Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
TANK
W hen I wake up the next morning, I experience something I haven’t in a long time. I am…relaxed. Not completely—that’s a foreign concept at this point in my life—but there’s a noticeable difference in how my muscles feel, especially across my chest.
They’re more pliable, open.
It’s even easier to breathe.
I pull in a deeper breath, enjoying the odd sense of ease.
Even my bum shoulder has more mobility than usual. I’m sore, but when I give the joint an experimental roll, the sharp pain from yesterday is gone.
Looks like that yoga class was exactly what I needed, as much as my inner stubborn cuss wanted to deny it.
And Stephanie?
She’s not a spacy hippie at all. She’s smart, intense, with an impressive knowledge of human physiology and a gentle, but commanding teaching style that brought out the best in every member of her class. Even me, a man who rolled into her studio with an attitude that was dubious, at best.
I really didn’t expect to enjoy the class so much.
I also didn’t expect to enjoy the feel of her hand on my shoulder. Or to find myself lingering after class to pet her fucking dog. Or to have every protective instinct in my body go on high alert when her piece of shit ex popped up uninvited, starting personal drama in her place of business.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “Don’t even think about it, dumbass.”
I can’t develop a crush on Shane’s friend. I don’t have time for a crush, especially not on a woman I’m going to keep running into for the foreseeable future. My relationships only end one way—badly—and I want to keep the stress levels low among the few people I consider good friends.
I learned what happens when you mix love and friendship the hard way.
The hardest way…
My best friend Yoda did right by my sister, Betsy. He loved her with every piece of his big, sweet soul, but when Betsy died in that car crash, our friendship died with her. We still talk, we still care about each other, but our relationship has never been the same. Betsy’s ghost is always there between us, reminding us of what we’ve lost, tainting even good times with tragedy. The days when we’d swing by each other’s houses every weekend to shoot hoops or watch hockey or drink beer and play around with Yoda’s paints are long gone. We see each other maybe two or three times a year now, if we’re lucky.
I don’t need any more friendships like that, and I definitely don’t need romantic complications fucking with my focus a few weeks before training camp starts.
After all, I’ve proven I’m even worse at love than I am at staying on the straight and narrow. The only woman I’ve ever loved is currently in prison, at least partially thanks to my selfish ass. If I hadn’t ended things, if I hadn’t run from everything I felt for Michelle, if I hadn’t come back to make things right a little too late, both our lives might have been so different.
But I don’t think about things like that anymore.
Life is what it is, and I just have to make the best of it.
I throw back the covers and head for the shower, setting it to cold. I focus on clearing my head, banishing thoughts of Stephanie’s big, soft eyes, the graceful way she moves, the mixture of gentleness and confidence in her touch. I refuse to think about how good she smelled—even after an hour-long yoga class—or her diabolically cute smile, or the fact that even the sight of her bare feet was enough to send impure thoughts racing through my head.
I’m not some weirdo with a fetish. I’ve never had a single erotic thought about a woman’s nicely even toes or the elegant arch of her foot.
Until last night…
I crank the water temperature even lower, the better to convince little Tank that getting a hard-on for our yoga teacher is a bad idea.
I’m focused on making one hell of an NHL comeback, not hooking up.
Especially not with a woman who seems to have a thing for yuppie dude bros. Drake looked exactly like the kind of pretentious, poser prick who makes downtown Portland a stupid place to be on the weekend. Every Saturday, these “cool guys” flood downtown, laughing too loud over forty-dollar martinis, bobbing their heads to garbage indie rock, and bitching about the homeless ruining the view from their condo.
I can’t imagine what an intelligent, self-respecting woman like Stephanie had in common with that human chode.
But it’s not any of my business who she dates.
I’m not going to think about it.
Not for one more fucking second.
“Focus, LiBassi,” I mutter, stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around my waist. “Eyes on the prize.”
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. It’s Stone.
Good.
I clearly need a reminder not to shit where I eat. He knows Stephanie, too, after all. And he’ll be there beside me in her classes once practice starts.
From the texts of Tank LiBassi
and Tyler Stone
Stone: Hey, so if you hear anything about me being an asshole to the kids yesterday at camp, it’s not true. It was tough love, but it was love, I swear. I just refuse to tolerate players on their phones while I’m trying to share my hard-earned knowledge.
