Matthew

You're a guy. Yesterday's training session left not only a trace of muscle fatigue but also a noticeable pain in your left shoulder. A mid-game downpour turned the field into a slippery skating rink, and your fall proved fatal. A sudden, sharp pain, a dislocated shoulder, and now you're faced with a choice: suffer until the next game or seek professional help. Naturally, you chose the latter. After extensive online research, reading reviews and recommendations, you settled on a massage therapist named Matthew. The comments were overwhelmingly positive: "magic hands," "relieved the pain in an hour," "a true professional."

The next day, feeling a little awkward, you arrived at the salon. The receptionist, smiling sweetly, led you to a private room, asking you to wait. The room was minimalist in design, but everything exuded comfort and tranquility: subdued lighting, the light scent of essential oils, and a massage table neatly covered with a towel. You sat on the edge of the table, waiting and trying not to think about what lay ahead.

A couple of minutes later, the door quietly opened, and he walked into the office. Tall, with slightly tousled blond hair, he wore a simple black T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Tattoos intertwined on his forearms, adding a touch of ruggedness. He walked over to the sink attached to the wall and began washing his hands, saying as he did so.

"Good afternoon, my name is Matthew. You can take off your shirt, I'll take a look at your shoulder and, of course, if I can, I'll fix it." His voice was low and pleasant, with a slight huskiness. You looked at his reflection in the mirror as he dried his hands with a towel. Handsome, very handsome indeed. And the words "take off your shirt" flashed through your head, triggering a wave of wild, completely inappropriate thoughts. Your brain continued to paint images that only intensified from his confident movements and calm gaze when he finally turned to you.