Chapter 11
11
CHUCK
Alright, yoga. How hard can it be, right? I mean, I'm a professional athlete. I've been body-checked by guys the size of small SUVs. I've skated so hard my legs felt like they were on fire. Surely a bit of stretching and deep breathing is going to be a walk in the park.
Spoiler alert—I am an idiot.
I saunter into the yoga pavilion, all confidence and swagger. The place is already half-full of lithe, tanned bodies in various states of stretch. I unroll my mat – a garishly orange thing the resort provides that screams ‘YOGA VIRGIN’ louder than my lost expression does.
"First time?" a voice to my left asks. I turn to see a woman who looks like she was sculpted by Michelangelo himself, if Michelangelo was into ab definition. And women.
"That obvious, huh?" I flash her my best media-friendly grin.
She smiles back, and I swear I hear angels sing. "Don't worry, we were all beginners once. Just... maybe stay in the back for this class. It can get a bit intense."
Intense? Please. I eat intense for breakfast.
The instructor walks in, a guy who looks like he's made entirely of lean muscle and mindfulness vibes. "Welcome, beautiful souls," he says in a voice smoother than top-shelf whiskey. "Let's begin our practice with sun salutations."
Sun salutations. Sounds pleasant enough. Like maybe we're going to wave at the sky or something.
It’s then that reality hits. Sun salutations, it turns out, are a rapid-fire series of poses that make my standard pregame warm-up look like a leisurely stroll. We're flowing from standing to plank to something called ‘chaturanga,’ which I'm pretty sure is Sanskrit for ‘push-up from hell,’ and back up again.
Five minutes in, and I'm sweating like I've just played a triple overtime. My arms are shaking, my legs feel like jelly, and we haven't even gotten to the ‘real’ poses yet. I glance around, hoping to see fellow sufferers, but everyone else seems to be flowing through the movements with the grace of a swan. Meanwhile, I'm flopping around like a fish out of water.
"Now, let's move into Warrior Two," Master Flex announces.
I glance around, trying to mimic the pose everyone else seems to know by heart. It's like a game of Twister, only instead of colored dots, you're trying to touch your own personal version of hell. I've got one leg bent, the other straight behind me, and my arms are... somewhere. Probably not where they're supposed to be, judging from the looks I'm getting.
"Chuck," the instructor calls, and after I wonder for a moment how he knows my name, I have hope. Maybe he's going to tell me I'm a natural, that I should quit hockey and become a yogi. "Your back leg should be straight, and your arms parallel to the ground."
Nope. No praise. Just pointing out how badly I'm screwing up. Fantastic.
As I attempt to adjust myself, I can't help but notice the women surrounding me. Sure, there are a few guys scattered about, but they are in the minority. And damn, these ladies are in good shape. There's one in front of me who's holding the pose like she was born in it, her legs toned and... wait, focus, Newcomb . You're here to find your inner something-or-other, not to ogle your classmates.
"Now let's flow into a vinyasa," the instructor says, and I swear I hear a collective groan from the class. That can't be good.
Turns out, a vinyasa is yoga-speak for ‘let's see how many times we can make Chuck faceplant into his mat.’ I follow the leader and end up moving from high plank to low plank to upward dog to downward dog, and the sweat pouring off me creates a huge, wet puddle on my mat.
"Remember to breathe," the instructor calls out, floating around the room like some kind of yoga pixie. Breathe? I'm lucky I'm still conscious.
We move into something called ‘Chair Pose,’ which is basically just squatting with your arms in the air. Easy, right? Wrong. We're holding it. And holding it. And holding it some more. My thighs are on fire, my arms feel like lead, and I'm pretty sure I'm sweating from places I didn't even know could sweat.
"Now for a balance pose," the instructor says, and I have to stifle a groan. Balance? At this point, I'll be lucky if I can stand without toppling over.
He demonstrates ‘tree pose,’ standing on one leg with the other foot pressed against his inner thigh, arms raised overhead. It looks simple enough. I've got balance, right? I mean, I skate on knife-thin blades for a living.
