Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
TANK
F riday night’s class is winding down, and I’m deliberately taking my time rolling up my mat.
Lingering. Loitering.
Lurking?
Am I lurking?
Fuck, if I know. I also don’t know why this feels so awkward.
After two more group classes, and another private lesson on the books for Sunday, Stephanie is starting to feel like a friend.
And there’s nothing weird about offering a friend a ride home when she needs one. Right?
Except friends don’t think about how good other friends look in spandex as much as you think about Stephanie.
In spandex.
And how good she looks in it.
The inner voice has a point, but that could also be chocked up to how long I’ve been not only single, but celibate. About six months ago, I got off the dating apps to focus on one last training push to make it back to playing pro-level hockey and never got back on them again. And it’s not like a workaholic who goes to bed at nine p.m. is going to meet people out and about in the world.
At least not until now.
Too bad I didn’t develop an obsession with the spandex-clad form of another student. Or even one of the other teachers, one who has no connection to my tiny social circle. Nope. I had to make it complicated.
Story of my life…
By the time I finally wipe my mat down and hang it on the hooks on the wall, return my blocks to the shelf, and fold my blanket, the rest of the class has already filed out, leaving Stephanie and me alone in the studio. Well, alone aside from Mr. Sniffles, who is snoring—and farting—softly, in his corner bed, oblivious to the angst of humanity.
“I apologize for his foul backside,” Stephanie says, waving a hand in front of her nose as she turns down the thermostat. “He got into the compost and ate some rotten bok choy. I was going to leave him at my apartment to work through it alone, but he was so pathetic, I felt guilty and ran back upstairs to get him.” She laughs. “We almost missed the bus, but he was so happy to be coming along, he licked me the entire way here.”
The bus. There it is. The perfect opening.
I should just ask her. The worst she can say is no.
Pulling in a calming breath—the kind she’s taught me how to control, I ask, “Speaking of the bus, I thought you might like a ride home tonight. It’s late, and I’m sure you’re ready to get home after a long day.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “On your motorcycle? Aw, Tank, that’s sweet of you to offer, but I don’t think Mr. Sniffles?—”
“I hooked up my sidecar,” I cut in, my cheeks hotter than they were before. What the fuck is wrong with me? I can’t remember the last time I felt this nervous about making a move.
And this isn’t even really a move.
It’s just…a step forward in our friendship.
“I gave my friend Stone and his chihuahua a ride in it the other day,” I continue. “It’s safe for dogs, and I brought extra helmets.”
“Helmets? Plural?” Stephanie repeats, a smile creeping across face. “Are you serious? You have a helmet for Mr. Sniffles?”
“Yeah. I had one laying around.”
I had one laying around because I went and bought one at the same place where Stone got Barb, his Chihuahua’s, helmet, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“You just happened to have a pug-sized helmet ‘laying around’?” She arches a brow, her smile widening.
I exhale a soft laugh as I admit, “Fine. I might have bought one especially for the fart monster. I didn’t want you to worry about his safety if you decided you wanted a ride home. And I wanted to offer the ride. I don’t like the thought of you waiting in a bus stop all alone after dark.”
“I wouldn’t be all alone. There are tons of people out on a Friday night, but…” Her expression softens. “But thank you. That’s… I honestly can’t remember the last time anyone did something this thoughtful and sweet for us.” She glances at Mr. Sniffles, who has woken up, but is eyeing us through hooded lids, clearly on the verge of passing out again. “What do you think, buddy? Want to go for a ride?”
He perks up instantly, emitting an excited snort that makes us both laugh.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, bending to pet the dog as he waddles over, his tail already wagging. “And if you guys are hungry, I know a good spot for dinner not far from here. If you don’t have plans.”
As I stand, she looks up at me with those see-through-me eyes that make my chest tight every time. “Looks like we have plans with you.” Her smile widens. “Dinner sounds great, as long as it’s okay for me to eat a little stinky. I taught three classes in these clothes, and I didn’t bring anything to change into.”
“Yeah, it’s a casual scene, no worries.” I shrug. “But you’re not stinky. Not even close.”
“Except that I am,” she says, flicking off the lights as we move into the empty lobby. “But you’re sweet to pretend otherwise.”
“No pretending necessary,” I say, my voice huskier than it was before. “You always smell good. Like vanilla and cloves.”
“With a top note of sweat,” she adds, biting her lip in a way that makes me wonder if she feels it too, this electric current that hums between us whenever we’re alone for more than a second or two.
