Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
STEPHANIE
F our o’clock can’t come fast enough.
I’ve been flitting around the studio all afternoon, straightening already-straight props and lighting candles that didn’t need to be lit. Mr. Sniffles watches from his cushion with judgy eyes, silently asking where my self-respect has gone.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper, refolding the blankets for the second time. “I’m making the space nice for a new private client. It’s literally my job .”
Mr. Sniffles snorts.
“Oh hush, like you weren’t slobbering all over him after class yesterday. You were practically drooling.”
My pup cocks his head sharply to one side, clearly offended.
“Right, right, I know,” I say, returning the final blanket to the pile. “You can’t help it. You’re a pug of a certain age. Drool happens.”
He huffs, as if agreeing that it isn’t nice to judge other creatures for things they can’t control.
Which reminds me of his farting problem lately…
Should I put him in the back room to protect Tank from a potentially toxic scent event or does that look like I’m trying too hard? Like I’m angling to be alone alone with him instead of just alone in a professional way?
Mr. Sniffles makes a sound halfway between a wheeze and a whimper, begging me to spare him any further nonsense.
“Fine. I’ll stop compulsively cleaning.” I smooth my hands over my leggings. “He’ll be here soon anyway.”
As if on cue, the doorbell chimes, sending my heart into my throat.
“Okay, play it cool,” I whisper to my partner in crime, who responds by yawning and plopping his head down on his paws. “Good job, very cool.”
I take a deep breath and hurry to the studio door, which I keep locked after class and during private sessions, so I won’t have people wandering in when I’m trying to concentrate on other things. I fling it open to find Tank almost completely filling the frame, somehow looking even larger than he did this morning. He’s wearing soft black yoga pants and a tight black tee and smells faintly of cedar and something clean that makes my stomach flutter.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and rumbly. “Sorry, I’m a little early.”
“Oh, it’s fine. Perfect actually. I just finished cleaning up.” I step back, motioning him in. “And this gives us a few minutes to talk about your health history before the torture starts.”
His lips twitch. “At least it smells nice in your torture chamber. Way better than the gym I was in with my clients all afternoon.”
“Thank you, I try,” I say, locking the door behind him as he moves to slip his boots into a cubby.
Take that, Mr. Sniffles. Those candles weren’t overkill.
“So, tell me about Tank,” I say, leaning against the check-in desk. “How long have you played hockey? Do you play other sports or have physically demanding hobbies? Any injuries or chronic conditions aside from the torn rotator cuff?”
He stands quickly, his brows shooting up his forehead. “How did you know that it was a torn cuff?”
“The body never lies,” I say, tapping a finger to my cheekbone below my eye. “And I’ve been working with athletes long enough that I can usually tell what’s going on just by looking. Still, it’s good to get the whole story. So, torn rotator cuff about…three years ago?”
“Two years ago.” He rotates the shoulder in question, his forehead furrowing. “That’s the most recent one, anyway. I tore it once before, my junior year of high school. I was out for half the season, but came back strong. It’s easier when you’re younger. This time, the pain has lingered more.”
I wince sympathetically. “Ouch, yeah, that’s a lot of trauma for one shoulder. Is that why you left the NHL before?”
A shadow crosses his face, and I immediately sense that I’m treading on sensitive territory.
“You don’t have to share if that’s personal,” I assure him. “I’m only interested in your physical history, not sticking my nose into your business.”
That’s a lie, of course—the more I get to know this man, the more intrigued I am by everything about Theodore—but that’s my problem, not his.
He props his hands on his hips as he shakes his head. “No, it’s not personal. I mean, it is, but it’s also a matter of public record. A quick google search would tell you everything you ever wanted to know about my habit of fucking up opportunities other people would kill for.”
My chest tightens. “I’m not going to google you. I promise.” I wish I knew him well enough to offer him a hug. Whatever happened, it’s obvious he’s still dealing with the fallout.
And the shame.
“Shame isn’t your friend, you know,” I add gently. “It might feel appropriate to punish yourself, like you deserve it or something, but you don’t. You made a mistake you aren’t proud of, but that’s okay. You’re moving forward in a better, healthier way. Shame is only going to get in the way of that and make it harder to get back to the light.”
His gaze locks with mine, and for a second I can’t breathe, which for a yoga teacher is really saying something. Breathing is kind of my thing. But with his dark eyes staring straight into soul, like he’s trying to decide whether to kiss me or flip me the bird and walk out the door, it’s all I can do not to duck behind the check-in desk to hide.
“You can tell me to shut up,” I finally squeak. “It’s okay. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“My first instinct was to tell you I wasn’t here for therapy,” he says softly.
I nod. “That’s fair. I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just hate to see people in pain, especially unnecessary pain.” I pull in a breath, forcing my tight ribs to expand, “And I know a thing or two about shame. I’ve made some bad choices, too. But beating myself up about them truly doesn’t help. It just keeps me from loving myself as fully as I should, which keeps me from loving my students and my work and humanity as much as I want to love them. And that’s not good for anyone.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t look mad, just…intrigued. “You really think humanity is worthy of love?”
