and tighter than a size four bathing suit on a size fourteen woman. I'd never felt such tension, like massaging solid bone not flesh, and though I tried to be gentle he caught his breath a few times.
"Sorry," I said softly after a particularly sharp inhalation. "Should I stop?"
"No," he said at once. "It hurts but it's helping. You're good."
Doubt skittered through me. I was good. I was damned good, and I knew it. So why was I considering leaving my massage skills behind?
Because I'd dreamed of making a career of my art for years, and that weekend I'd realized it was time to start. Even though I didn't know how.
He caught his breath again and on impulse I slipped one hand into his swamp-green t-shirt for better access to the muscle knot I'd found. As his tension eased, sadness filled me in a sudden overwhelming flood and I shut my eyes to hold back tears. I'd felt clients' emotions before, picked up on what was being released as the muscles relaxed, but never this much. So much pain, so intense. Was it truly coming from him? It seemed like it. But what could have hurt him that deeply?
He only let me touch his bare skin beneath the shirt for a few moments before clearing his throat. "Thanks. It feels better." His voice sounded like his throat could do with another clearing, rough and husky.
Mine didn't sound much better when I said, "You're welcome." I drew my hands away from him, longing to do the opposite but knowing he wanted me to stop, and took a deep breath to calm myself before adding, "I hope it helped."
He turned in his chair to face me, his hazel eyes still holding traces of the pain I'd felt in his body. I wondered how he'd acquired the thin white scars through one eyebrow and beside his mouth. "It did." He cleared his throat again. "You don't know how much."
No, but I knew how much work he still needed; the tension had loosened but was nowhere near gone. I opened my mouth to offer to give him another massage later, but the receptionist said, "Ms. Grayson, they're ready for you."
I looked at her, then at the battered mahogany double doors to which she was pointing, then back at her. "They are? I didn't hear the phone ring."
Her head jerked toward the doors then she swiveled it back to face me. "They emailed me," she said, nodding.
"Ah." I gathered my bag and jacket. I didn't believe it for a second; they'd obviously told her to keep me waiting for a while. Power trip.
"You're observant," my impromptu client said, standing and holding out his hand to me.
I accepted his hand. "I'm detail oriented," I agreed. "Goes with the career." Goes with both careers, the one I've got and the one I yearn for.
I had to get into the interview but I couldn't bring myself to let him go. Even with what I'd felt from him during the massage, touching him still felt right.
He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and released it, and I had to do the same. "Well, it was nice to meet you," he said, "and thank you."
"Ditto, and you're welcome." We smiled at each other and I headed toward the double doors, hoping he'd be there when I came back out. If not, maybe we'd both get hired and I'd be lucky enough to get to work with him.
***
"Ms. Grayson, would you be able to start immediately?"
I nodded, glad that after five minutes the team's manager had finally asked a relevant question instead of critiquing the weather and assessing my (microscopic) hockey knowledge. He'd barely listened to my answers, and hadn't referenced the job once. "My last clinic closed a month ago. And please, call me Tess."
Filmore leaned forward, resting his forearms on the oversized mahogany table with his palms against the inlayed team logo, a swamp-green cartoon pig with a hockey stick gripped in one front foot and blood dripping from its tusks. His little finger, bearing an enormous antiqued gold ring with '1977' emblazoned around it, stroked over the team name, tracing each silver letter. I didn't think he knew he was doing it.
"All right, Tess, let me level with you."
Instead of leveling, he lowered his head and stared at me, hard enough I wanted to fidget but not quite enough to force me to. I held his gaze, refusing to show weakness, but when I didn't look away he stared harder, which only made me more determined not to flinch.
My eyeballs began to dry out, so I gave a slow deliberate blink. He did the same, bending his head a little more until his eyes nearly vanished beneath his thick grey eyebrows.
After the longest ten seconds of my life, he blinked again and turned away, giving one faint nod. Had I won? He did seem marginally friendlier when he went on. "We won the Beechman Cup in 1977 and we haven't come close since."
Beechman? No way would I tell him I had no idea what he meant. From the reverence in his voice, I assumed the top team in the league won it. Toronto's media described the Hogs in many different ways, but "top team" didn't make the list.
I must have appeared disagreeing instead of clueless, because he held up a hand to stop the protest I hadn't planned to make. "Sure, we made the playoffs twice, and even reached the final round in '95."
I nodded, trying to convey, "Of course" and not "Stop being a walking sports almanac and tell me what you want from me". "This is our year." He dropped each word like a little bomb, then glanced at his cell phone for at least the sixth time and said, "Will you help us succeed?"
If I'd thought hockey mattered at all, the passion in his voice might have swayed me. But I didn't.
I believed in sports. I'd been a swimmer throughout my childhood, picking it up again as a so-called 'masters swimmer' at twenty-six, although the only thing I'd mastered seemed to be coming up just short of qualifying for the championship meet held every December. I'd failed three times, but this year, my last chance before I turned thirty and moved into a new age bracket, I would succeed. Fourth time's the charm, I kept telling myself, and the determination to get there kept me practicing and training day after day.
Sports were important and life-changing, no question. But pro sports? Overcharging, underperforming, and irrelevant.
I chose not to share this opinion. "How? What exactly would I do?"
Filmore's expression suggested I'd asked if he'd sing the national anthems naked at the next game. "I can't answer that for the time being," he said after a good five seconds of silence had congealed around us. "I can say it'd be massage."
Well, thanks for the enlightenment. "Good," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "since I'm trained for it."
He sighed. "I guess we should cover your training," he began, but his phone rang as he reached the last word. He lurched forward and grabbed it, and relief spread over his hockey-scarred face.
"Took you long enough," he said into the phone. "So?"
He listened, tapping his ring-bedecked little finger against the table. "Sure, but do you think it'll work?"
More tapping, then his eyebrows shot up. The finger hit the table and stayed there. "Got it. I'll let you know."
He snapped the phone closed, pushed back his chair, and came around the table. "Thanks for coming in, Tess. We'll be in touch."
Startled, I scrambled to my feet and shook his hand.
"Close the door, please."
I walked through the unfortunately empty waiting room, confused and a bit offended by my sudden dismissal. Clearly I was still unemployed.
Which I would take as a sign I was meant to begin my art career. A calm certainty settled over me. I would become a professional artist. If only I had any idea how.
I'd spent the morning researching, looking for anyone in Toronto who might want to sell my work. The same names came up over and over, but their web sites all made it clear they wouldn't take queries from artists without referrals or significant gallery experience, and I didn't have either. And wasn't likely to get them until a gallery took me on. Ah, the vicious circle of life.