“Tiny top note of sweat,” I admit. “But in the good way. The sweat is always fresh, and fresh sweat is good sweat.”
She laughs, a bubbly sound that makes my entire body feel lighter. “All right then, I’ll take that. Come on Mr. Sniffles. Let’s do our closing duties and get out of here. I’m starving.”
“I’ll meet you out front,” I say, pushing through the front door.
While she takes care of the studio, I prep the sidecar. I bought it years ago on a whim during what I now recognize as the early stages of my addiction—impulse control wasn’t exactly my strong suit at that point. But I’m glad I have it. It comes in handy when I have a friend in town who doesn’t want to ride on the back.
I’ve just finished removing the cover and am adjusting the straps on the dog helmet when Stephanie emerges from the studio, Mr. Sniffles tucked under one arm and her bag slung over her shoulder. Her braids are now pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.
She runs a light hand over them as she stops beside me. “I thought this would be better than my bun. Since I need to get all this hair under a helmet somehow.”
“Smart,” I say, grinning down at her. “And cute. I like it.”
“Thanks,” she says, with a slightly nervous laugh. “Speaking of cute, this is officially thing cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” She leans in, her vanilla and clove (and tiny hint of sweat that I honestly find sexy as hell) scent filling my head as she studies the tiny helmet. “But will he wear it? That’s the question. Mr. Sniffles loves a sweater or some bling on a holiday. But the one time I tried to put him in booties to protect his paws from the snow in Tahoe, he played dead and refused to get up until the horrible toe prisons were removed.”
Chuckling, I say, “Well, it’s hard being Mr. Sniffles.”
“So hard,” she agrees, hugging him closer as she drops a kiss to the top of his head. “But he gets up every day and makes the best of his hard, hard life. Today, he only napped six times and had three snacks, instead of four. It’s amazing he’s not spiraling into doggie depression.”
“Shit, then we need to get this man a snack. Stat.” I reach over, gently settling the helmet on the dog’s head and quickly clicking the chin strap into place before he has much time to react.
“Smooth,” Stephanie murmurs. “Now to see if he’s going to put up a fuss.”
“No need to fuss. Right, buddy?”
Mr. Sniffles grunts in response. His always wrinkly forehead is a little more furrowed than usual, but he doesn’t try to shake the helmet free. And when Stephanie puts him down in the side car, he settles onto the cushion I brought with a soft chuff that sounds more excited than irritable.
“Now, we just need to secure his leash to the car, here.” I thread the leash through the loop and hook it to itself. “Now, he won’t be able to jump out.”
“Nice. You did your research,” she says, nodding in approval. “I’m impressed.”
“Safety first, Love,” I say, as I settle the helmet I brought for her over her braids. She lifts her chin, giving me space to secure the strap for her. The moment is strangely intimate and…nice. I like taking care of this woman who spends so much of her life taking care of everyone else.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, her tongue slipping out to dampen her lips in a way that makes me long to trace that same path with my thumb.
Or, better yet…
Nipping the thought in the bud, I whisper, “My pleasure. Ready to hold on tight? If not, we could move the cushion over and make room for you in the sidecar.”
She shakes her head slowly, her gaze still locked on mine. “No, I want to hold on tight. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”
My brows lift. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Well,” I murmur as I swing my leg over the seat. “Then, I’m honored to be your first.”
She grins, a wicked grin that makes me suspect her mind is headed into the gutter along with mine. But she doesn’t say a word as she climbs onto the back of the bike behind me and wraps her arms lightly around my waist.
“You should hold on tighter,” I say over my shoulder. “Just to be safe. I promise not to get the wrong idea.”
That’s a lie, of course. I already have all the wrong ideas.
But I’m not going to act on any of them.
That’s the most important thing.
“All right. Like this?” Her arms wrap firmly around my middle, her thighs shift closer to mine, and her breasts mold to my back, making me keenly aware of every inch of her curvy little body.
My mouth suddenly dry, I croak out, “Perfect. Ready to ride, Mr. Sniffles?”
The pug makes an enthusiastic noise that has Stephanie giggling.
I start the engine, my blood quickening as she squeezes me even tighter as we pull away from the curb.
The ride to the food truck lot is only about ten minutes, but I find myself taking a slightly longer route, enjoying the feel of her arms around me and the cool evening air on my face. Mr. Sniffles seems to be having the time of his life, his wrinkly face lifted toward the breeze, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth as he watches the city streak by.
When we arrive at the formerly empty lot currently hosting Friday Night Foodies, the area is already buzzing with activity. String lights crisscross over the picnic tables lined up between the semi-circle of trucks, and mouth-watering smells fill the air, reminding me how hungry I am.