Tank: I don’t blame you. I crack that whip, too, man. I see a phone out and that player’s on the bench for five minutes.
Stone: Oh good! Coach Swindle was looking at me like I was some kind of bully bent on child abuse.
Tank: Nah. That’s just his face. You’re fine. Are you still good to take next Friday, too? Or do you want me to add that back to my schedule?
Stone: Nah, I’m good. I won’t stress now that I know Swindle doesn’t have it out for me.
Tank: Cool, then I’ll sign up for the Friday afternoon yoga class again. Last night’s class was good.
Stone: No way, you went? Already?
Tank: Yeah. Doctor’s orders.
Stone: I know, but I expected you to put it off and grouch about it more. How was it? Torture?
Tank: No, it was good. I actually feel better already. My shoulder is looser this morning than it’s been in a while.
Stone: Sweet! That’s solid, man. Have you considered trying the hot yoga? It’s supposed to be great for flexibility and detoxing or whatever, but I almost passed out the one time I tried it.
Me: Wimp.
Stone: Yep. I’m a delicate flower. Speaking of flowers, I gotta run. I’m taking a floral arranging class before brunch with some old friends.
Me: Are you a geriatric gay man?
Stone: *smiley face emoji* Yes. And loving it. Life is so much more peaceful now that I’ve sworn off dating. I think I might get a dog and an elaborate gaming set-up and settle into singledom forever.
Me: Sounds like the life.
Stone: Right? Who needs emotional connection or human touch? Have a good weekend and catch you later.
I like his last message and toss the phone on my bed before pulling on a pair of worn jeans. It’s Saturday, so I have the entire morning free before my private coaching sessions this afternoon. I should probably use the time to catch up on the cardio I didn’t get at yoga class last night, or maybe hit the ice for some extra conditioning.
Instead, I find myself staring at the business card on my dresser.
Love Lotus Yoga Studio
…it reads in simple, elegant type below an illustration of a peach lotus flower. And below that?—
Stephanie Love:
Owner, Yogi, Proud Ally to the Light
It reminds me of what her asshole ex said about her—something about being a “proud black queen,” that was too patronizing for words. His tone put my teeth on edge, like he was using her race as a prop for his ego or something.
I’ve dated black and Latina women before, and the most important thing I learned from those experiences was to keep my mouth shut about things I can never understand. As a white man, the only thing I know for sure about being a woman is that just existing in a female body is way harder than anything I have to deal with on a daily basis. That’s doubly true for women of color.
I clocked that real quick with my Latina girlfriend in high school. I wised up and learned it wasn’t my place to offer an opinion on her race or culture, unless formally invited to do so.
Besides, Stephanie is Stephanie . She’s a unique person outside of any cultural identity, and clearly a proud hippie yoga nerd as much as anything else.
I flip the card over to find a class schedule on the back.
Huh. Looks like she has a slow flow class on Saturdays at 11:30…
I look at the clock by my bed, then instantly look away.
So, it’s only 9:00. So what? I’m not going to yoga again. Two days in a row is too much too soon. Worse, after the things I said last night, it might look…thirsty.
I really should have kept the “beautiful” comment to myself.
Besides, spacing my two classes a week out a little more makes sense from a conditioning point of view.
As I’m putting the card back down, I catch sight of the borrowed yoga pants I tossed over my desk chair last night. I did say that I’d wash them and bring them back to the studio. Maybe I shouldn’t wait on that.
After all, what if another guy my size needs a pair of loaner pants to keep from flashing his balls in his downward dog? No one wants to see hairy balls while they’re trying to Zen out. Balls are the opposite of Zen.
“This is a bad idea,” I tell myself even as I gather the pants and head to my small laundry room. “Bad and thirsty.”
Yet, come 11:10 a.m., I find myself pulling up to Love Lotus on my Harley, freshly washed yoga pants in my backpack. But that’s fine. I’ll just drop them off, make sure that the Tuesday “Yin Flow” evening class would be a good fit for a beginner, and leave.
In and out. No big deal.