I lift my right foot, trying to place it against my left thigh. It will only go as far as my calf, but so far, so good. I start to raise my arms, and... nope. I'm wobbling like a rookie on his first skates. I hop around on one foot, arms windmilling wildly, before saving myself by putting my other foot down on the ground, where it belongs and where it should probably stay.
The woman next to me stifles a giggle. "You okay there, big guy?"
I flash her a grin, trying to salvage what's left of my dignity. "Just testing the durability of the mat. Seems pretty sturdy."
By the time we finally—FINALLY—make it to the end, I'm a quivering mess of jelly limbs, bruised ego, and humble pie. We're supposed to be in something called ‘savasana,’ which as far as I can tell means ‘lie on your back and contemplate your life choices.’ Trust me, I'm doing plenty of that.
As I lie there, eyes closed, I can't help but marvel at how thoroughly this yoga class has kicked my ass. I've been through grueling practices, brutal games, punishing workouts. But this? Forward bends? If I were made to bend over and touch my toes, never mind the floor beneath, I would have been given much longer arms. As it is, my hamstrings are screaming for mercy and I’m not even moving. This is a whole new level of physical torture. And the craziest part? A tiny voice in the back of my mind is already wondering when the next class is.
When the instructor finally releases us with a soft ‘namaste,’ I peel myself off my mat, feeling like I've aged fifty years in the span of an hour. I gather my things, including what's left of my dignity, and shuffle out of the pavilion.
As I drag myself back to my bungalow, I'm pretty sure I've discovered a couple new muscles I never knew existed. They're all screaming at me like I did them wrong and now they’re out to make me pay.
So much for "how hard can it be?"
I fumble with my key, finally managing to stagger into my room. God, I need a shower. Maybe ten showers. And possibly a new body.
I start peeling off my sweat-soaked clothes, wincing as I lift my arms over my head. Note to self—maybe don't sit in the back next time. Turns out, you can't see what the hell you're supposed to be doing because you’re upside down most of the time. You end up looking like a drunk octopus trying to untangle itself.
I'm down to my boxer briefs, contemplating if I have the energy to actually make it to the shower. I no doubt stink to high heaven, but the thought of even turning the water on sounds painful.
That’s when I hear a click, and my door swings open.
Jesus, they usually knock before they come in for turn down service.
I turn, thinking once housekeeping sees me in my skivvies, they won’t ever walk in again without knocking first.
But it’s not housekeeping.
It’s a certain redheaded, younger sister of one of my teammate buddies.
What. The. Fuck.
Ruby Brooks, my teammate's little sister. Ruby Brooks, the bookworm who always looks at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe. Ruby Brooks, who is currently gaping at me with an expression that's equal parts horror and... something else I can't quite identify.
I just know it’s not good.
For a second, we stare at each other, frozen in what has to be the most awkward tableau in the history of awkward tableaus, like something out of one of those Lifetime movies my mother loves so much. I'm suddenly acutely aware of every bead of sweat on my body, every ache in my muscles, and the fact that I'm standing here in nothing but clingy, sweat-soaked boxer briefs.
Am I surprised to see Ruby? On one hand, I guess not. After all, it was her brother who told me she was coming here. But to have her barge into my room?
If that’s a coincidence, it’s a pretty fucking weird one.
Maybe the team is punking me. Yeah, that’s got to be it.
So I decide to play along and do the only thing I can think of.
I strike a pose.
"Well, well, well," I drawl, leaning against the bedpost in what I hope is a casual, sexy manner, and not a 'holy crap my muscles are on fire' manner. "If it isn't Ruby Brooks come to see the gun show!"
The guys might think they’re pulling one over on me, but I’ll show them I can’t be rattled. They’ve been hazing me since I joined the Aftershocks. It took me some time to get used to their antics, but these days I’m ready for whatever they throw my way.
Not surprisingly, Ruby’s face swivels through about fifteen different contortions in as many seconds, finally settling on a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. The guys briefed her well.
"I... this isn't... oh, God," she stumbles.
She’s good. Very good.