My stomach growls loud enough to be heard over the music pumping from the speakers as I shut off the engine.
Stephanie gives my mid-section an affectionate pat. “Me, too, Tank’s tummy. Let’s get some of everything. ASAP.”
I grunt in response and she whispers far too close to my ear for my own good, “That’s your first grunt of the night. I think we’re making progress with our interpersonal communication.”
I grunt again, playing up the dubious note in the sound, and am rewarded with a laugh as she swings off the bike.
“Hey there, buddy, how was that?” Steph asks, detaching the dog’s leash and carefully lifting Mr. Sniffles from his cushion. His little legs wiggle with excitement as she sets him down. “Yeah, me, too. That was so much fun, and this place is amazing. How have I never heard about this before?”
“It’s one of Portland’s better-kept secrets,” I say. “The trucks are only here on Fridays and they rotate every month, but there are a few regulars. The Korean BBQ place has been here since the beginning, and the Thai curry truck is my favorite Thai food in the city.”
She moans, a hungry sound I refuse to think too much about. “Curry sounds so good. I haven’t had good Thai food in ages. Drake was allergic to peanuts, so we never…” She trails off with a shake of her head. “Nope, I don’t want to talk about him.”
I shrug as we start across the lot. “It’s fine if you do. He was part of your life. I get that.”
She shakes her head more firmly this time. “Thanks, but no. I’ve been so much happier since I blocked his number. I’m ready to leave that chapter of my life in the past.” She brightens. “Besides, I’d rather talk about food, and how much you think we can eat. Because, I’m going to be honest, I want it all.”
“Same. Let’s do a lap, check out all the options, then pick out three things to share?” I suggest. “As starved as I am right now, I can’t do more than three platters or I’ll regret it. My eyes are always bigger than my stomach.”
She grins. “Three platters? All by yourself? Boy, that’s impressive. I’m pretty sure I have a hollow leg, and I could only manage two.”
“I’m slightly larger than you are,” I say, casting a pointing glance down my nose at her much-shorter self.
She smiles. “True. Is that why you became a goalie? Because you’re so big, all you have to do is puff up your chest to block the whole net?”
I nod and deadpan, “Pretty much. It was that or pro wrestling, and my acting skills are for shit, so…”
She laughs, and I have to fight a goofy grin in response.
I can’t start goofy grinning at this woman.
The distance between goofy grinning and crossing a line with a girl you shouldn’t beg to sit on your face is dangerously short.
Doing my best not to think about how much I would love to have every inch of Stephanie for dinner, I lead the way to the Korean place at the far end. As we wander, perusing the menus, Mr. Sniffles trots happily between us, snuffling with excitement and farting loud enough to turn heads.
“Mortified,” Stephanie mutters through her teeth. “I’m officially mortified.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “We’ll sit at the table closest to the parking, where no one will hear us. Or smell us. Or hate us.”
“And we can leash him downwind of us, too,” she says. “So, he won’t ruin our dinner. How about something from the taco place to start? I can always go for a taco.”
“El Jefe? Yeah, they’re good. The owner uses his grandmother’s recipes from Oaxaca. Nothing fancy, but the execution is spot on. Especially the carne asada.”
She looks up at me, clearly amused. “Theodor LiBassi, are you a foodie?”
I grunt, and she laughs.
“It’s okay,” she says, patting my arm. “I won’t tell anyone. I know you have a bad boy rep to protect. I’m a foodie, too. But I’m a pescatarian, so I might not be able to share if you want the carne asada. Hope that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “The fish tacos are good, too, and the tofu curry at the Thai place is great. And if we’re still hungry after, I wouldn’t complain about trying the grilled shrimp skewers from the Jamaican place.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, yes, please. Let’s definitely save room for those. My grandma on my mom’s side is Jamaican. Growing up, whenever we made it down to Texas for a visit, she made the best food.”
“Is all your family in Texas?” I ask as we get in line at El Jefe.
She shakes her head, “No, my dad’s family is near D.C., where I was born. Mom’s side is still mostly in Jamaica, except for my Grammy Kiyana. She came to the U.S. with my mom and aunt when she was young. My grandpa was apparently an abusive piece of garbage, so she left him and came to another country all by herself. She put two kids through college on a nurse’s salary and still made time to go dancing every weekend and sew Mom’s wedding dress. She’s the sweetest, and the toughest, and I love her to pieces.”
