Beauty & The Jock - Part 1

Sore Jocks & Throbs

Everyone in this story is 18+

The salon always calms down around four. The air softens. Light filters through the gauzy curtains and makes the polish bottles glow like tiny colored suns. The usual hum of blow dryers fades, and the only sounds left are the soft shuffle of slippers on tile and the occasional clink of glass jars being restocked.

I like this part of the day. It's when everything slows down, and I can sit behind the counter with a tea I forgot I made and scroll through skincare videos in peace. Today, I was watching someone dissect ingredient lists and rate their favorites for treating fungal acne. Riveting stuff, honestly.

The front door chimed.

I looked up, already halfway into my default smile, expecting one of the regulars.

But it was Kyle Reynolds. Yeah. That Kyle Reynolds. Star quarterback of our school, standing in the middle of my mom’s pastel, lavender-scented salon like he belonged there.

He filled the doorway like he was too big for it. Sweat-darkened hoodie clinging to his chest, gym shorts hitched low on his hips. He looked overheated and a little lost, blinking under the warm lighting like he’d stepped into the wrong building.

“I thought this was your mom’s place,” he said, glancing around.

“It is,” I said, setting my phone aside. “You looking for a pedicure, or just here to bless us with your presence?”

He gave a faint snort, but didn’t rise to it. “Someone said your mom does massages.”

“She does.”

He shifted, rolled one shoulder with a small grimace. “Practice was brutal. I think I messed something up.”

I nodded slowly. “She’s not here right now. Ran home to grab something. Probably forgot her charger again.”

Kyle hesitated, then looked at me. “You do them too, right? Massages?”

I stood, already feeling the weird twist in my stomach. “Yeah. I am.” I crossed my arms. “But you sure you wanna get rubbed down by the guy who wears lip gloss and once brought his cat to class in a tote bag?”

He cracked a grin. “You brought the cat in a bag?”

“Hydration tote. He was comfortable.”

He gave a shrug. “My back’s killing me. Image can wait.” That was new.

I reached under the counter for the waiver form. “Alright. Thirty-minute session?”

“Sounds good.”

I handed him the clipboard. “Sign here. Just says you won’t sue if I break your spine.”

“Comforting,” he muttered, scribbling.

I headed into the treatment room and started prepping. Lit the lavender candle, dimmed the lights, smoothed the sheet. The whole time, my mind was racing in loops I pretended not to follow.

When he came in a minute later, I was arranging the massage oil bottles. I glanced over my shoulder as he pulled off his hoodie.

His shirt came next, tugged up and over, revealing a long stretch of golden skin, smooth, lightly freckled across the chest. His torso was sculpted in that way athletes seem to come by naturally. No bulging gym rat exaggeration, just firm muscle mapped clean under tanned skin. His chest rose and fell like he hadn’t fully cooled down from practice, and a sheen of sweat caught the light along his collarbone.

He peeled off his gym shorts in one fluid motion and stood there in snug black boxer briefs, stretching a little before catching my eye. I looked away fast, turning back to the oils like they were suddenly fascinating.

“You can lie down,” I said. “Face down. Under the towel.”

“Right,” he said, quieter now.

The table creaked softly as he climbed on. I gave him a moment to settle before turning back around.

He lay with his head in the cradle, arms relaxed at his sides, legs slightly apart. The towel sat across his lower back, just barely covering him. And underneath it, all of him was… right there. Kyle Reynolds. Naked but not vulnerable. Just solid and relaxed and unbelievably golden.

His back looked sculpted wide across the shoulders, narrowing to a lean waist. The muscles along his spine flexed slightly with every breath. There was a faint tan line below his shoulder blades, the kind that comes from too many hours in the sun. A few freckles, a small scar near one shoulder, like a slice that had healed clean.

“You good?” I asked, voice a little lower than I meant.

“Yeah,” he said into the headrest. “Just sore.”

I moved closer, let my hands hover above him for a second, then pressed gently into his upper back. His skin was warm under my palms, his muscles tight but responsive.

Kyle made a low sound in his throat, not quite a groan, but close.

“Jesus,” he mumbled. “That’s insane.”

I smiled faintly. “Told you. Magic hands.”

As I worked deeper into his shoulders, he shifted a little, just a quick adjustment of his hips. Nothing overt, but I noticed. His breath hitched, only slightly, when I pressed lower into the curve of his back.

I focused on the rhythm. Long, slow strokes down his spine, circling over tight spots near the base. His body responded with subtle, involuntary movements. Each time I passed over the same knot, his body eased a little more.

“God,” he muttered again. “That’s... really good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I just didn’t think—” He stopped. “I don’t know. You’re good.”

I didn’t say anything. I just kept working, hands moving with steady pressure. I traced the edge of his lat, followed the curve of his lower back just until the towel stopped me. His skin was flawless, save for a slight pink flush from the heat.

Time blurred a little. I could feel his breath slow, could see the way his body finally started to relax, like he’d let something go. The room was quiet except for the low music and the faint rustle of linen when he shifted.

Eventually, the timer beeped.

“All done,” I said, stepping back.

Kyle stayed still for a moment. Then he sat up slowly, dragging the towel with him to cover his lap. His hair was messier now, sticking up in soft waves, and his eyes looked hazy, unfocused.

I handed him a bottle of water. “Hydrate. You’ll probably feel sore again later tonight, but it’ll pass.”

He took the bottle and nodded. “Seriously, though. You’ve got like... magic fingers or something.”

“I’ve been saying.”

He pulled on his shorts in a slightly awkward way, never letting the towel slip from in front of his lap. Not until the waistband was up and he’d adjusted himself again. Then he slung his hoodie over his arm, casual like nothing had happened. As he turned to leave, he paused at the door.

“I’ll, uh... see you around?”

I nodded. “If you get sore again.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something else, but he just gave me a look I couldn’t read and walked out. The bell chimed softly as the door closed.

I stood there for a while after he left, the soft chime of the door still echoing in the back of my head. The room felt warmer than before.

I gathered the towel from the table, folding it in on itself like always before carrying it to the back. I should have just thrown it in the laundry bin, but instead, I stood there with it in my hands a second longer than necessary.

On instinct, or maybe just curiosity, I brought it close and took a quiet breath.

It smelled faintly of eucalyptus oil, warm skin, and something else, something intoxicating. Clean sweat and summer grass.

I shoved it into the washer and shut the lid, I don’t wanna be weird about this.

Only when I turned to leave did I notice the tightness in my pants.

I adjusted quickly and walked back out, pretending nothing had happened.

But the thought lingered.

Would he come back?