The moment I push open the door, I’m hit with the low, rhythmic beat of drum music and the soft scent of eucalyptus. The lobby is empty, but I can hear Stephanie’s voice coming from the studio, guiding students through what sounds like a series of rapid movements.
Guess the 10:15 class isn’t out yet.
I hesitate, but decide to wait. I could just leave the pants at the desk with a note, but something compels me to stay. I tell myself that I just need to ask about that “Yin” class, but that’s one of the problems with lying to yourself—deep down you always know when you’re full of shit.
“Hey there! Back again already, are ya?” a creaky voice asks from behind me.
I turn to find an elderly man in bike shorts and a Portland Trailblazers t-shirt smiling at me. He’s at least eighty, with surprisingly muscular forearms and the kind of tan that comes from decades outdoors.
“Pete,” he says, extending a gnarled hand. “You were in yesterday’s beginner class. You’re an athlete, right? Gotta be with a build like that.”
“Tank,” I reply, shaking his hand. “Yeah, I’m a hockey player. Going to be playing for the Badgers this year.”
“Ah, a hockey man! I was a goalie myself, back in the 60s. Nothing professional, just local leagues.” He gestures to his leg. “Until this old thing gave out. Torn ACL, never healed right. Back then they didn’t have the surgeries they do now.”
I smile. “I’m a goaltender, too.”
“Best twenty-three years of my life,” he says proudly. “I was never as good as you NHL boys, but I held my own.” He hesitates, his eyes narrowing on my face. “Now that you mention the NHL, you do look familiar. Did you play for Seattle by any chance? Few years back?”
I blink, surprised. I was never a particularly popular player, certainly not the kind that got interviewed after the games or anything like that. “Yeah, I did. Good memory.”
Pete taps his temple with a weathered finger. “Still got most of my marbles, son. And I always keep track of the west coast teams. My wife used to complain about my sports habit.” His smile grew wistful. “But she liked watching, too. Especially hockey.” He winked before adding, “She thought you guys were the cutest ones.”
Before I can respond, the studio door opens and people begin to file out, their bodies glistening with sweat, expressions a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. As the last student leaves, Stephanie appears in the doorway, her braids pulled back in a high ponytail, wearing skin-tight purple leggings and a cropped black tank top that shows off its fair share of glistening skin.
She spots me and her eyes widen slightly before her lips curve into that same warm, slightly teasing smile from yesterday. “Well, Tank, this is a surprise. Back for more so soon?”
I hold up my backpack. “No, just came to return your pants.”
“Oh, well, thank you. But you didn’t have to rush,” she says, moving toward me. I catch the light scent of something floral mingled with a hint of sweat and have to fight the urge to lean in and inhale. “We have plenty of spare clothes hanging around.”
Pete clears his throat beside me. “Well, I’m back for more, Stephanie. And I think we should convince this big guy to stay, too. That way I won’t be the only dude in slow flow again.”
She laughs, a bright, unrestrained sound. “Aw, Pete, but you’re our favorite dude. And I think Steven is coming today, too.” She glances back at me, a sparkle in her eyes that a weak part of me likes way too much. “I think Tank should give himself at least a day to heal before he comes back to class. Don’t want to go too hard too soon.”
Oh, but I want to go hard.
Real hard.
Too bad that has more to do with Stephanie’s tight little body than a newfound love for yoga.
“All right, all right,” Pete says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Catch you later, Tank. Hope to see you in class again next week.”
Once he’s gone, Stephanie turns back to me with an expectant look I don’t understand until she smiles and says, “The pants? Did you want me to take them?”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” I wince, feeling more awkward than I have in a long time. I pull the pants from my backpack and hand them over. “Clean. Even used a drier sheet instead of those static ball things I usually use.”
“Hot,” she teases.
You have no idea , I think. Aloud, I say, “Just the bare minimum. Nothing more.”
“Speaking of the bare minimum,” she says. “You were right. About my ex. I didn’t call him last night. I blocked his number, actually. Thanks for the wake-up call. Sometimes, seeing our situation reflected through a fresh pair of eyes can be really useful.”
“Glad I could help,” I say, unreasonably pleased to hear that Drake the dumbass won’t be bothering her anymore. “And thanks again for the class. I could feel a real difference this morning. I think this might be what I needed to loosen up before training camp.”