I nod. “Sounds like an impressive woman. My dad was garbage, too. It took my mom a long time to leave him, but once she did, she was like a different person. A lot more peaceful and fun to be around than the mom I knew growing up.”
“Are you two close now?”
My shoulders inch uncomfortably toward my ears. “No. She didn’t leave Dad until I was out of the house. And after my sister died… I don’t know. Seemed like she kind of wanted to forget she’d ever had kids. Move on. Get a fresh start.” I lift a hand before Steph can offer what I’m sure would be very kind words of comfort. “And that’s fine with me. Really. I didn’t know that peaceful, happy Mom very well. When I was growing up, we were more like cell mates who shared the same jailer than family. A part of me is glad I don’t have to see her anymore, honestly. The memories when she’s around…aren’t great. I think a clean slate was best for both of us.”
Stephanie’s eyes go liquid with empathy, and I curse myself for letting things get heavy. But then, I’ve never been good at sugar coating shit. I either tell the whole, unvarnished, ugly ass truth, or I keep my mouth shut.
But I don’t want to keep my mouth shut with Steph. For some reason, I feel compelled to be real with her. And hell, I just like talking to her.
I like it nearly as much as staring at her ass in her yoga pants.
I expect her to say she’s sorry or that it’s never too late for a fresh start or something, but she just takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.
I return the squeeze, grateful when she gracefully changes the subject, “So yeah, my dad’s family was the one we saw the most. But they’re all in politics or the military and have sticks shoved way, way up their butts.” Her lips hook up on one side. “And having a stick up the butt negatively impacts your ability to cook, Theodore. That’s a fact. I mean, I love them, but the food in D.C. was not Grammy Kiyana quality. At all.”
I exhale a soft laugh. “I don’t know. I’ve been told I have a stick up my ass once or twice, and I’m not bad in the kitchen.”
Her brows shoot up. “Really? What’s your signature dish?”
“Prime rib and lamb chops,” I say. “But my seafood risotto isn’t bad, either. If you’re looking for a meat free option.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Sounds delicious.”
Before I can do something unwise like offer to make her dinner sometime, we’re at the front of the line.
We place our order for a fish taco plate, before grabbing shrimp skewers and curry at the other trucks and taking our bounty to the picnic table at the edge of the lot, where Mr. Sniffles can fart in peace. The conversation continues to flow easily, the way it always does with her. When she’s not making me feel things I shouldn’t feel, being with Stephanie is relaxing, easy in the best way.
“So, when did you realize hockey was your other passion?” she asks as we dig in. “Aside from food, of course.”
I finish my first bite of fish taco. “My dad played. Not professionally or anything, just local leagues. He put me on skates as soon as I could walk. But, like I said, he was an asshole, so playing with him wasn’t fun. I wasn’t sure I was into hockey at first, but I liked it a lot more once I got a scholarship to a peewee league in second grade. By high school, it was an obsession.” Scooping up a bite of green curry, I ask, “How about you? Have you always been a yoga nerd?”
She shakes her head as she chews, swallowing before she says, “No, I was actually kind of a stress case as a kid. My entire life, my parents had me on this intense track—private school, college prep courses, ivy league friendly extracurriculars, the whole nine yards. They wanted me to become a doctor like my mom or a JAG, military lawyer like my dad. I went along with it for a long time, but it never felt right. Then, my junior year, my therapist suggested I try yoga to help with my anxiety, and…that was it. I was hooked. I finally started feeling at home in my own skin and knew I was never going to quit.”
“That’s great,” I say, thinking how much more at home I feel in mine after just a few sessions.
“Yeah, it was,” she says, sighing before she adds in a rueful voice, “But sadly, my parents didn’t think so. They were even less thrilled when I dropped out of college a few years later to teach full time.” I grunt and she nods. “Exactly. My dad was so mad he didn’t talk to me for six months.”
“I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
“It was, but we’ve made peace and put that behind us,” she says. “My parents see how happy I am, and that I’ve built something that’s special to me.” She arches a brow as she grins. “The fact that my business was in the black just a few months after opening the studio helped. It convinced my dad that maybe I didn’t need a fancy degree to run a business, after all.”
I watch as she feeds a tiny piece of grilled fish to Mr. Sniffles, who accepts it with reverent delicacy, snorting and snuffling as he takes it down. “They should be proud,” I say. “You’re good at what you do. Really good. You have a gift.”
She butts her shoulder gently against mine, a gesture that’s friendly, chummy even, but still makes my heart beat faster. “Aw, thank you. That means a lot to me. Really. I think you do, too. Shane couldn’t say enough good things about his private sessions with you. I can’t wait to see you play.”
