Chapter 5 Harris
Harris
If you told me a few days ago that I’d be doing yoga every morning on a dock surrounded by people who actually know what they’re doing, I would’ve laughed in your face.
But it’s not about yoga.
And it’s not about the view. I mean, it is—if by view you mean Lucy’s ass in her tight-fitting leggings and cropped top. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the only reason I dragged my sorry self out of bed at six a.m.
Sunlight spills over the lake, catching in her hair and glinting off the water like something out of a painting. And me?
I’m sprawled on this yoga mat on the expansive wooden dock, trying not to groan every time my hamstrings protest.
I’ve done two-a-day football practices. I’ve pushed through weight room circuits that left me seeing stars. Hell—I’ve been tackled by grown men charging full speed at me.
But none of that prepares you for downward dog.
Lucy’s voice flows over the group of us—a mix of my football teammates and regulars from town—like the morning breeze, soft and soothing. Sexy, if I’m being honest . . . “Breathe into the stretch. Focus on your inhale . . . deep breath in . . . and exhale . . .”
Her words make the poses sound easy; as if my body wasn’t on fucking fire right now and my joints weren’t actively protesting against my life choices. Around me, everyone moves like they’re made of elastic, flowing into their poses effortlessly.
It’s like I stumbled into a synchronized-yoga cult by accident.
The fuck?
Here I am, trembling—losing my goddamn balance even though both my feet are firmly planted on the ground.
“Remember to breathe,” Lucy softly says, her gaze briefly flicking my way as if sensing struggle. “In through your nose . . . out through your mouth.”
I’m breathing, all right.
I’m winded.
She gives the class the command to shift into something called warrior two, and I’m positive this is where I die.
My legs burn as I try to bend my front knee.
My arms are stretched out to the sides, wobbling like I’m holding invisible dumbbells.
Everyone else looks strong and poised, like statues.
I look like I’m about to collapse into the lake.
Honestly, I wish I would.
It looks so refreshing . . .
Sneaking another glance at her perched serenely at the front of the dock, I can’t help but think Lucy looks perfect.
Calm. Steady. Arms in a clean line, her gaze is focused on some invisible horizon.
Meanwhile, my arms are shaking like I’m bench-pressing a bus, and I can feel sweat dripping down my back, into my ass crack.
“Keep your breath steady,” she instructs. “Feel the strength in your stance.”
There’s no strength here.
Only suffering.
My back leg twitches, and I stumble, waving my arms wildly to save myself from toppling sideways. I manage to stay upright—barely—but the mat lets out a loud squeak under my foot that echoes across the dock.
Lucy’s gaze snaps to me, her lips twitching like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Doing okay back there?” she calls out quietly, walking toward me like a teacher about to check my work. She stands next to me; her presence makes everything worse—not because she’s intimidating, but because now I feel like I’m performing.
And doing a shitty job.
Stopping short of my mat, arms crossed, she stares down to where I’m doing what can only be described as an interpretive version of warrior two or whatever it’s called.
“I’m fine,” I lie, wobbling so hard that I look like my wheels are about to fly off. “This is part of my process.”
“Your process?” Her brow lifts.
I nod solemnly, front leg starting to shake like I’m holding up the weight of the entire dock.
Water.
I need water . . .
“Yeah. I call it warrior one point five. It’s an advanced technique, so you probably haven’t heard of it.”
“You’re an advanced disaster,” Elijah chimes in from his mat two spots over, grinning ear to ear. “Kick him out of class, Lucy!”
“She can’t kick me out. I’m her favorite student,” I shoot back, smirking up at her. Flirting.
Hot for teacher, ha ha.
I glance up in time to see her eyebrows lift, a slow, deliberate challenge in her expression.
Her favorite?
“Oh, really?” she says, her voice calm and controlled and professional—not flirty in the least. “If you’re my favorite, then you’re who I choose to demonstrate warrior three for the class.”
The blood drains from my face. “Say what now?”
Next to me, Elijah hoots. “Yes! Show us!”
“Warrior three,” Lucy repeats with a nod. She ignores Elijah and fixes her attention on me. “It’s a balancing pose. You’ll love it. Hands forward, one leg back. Like you’re flying.”
Flying? We’ve already established I can barely stand.
I glance at my buddies for backup, but they are absolutely no help. This was supposed to be relaxing. I was supposed to be ogling her ti—
“This is only a forty-minute class—hurry it along.” She stands back waiting; now the entire dock is watching me like I’m about to perform solo in the Super Bowl.
“Are you always this bossy?”
“Yes.” She chuckles. “Quit stalling.”