She's clutching a book to her chest like a shield, her knuckles white. Her eyes, which I've always thought were annoyingly pretty, are wide with shock. And is that a blush creeping up her cheeks?
"You know," I continue, because apparently my mouth has a death wish, "if you wanted to see me naked, you could have just asked. No need for the whole breaking and entering routine."
Take that, you fuckers.
Ruby snaps out of her fake-daze. Her eyes narrow with that familiar look of disdain settling over her features, the one I’ve been on the receiving end of one time too many. "What are you doing here? What are you doing in my room?”
I pick up the packet of materials they handed me when I arrived. “Same thing as you, I’m pretty sure.”
She looks from the packet, back to me, then at the one in her own hand.
Hell, I almost wish I were filming this, she’s so on point.
She clears her throat. “In your dreams, Newcomb. This is clearly a mistake. I must have the wrong room," she says indignantly. “Or you do.”
"No, you are in the wrong room," I agree, not moving from my pose.
“Don’t think so,” she snaps, dangling a key from her hand. “Why would the front desk have given me a key to this room, if it wasn’t my room?”
She rolls her eyes so hard I'm worried they’ll get stuck. "Trust me, if I had known you were here, I would have booked a different week at a different resort. On a different continent."
"Ouch," I clutch my chest in mock pain. "You wound me, Brooks. And here I thought we were finally bonding."
Ruby's gaze flickers over me once more, and I swear I see something other than disgust in her eyes. But it's gone so quickly, I figure I imagined it.
“Why are you even here? I saw you get into a fancy limo back at the airport,” she snaps.
Huh?
“You saw me? You were spying on me? Damn, Brooks. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but that is stalking behavior?—”
“I… it’s not like that. I saw you… from a distance… when I was boarding my bus.”
“What bus?” I ask.
“The bus that transports people from the airport, here.”
I shrug. “Didn’t even know there was a bus. My agent set up the limo so I could travel in style.”
“Of course,” she mutters. “Too good to take a damn bus.”
“Now wait a minute—” I start to say.
But she crosses her arms and looks to the other side of the room. “Could you please put some clothes on?”
I look down at myself. “I have clothes on.”
"Okay, okay. I’m done with these games. I'm leaving now," she announces, her voice slightly higher than usual. "And we will never speak of this again. Ever."
And with that, she slams the door shut, leaving me alone again.
But I hustle to pull the it back open and call after her. “Yo, Ruby Brooks, you can cut the joke. I know the guys put you up to this. Good try though.”
I shut the door and collapse onto the bed, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep in my aching abs.
Of all the people to be recruited for a practical joke and walk in on me half-naked and yoga-destroyed, it had to be her. The universe, as well as my teammates, it seems, both have a twisted sense of humor.
I head to the shower when there’s a knock on my door. Maybe this is housekeeping. I gather my dirty laundry to hand over.
But it’s Ruby. Again.
“What do you mean joke? And the guys?” she asks, scowling.
I throw my head back and laugh. “They put you up to this, right? Showing up here, in my room? They’re such morons, thinking they can pull one over on me. Jesus.”
I shake my head.
“The guys… you mean the team?” she asks, puzzled.
“Yeah. Who else?”
“They… had nothing to do with this. There’s no joke being played. This is a real-life clusterfuck, our being here at the same time and being assigned to the same room.”
I look at her for a moment, dirty laundry still in my arms.
No way. Those douches aren’t behind this?
I’ll be damned.
“I’m going back to the front desk for my own room and do not plan on setting my gaze on you again this week. If it can be helped.” She scowls at me and with a huff, turns to drag her luggage back to where she started from. I watch her bump down the walk way, not entirely convinced someone isn’t playing a joke on me.
Whatever.
As I finally drag myself to the shower, I can't help but grin. Maybe this retreat won't be so boring after all. After all, nothing spices up a wellness journey like a little mortification and the glare of someone who hates your fucking guts.
And Ruby Brooks? She might think she's immune to my charms, but I saw that blush. This week just got a whole lot more interesting.
Bring it on, Pura Vida. Chuck Newcomb is ready for whatever you've got. After a nap and some ice packs.