I exhale a long breath. “We’ll see. I’ve been out of the game a long time. And I’m a geezer compared to most of the guys on the team.”
“You’re not a geezer,” she says, her voice husky. “Not even close. You’re a man in your prime and you’re going to tear it up on the ice this season, no doubt in my mind.”
My gaze locks with hers and a wave of connection unlike anything I’ve felt in years vibrates in the air between us.
I want to tell her how much that means to me. To tell her that I appreciate her support, her friendship. But I’m not quite there, and I’m not sure either of us is ready to admit that this is starting to feel like more than a teacher-student thing.
More than a friend thing…
“Tank?” she whispers, making my stomach flip.
“Yes?” I murmur.
“I need more skewers,” she adds in an even softer voice. “I thought one would be enough, but it isn’t.”
Smiling, I nod toward our nearly-empty plates. “Take care of that last bite of fish taco, and I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you so much. Yay!” She claps her hands, beaming as I stand, her obvious delight making me happy.
She’s easy to please, and I enjoy pleasing her.
Doing my best not to think about pleasing her in other ways, I fetch two more skewers and we finish up the final bites of curry, eating until we’re both so stuffed, we can’t wedge in another bite.
Afterward, we clear our table and make our way back to my Harley. As I help secure Mr. Sniffles in his sidecar and strap his helmet into place, I find myself wishing it wasn’t time to say goodbye.
The ride to Stephanie’s apartment building is quiet, the streets of her residential neighborhood mostly empty at eleven p.m. She directs me with gentle taps on my shoulder, and soon we’re pulling up outside a modest, four-story brick building with a neatly trimmed hedge outside.
I help her off the bike and pluck Mr. Sniffles from his pillow throne, guiding him into her awaiting arms.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says, close enough that her body heat meets and mingles with mine. “And for dinner. We should do it again. Next time, my treat.”
“Never,” I say, then hurry to add when she blinks in surprise, “I mean, I’m never going to let you pay. But yes, I’d love to do it again sometime.” I exhale a self-conscious huff. “Sorry, my social skills are rusty. I don’t get out much lately.”
“Well, we should change that.” She looks up at me, something unreadable in her big soft eyes. “I had fun with you.”
We linger for another moment, neither of us seeming ready say goodbye. Finally, Mr. Sniffles makes an impatient noise in her arms.
“I should get him up to bed,” she says, but she still doesn’t move.
“Right,” I say, rooted in place, fighting the urge to kiss her.
“Hey Tank?” She takes a half-step closer.
Breath held, I ask, “Yes?”
Her lips lilt up as she whispers, “This is probably crazy, but I can’t help myself.”
Before I can respond, she pushes up on tiptoe and presses her lips to mine. The kiss is a gentle, sweet surprise, and over far too quickly.
She pulls back, her gaze searching mine. “Okay?”
“No. Not okay.” My voice is rough, edged with longing. I cup her face, my thumb tracing the curve of her cheek as I lean in, capturing her mouth with mine.
Her lips are soft, warm, parting for me with a sigh that makes my blood rush. She tastes like the rich spice of the curry we shared, but beneath that, she just tastes like…her. Like Steph, and I already know it’s a taste I’m going to crave for the foreseeable future.
Heat builds between us, more soft, hungry sounds filling the air as the kiss grows deeper, hotter—until Mr. Sniffles, who I’d nearly forgotten was pinned between us, lets out a fart so powerful it vibrates through my ribs.
We jolt apart, laughing, then groaning as an unholy stench fills the air.
“Damn, buddy,” I say, waving a hand through the air. “It smells like something died up there.”
“Sorry,” Stephanie says, still laughing. “I’m so sorry. His butt is a menace to society.”
“Or a bio weapon,” I agree.
Mr. Sniffles chuffs in response, almost as if he’s proud of his toxic backside, and farts a second time, even louder than the first.
“Omg, stop, you maniac,” Steph stays as she backs toward her building. “Goodbye. I’ll see you soon. Better get him upstairs before he scares you away for good.”
“I’m not scared,” I say, calling in a louder voice as she reaches the front gate, “I’ll text you later?”
Stephanie’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. “You’d better. Drive safe, Theodore. Good night.”
“Goodnight, Teach,” I call after her, watching until she’s safely inside.
As I put my helmet back on, I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. For the first time in a long time, I’m not thinking about hockey, or my comeback, or all the ways I’ve screwed up in the past.
I’m just thinking about her.
This woman.
This woman…