“I do. And I think love is what I’m here on earth to do. That’s why I changed my last name when I graduated from high school. I never wanted to forget my purpose.”
He nods seriously before murmuring, “So, you really are a crazy hippy.”
I laugh, delighted by the sound of his deep chuckle as he joins in. God, his laugh is like a cat’s purr, like the perfect vibration of “Om” at the end of a transformative practice. It’s deep and warm and so beautiful, I can’t help saying, “Your laugh is fantastic. You should laugh all the time.”
His lips curve in a shy smile that is also delightful. “I could probably laugh more. It’s just been…” He trails off before pulling in a deep breath and letting it out with a rueful shake of his head. “It’s been a hard road that I’ve made harder by beating myself up about it. You’re right. I guess I’ve already gotten my money’s worth before we even get started. I’m paying you, by the way. The more I thought about it, the less a free class sat right with me.”
I press my hands together in front of my chest. “That makes me so happy. About the self-discovery. Not about the paying. You’re not paying me.”
“Except that I am,” he said, his gaze lasering in on my again.
“No, you’re not,” I say, ignoring the awareness prickling across my skin. Are we going to fight or practice yoga or do wild things to each other on my pile of yoga blankets?
I don’t know, but I’m so glad he’s decided to stay.
I wave him into the studio, “Come on, let’s get on the mat. You can tell me more about your history while we settle in. Any other injuries I should know about?”
“No, not really,” he says as he follows me into the warmer air in the studio. “Just the usual pulled muscles and bruises, mostly. I fractured my collarbone in a fight my rookie year in the minors, but it was just a hairline fracture and healed fine. There was another accident, off the ice, but I came back from that, too. The real reason I’m here is um…” He makes a grumbly noise before muttering in a softer voice, “my blood pressure.”
I glance up at him as I stop beside the mat I rolled out for him earlier. “Why are you embarrassed about your blood pressure?”
“I’m not.” He rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine, I am. I’m twenty-nine. I’m too young to have blood pressure problems. And yeah, I could eat better, but it’s not like I’m living on junk food. I salad at least four or five times a week.”
“You salad,” I repeat with a grin. “I like that. Salad should definitely be a verb. I also salad every chance I get, but I was still pre-diabetic for a long time. It’s just genetically something my family struggles with. All bodies have their issues. Our job is to meet them and address them with compassion and curiosity. Not judgment.”
He laughs again, softer this time, but the sound is still sweet. “You sound like my friend Yoda. He’s got Zen on lock, too.”
“Not the little green guy, I’m assuming?” I ask,
“No, childhood friend,” Tank says, his smile fading. “He was married to my sister before she passed.”
My brow furrows, my heart aching for him again. “I’m so sorry, Tank. That’s so rough.”
He nods. “Thanks. But it was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, sensing he hasn’t dealt with that grief any more than he’s dealt with the shame over whatever happened to make him leave the NHL the first time. “All the things we’ve suffered, physically and emotionally, live in our body. Until we process them, they’ll keep moving around in our tissue and organs, causing trouble, preventing us from leading our healthiest, happiest life.” I rest a hand lightly on his shoulder. “I’m so glad our paths crossed. I think a yoga practice is going to do amazing things for you.”
He leans in, tipping his head closer to mine. “Will you still think that if I tell you I’m not buying that emotions live in my tissues without some science to back it up?”
I lift my chin, fighting to keep my breath even as my lips move within inches of his. “I’ll text you some research study links later. Now, down in child’s pose, LiBassi. I need you to get out of your head and into those sticky ribs. We’re going to work on moving your breath lower in your body first. You have a tendency to lock up around the base of your ribcage. If we can open that up, you’re going to see improvement in your cardio performance almost overnight. I can sense you’re a ‘let me see the results’ kind of guy, so we’ll start there.”
That earns me another smile. “I didn’t realize I was so easy to read.”
“You aren’t,” I admit. “You’re still pretty mysterious, actually, but I’ll figure you out. If you decide to let me.”
He grunts.
I grunt back at him.
“Touché,” he says with a big, bold smile unlike any I’ve seen from him before. Then, he drops into child’s pose, just in time to keep him from seeing the way I melt in the sunshine of that grin.
Wow.
Who knew Tank was capable of a smile like that? Even yesterday, I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. Whether he wants to admit it or not, the practice is already at work in his body and his life.
And I’m even more committed to helping him heal in every way than I was before.
Which means professionalism is an absolute must.
A must , I repeat as I guide him through a gentle flow, correcting his postures with hands that are practically humming with awareness over every inch of his powerful body.
A must , I repeat as we take a break after the standing postures to take Mr. Sniffles for a short walk and feed him his supper.
A must , as Mr. Sniffles waddles over to snuggle next to Tank on his mat during his final resting pose, clearly as drawn to this damaged man as I am.
“I know, buddy,” I murmur as we watch Tank go a few minutes later, waving at him through the window. “But he’s just a client, and maybe, someday, a friend. Anything more would be crossing a line.”
Mr. Sniffles snorts, making it clear what he thinks of that.
Seems like we both wish we could get a whole lot closer to the man with the haunted eyes and electric smile.