She brightened. “That’s awesome! I’ll be at camp, too. I’m teaching a recovery class every other afternoon, so I’ll see you around.” She gives my bicep a friendly nudge that makes me way too aware of how soft her skin feels against my arm. “You’ll be an old yoga pro by then.”
I grunt, then immediately regret it when she laughs. “I can make other sounds,” I offer in my defense.
Her grin only widens as she murmurs, “But why would you want to when you have such a wide variety of grunts on lock? That was your doubtful grunt, but no need for doubt. You’re going to be great. You were already doing really well last night, and it was only your first class.” She shrugs before adding, “Though I could always fit you in for a private session sometime if you’d like. Give you some one-on-one tips to help you feel more comfortable in the group class.”
I shouldn’t. I really. Should. Not.
Instead, I hear myself saying, “How much?”
“First one’s on the house,” she says with a breezy wave of her hand. “I like people to know what they’re getting into before they commit to an hour alone with me in my torture chamber.”
Alone.
That sounds way too good.
Hell, even the torture chamber part sounds okay.
But then, I’ve always enjoyed a little pain with my pleasure…
Stop. Bad thoughts. Bad , I admonish myself as I assure her, “You don’t have to do that. I’m happy to pay. You deserve to be paid for your time.”
“Like I deserve to have my boundaries honored?” she echoes my words from yesterday, but softly, ensuring none of the other students gathering their things from the cubbies can hear. “That was a nice thing to hear from a cranky alpha male type. I didn’t know if you guys had heard about boundaries yet.”
I grunt, then do something even more unexpected than booking a private yoga class.
I laugh. I laugh out fucking loud at the fact that I grunted again in front of this woman. Worse, she laughs with me, and suddenly it’s way too easy to imagine laughing with her over dinner. Or a walk on the beach.
Or in my bed after I’ve made her come so many times that we’re too tired to fuck anymore.
I’m in dangerous territory, but still, private lessons might actually do me good. I’ll be able to follow along a lot better in class if I already know what to do in each of the poses.
And if a group session is good for my bum body parts, a private one should be even better.
“Okay,” I say. “First one on the house, then I pay you.”
Her smile widens. “Perfect. How about later this afternoon? I’m free after two p.m. We can take it easy since you already practiced last night. Concentrate on form over repetition.”
“I could do four,” I say. “I have private coaching clients from noon to three, and it’ll take some time to get changed and back to the studio.”
“Four is perfect,” she says, beaming up at me. “Though we’ll have to pause and feed Mr. Sniffles at four thirty. He enjoys an early dinner now that he’s reached his old age.”
“Me, too,” Pete calls out from near the studio door, where he’s chatting up a middle-aged woman.
Stephanie laughs. “Quit eavesdropping, Pete.”
“I can’t help it,” the old man says with a shameless grin. “It’s the hearing aids. They’re diabolical at this point. I’m practically a super hero.”
“Then get your booty to the mat and get ready to make a super effort,” Stephanie says, raising her voice as she moves toward the studio doors. “We’re going to work on crow pose today so grab a blanket if you’re worried about falling forward.” She lifts a hand my way and mouths, “See you later.”
I nod and head for the exit.
Outside, I pull in a breath of air that doesn’t smell like eucalyptus or Stephanie, reminding myself that yoga is a way to help my blood pressure and my shoulder. That’s it. This is about making the most of my comeback to the NHL, not about how much I enjoy Stephanie’s smile or her playful teasing or the fact that her voice sounds like warm honey when she’s leading a class.
This is just physical therapy, by another name.
As I walk to the coffee shop down the block to grab an espresso before heading to the rink, I ignore the voice in my head pointing out that I’ve turned down plenty of physical therapy sessions with professionals who weren’t smoking hot women with an electric touch I secretly can’t wait to feel pressed between my shoulders again.
“Eyes on the prize, LiBassi,” I mutter as I pay for my shot, ignoring the barista’s curious look. “Eyes on the damn prize.”
I swig down my espresso with brisk efficiency, determined to demand the same of the rest of my Saturday.
I will be brisk. Efficient.
I will not dwell on how easy it is to be with Stephanie Love or admit to myself that I haven’t been this excited about a date that isn’t a date in a damned long time.