“Fine,” I grumble, straightening up and shaking out my arms like a boxer stepping into the ring. “Watch and learn, people.”
I hinge forward, lifting my arms out in front of me. I’m sure I look elegant—graceful, even. Like a damn swan. Lift my back leg carefully, feeling the dock creak beneath me. The wood feels suspiciously wobbly all of a sudden, but I focus.
This is warrior three.
I am the warrior!
Until my front foot starts shaking, the weight pulling at my hamstring, and my arms are stretched so far they might dislocate. My back leg wobbles dangerously, and I’m basically a human seesaw.
“Would you like some help?” Instead of waiting for my reply, she gently nudges my back arm upward. “Your arms need to be in line. Not drooping like you’re holding up bags of concrete.”
“Is that what it looks like?” I glance over at Elijah for an answer.
Quinton—who is also on the dock but not doing yoga—has his phone out, angling it like he’s preparing to film my impending disaster. Traitor.
Lucy ignores the other guys, shifting her focus to my front knee. “That’s okay, you’re here to learn. Try to center your weight.” She presses a hand lightly to my back to adjust my posture, and I freeze.
I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“You got this,” Lucy says, but there’s laughter in her voice now.
I don’t. I absolutely do not got this.
My back foot swerves, throwing my whole center of gravity off, and in slow motion—like a movie car crash—I flail. “Whoa, whoa—”
It’s no use. My arms windmill, my mat skids out from under me, and I stumble sideways with all the grace of a drunk giraffe. I try to recover, feet scrambling against the dock, but physics has other plans.
Splash!
I can’t see the bottom, and the water is so fucking cold. Bone-chilling, breath-stealing cold.
For a second, all I hear is the dull roar of the lake in my ears as I sink beneath the surface. When I come up for air, gasping, all hell has broken loose on the dock. Elijah is doubled over, absolutely losing his shit.
Miles and Quinton are laughing so hard they look like they’re crapping themselves, and—of course—they have their phones out, recording the moment for posterity.
I glare up at them, water streaming down my face.
“Did you take my picture, you asshole?” I sputter, lake water dripping from my hair and onto my face. “Delete those.”
“Make me,” Miles chokes out between laughs.
Lucy’s at the front of the dock, hands on her hips, staring down in the water at me with wide eyes.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think y’all knew each other already.” She laughs, trying to sound concerned, but doing a miserable job at it. “But are you okay? Did you hit the dock on your way in?”
“I’m peachy,” I deadpan. “So refreshing. Highly recommend.”
I needed that, actually.
“Glad to hear it,” she says, her voice light and teasing as she steps to the edge of the dock. Her ponytail catches the breeze as she crouches down, her face coming into view above me. “Do you need a hand?”
I’m immediately suspicious. The grin is way too smug.
Cute, but smug.
“You’re not going to let go of my hand and let me fall back in the water, are you?” I narrow my eyes, her expression one of innocence.
“Would I do that?”
“Yes,” I say flatly. “I do believe you would.”
She tilts her head, pretending to look hurt and jutting out her lower lip in a pout. “Where’s the trust, Harris? You wound me.”
Still.
Because I am an idiot, I extend my hand to her anyway, freezing and soaked to the bone, eyeing Lucy’s outstretched palm. Could I easily walk back to the shore? Sure. Could one of my buddies, who outweighs her by a hundred pounds, heft me up? Totally.
I want her to do it.
Her delicate hand wraps around mine as I plant my feet against the dock, ready to pull myself up, gazing up into her pretty, angelic face.
“Pull hard,” I instruct her, hoist mode activated.
She winks.
Tugs.
My eyes land on the smooth skin of her tan arms . . .
For one glorious moment, I’m halfway out of the water.
Victory is so close.
And then . . .
She lets go.
It happens in slow motion, my grip slipping as she lets my fingers fall through hers, and I fall backward again with another loud—
Splash.
My back hits the water with a flop, and I sink like a lead weight, flailing as I disappear under the surface.
Blub, blub, blub.
I’m shocked for the second time, bubbles rising out of my nostrils before I push up and out, gasping. Toss my hair back.
Glare.
She’s doubled over now, too, her hands on her knees, laughing so hard she can barely breathe. It’s not the polite laugh she held back during class—it’s full-on, bellyaching laughter.
With the back of my hand, I splash her—and my friends, too, those dicks—spraying water as far as I can to give her a taste of her own medicine.
“The fuck?” I shout, wiping water out of my eyes so I can see. “You said I can trust you!”
“Did I?” she gulps between laughs, brushing at the corners of her eyes. “Today is not your day, I guess.”