Beauty & The Jock - Part 2

Healing Hands, or Some Shit

Everyone in this story is 18+

At school, Kyle didn’t look at me.

Not once. Not in the hall. Not in class. Not even a half-glance when I passed him outside the cafeteria. It was like the massage never happened.

Which was fine.
Really.
It wasn’t like I expected him to wave me down and ask about skincare routines in front of his linebacker friends.

So when the bell above the salon door chimed again a week later, and I looked up from dusting off some products to see him walk in, my stomach gave this stupid little flip I immediately regretted.

He was in a navy hoodie this time, sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms, gym bag slung over one shoulder. His hair looked damp, like he’d just showered. He moved like he still hadn’t fully recovered from practice. Same quiet wince when he adjusted the strap on his bag, like something in his back hadn’t let up.

Mom was behind the counter today, flipping through her appointment book with her usual tight-lipped concentration.

Kyle hesitated for a second, then walked up to her.
“I was wondering if I could book a massage.”

She looked up, smiling politely. “Of course. I have a spot open now, if that works for you.”

He glanced sideways, toward me.

“I was actually hoping to book with him.” He nodded at me.

Mom looked at me.
I looked at her.

She raised one brow, then smiled like she knew something I didn’t. “Of course, Aaron’s got time.”

Kyle looked back at me like this was no big deal. Like he hadn’t been ignoring me at school like I was a stranger.

“Treatment room’s open,” I said, trying not to sound too surprised. “Same as before?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Please.”

I walked him to the room, flicked on the warm light, set the candle burning.

He dropped his bag in the corner and glanced around like he remembered the space exactly.

“I’ll give you a minute to undress and get comfortable,” I said, already stepping toward the door.

Kyle was tugging his hoodie off. “No need. I don’t mind.”

He tossed it aside and started pulling off his shirt without hesitation. The fabric dragged slowly up his torso, revealing smooth, tanned skin, abs tightened slightly as he moved. His muscles flexed with the motion, not in an obvious way, but with that kind of strength you don’t really notice until you see it up close. He didn’t look at me once, just peeled off his clothes like it was normal.

By the time I turned back, his shirt and shorts were in a neat pile on the chair. He stood in the middle of the room in deep green briefs, not tight, but not loose either, the waistband sitting low across his hips. He looked bigger this time. Or maybe I was just noticing more.

He caught my eye and gave a half-smile.

“You’re good with this, right?” he asked, casually.

I nodded once, voice even. “Yeah. Lie down. Face down.”

He did, shifting into place like he’d done it a hundred times. I put a towel over his hips, barely brushing the edge of the curve beneath his lower back.

I gave him a second, then stepped closer, poured a little oil into my hands and rubbed them together.

“Still sore in the same spot?” I asked.

“Mostly shoulders and lower back today. I did way too much lifting yesterday.”

“Shocking,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

I pressed my hands into his shoulders, and he sighed, long and low.

His skin was warm, the muscles beneath tense and coiled. I moved slowly, letting myself fall into the rhythm of it. Every knot felt like a memory. Each ridge of his back carried more definition than I’d noticed before, not exaggerated, just clean and defined.

His shoulder blades moved slightly under my hands, smooth and golden under the soft light.

“Seriously,” he muffled after a few minutes. “What do you do to make it feel like this?”

“Ancient wisdom,” I said. “Passed down through generations.”

He laughed quietly, a soft breath into the cradle. “Whatever it is, it’s working.”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to break the moment.

His body softened again under my palms, loosening. Occasionally, he adjusted, a small shift of his hips, a bend of one knee. It felt almost unconscious, like he was letting himself go, and for a guy like Kyle, that meant something, or did it?

The session passed in near silence, save for the soft music playing from the little speaker in the corner. His breathing slowed. My hands moved on instinct. There was something strangely peaceful about it, like we’d built a quiet, private world here that didn’t exist anywhere else.

By the time I stepped back and turned off the timer, the room felt warm and weightless.

“You’re done,” I said.

Kyle didn’t move at first, then slowly pushed himself up, muscles flexing under the towel. He sat on the edge of the table, looking dazed. Hair sticking up in the back. Eyes a little glazed over.

“God,” he muttered. “That was... unreal.”

I handed him the water. “Drink.”

He took it, drank deep, then ran a hand through his hair.

“You’re seriously wasted in this place,” he said. “You’ve got healing hands. Or some shit.”

I shrugged. “Guess I’m in the right business, then.”

He pulled his shorts on, again with that small, awkward motion to make sure the towel stayed in place until he was fully covered. I turned away, but not before catching the little adjustment as he dressed. His jaw flexed once as he zipped up, like something was still bothering him.

Kyle stood there for a second, pulling his hoodie on but not zipping it. His hand drifted low, scratching absentmindedly at his crotch, like straight guys often do, but this time it felt a little different, a bit too deliberate.

“So,” he said, avoiding my eyes, “I was wondering about something. Uh… this thing.”

His fingers lingered near the same spot. I followed the motion. I didn’t say anything, but it was kind of obvious what he meant.

He cleared his throat.

“Anyway, you can put me down again. Same time next week?”

I nodded slowly. “Sure.”

“Cool.” He turned toward the door. “Alright. Bye.”

“Bye, Kyle.”

He left without looking back.

The towel still sat folded on the edge of the table. The candle was nearly burned out.

There was clearly something he wanted to ask. I just couldn’t tell if he was too embarrassed to say it... or afraid of what the answer might be.