Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
STEPHANIE
T wo bliss-filled weeks later, the vibes are not vibing on the first day of Badger training camp.
I can feel it the moment I step into the practice facility that Monday afternoon, my yoga mat tucked under one arm and my special “hockey dude bro” playlist queued up on my phone.
The air feels charged, tense in a way I haven’t noticed during previous training camps. Players are clustered in small groups, voices hushed, eyes darting around like they’re expecting a killer clown to pop out from behind a pillar at any moment.
This isn’t the typical first-day excitement I’ve grown accustomed to.
“Hey there, Miss Love!” The familiar voice of Dexter, one of the equipment managers, cuts through the tension, making me smile. He’s the sweetest old guy, always in a pair of overalls the same gray as his hair. And he never forgets to bring out the extra blocks and bolsters I use for the players with flexibility issues.
I give his arm a squeeze. “Hey, Dex. How was your summer? Lots of fishing and lake time?”
“Oh, yeah. Had my boat out every other day, and man was it beautiful,” he says, wiping his hands on a faded Badgers towel. “Kids are all good, too, and we’ve got a new grandson on the way.”
“Congratulations! That’s amazing!” I cheer, leaning in for a hug as he beams.
“Thank you, thank you,” he says, chuckling as I pull away. “Trish is over the moon. Already buying baby clothes and our daughter-in-law isn’t due for three more months.” He eyes my bulging tote bag. “Need any help with your setup? Coach moved your session to Studio B instead of the main gym. So, I put all the blocks and props in there for ya.”
“Oh, okay, thanks for letting me know. And no, no help needed, I’ve got it.” I gesture down the hall, brow furrowing. “Studio B is the one near the recovery room, right?”
“That’s the one.” Dex nods. “Whole team should be on their way soon. Although...” He lowers his voice as he leans closer. “Might be rough getting them calmed down today. Everyone’s pretty wound-up.”
My stomach tightens as I whisper, “Yeah, I could feel it when I walked in. What’s going on?”
Dex shrugs, but his eyes tell me he knows more than he’s saying. “Just new coach, new players. New chemistry with the team. You know how it is. Pro sports is never easy, but it’s harder when there’s a lot of change and a bad egg or two starts stirring the pot.” He busies himself folding a pile of towels on the table against the wall. “Not my business though. I don’t say a word. Just keep myself to myself. I’m sure it’ll all work itself out eventually.”
I want to press him further, but he’s already said more than he should. I’ve been working in pro sports long enough to know team politics can be tricky and there are ears everywhere.
So, I force myself to give him a simple thank you and a wave before heading toward Studio B.
As I go, my thoughts turn to Tank, wondering how he’s handling the apparent drama, especially after our magical, stress-free weeks of near-constant bliss. When we weren’t banging, we were eating amazing food, break dancing on the pad he set up behind the studio, going for long walks by the river, or hanging out with Stone and his friends at Stone’s pool, enjoying the last gasp of summer. Tank and I get along so well—in bed and out of it—and I can honestly say I’ve never fallen this hard and fast for someone before. It just feels meant to be, completely heavenly in every way.
Which is probably making this transition even harder for Tank…
Bad vibes are bad enough when you haven’t been lulled into a state of ease and contentment with fun, friendship, fabulous fucking, and movie nights in bed with Mr. Sniffles giving you his best snuggles.
Hopefully he’s okay.
I should know soon. He’s required to attend the team yoga classes just like the other players, after all.
Studio B is smaller than I’d prefer—pro-athletes aren’t known for being petite or great at negotiating space with their neighbors when they’re extending a leg in down dog—but we’ll make the best of it. I can always reach out about moving back to the larger space later, if needed.
I get to work setting up, arranging my portable speaker and placing my demonstration mat at the front of the room. Players should start filtering in in about fifteen minutes, which means Tank should be here any second. We agreed to meet a little early so I could get the TLDR on his day so far. But ten minutes pass, then twelve, and there’s still no sign of him.
I check my phone.
Huh, no messages either.
The first players begin to arrive—mostly the younger guys who are eager to make a good impression or simply have no one to gossip with in the halls with just yet. I don’t care what men say, they’re twice as gossipy as women, especially pro athletes. I’ve never met an NHL player who wouldn’t dish like it was his job once he was comfortable enough to let his guard down.
The new recruits greet me with varying degrees of enthusiasm, some genuinely interested in taking class, others clearly just following orders. Stone eventually wanders in with a group of veterans, but even his usually easy smile is strained.
When he spots me, there’s a flicker of something in his blue eyes—concern, maybe?—before he waves and grabs a mat from the stack.
“Hey, Steph,” he says, as he unrolls his mat in the second row. “Good to see you. How’s your Monday?”
“I think maybe better than yours, so far.” I arch a brow. “Have you seen Tank?”
Stone’s jaw tightens as he averts his gaze. “Yeah, he’s… He’ll be here. He was still in the weight room when I left.”
I’m about to probe him for more details when Coach Lauder strides in, his presence immediately commanding attention. The middle-aged man with the military buzz cut gives me a curt nod—more acknowledgment than I usually get from the guy who insisted on having me “audition” at the beginning of the summer to remain on as the team yoga teacher, despite my stellar reputation and reviews—before addressing the room.
“Alright, gentlemen. Ms. Love is here to lead you through your recovery yoga. I expect full participation. This isn’t optional.” His eyes scan the space, narrowing as he reaches the back row. “Where’s LiBassi?”
The question hangs in the air for a beat too long before the door swings open. Tank enters quickly, his face a mask that doesn’t quite hide the storm in his eyes. I’ve seen a storm like that before, but only once—on the day he came around the corner at the festival to find Drake stepping up on me and for a second, I was sure I was about to witness a murder.
Shit…
Clearly, whatever’s going wrong has gone extra wrong for Tank.
“Sorry I’m late, Coach,” he says, his voice clipped.
Lauder gives him a long look. “Get set up, and don’t make a habit of it.”
Tank nods, grabbing a mat from the stack and finding a spot in the back corner—far from Stone, far from me, far from everyone. His movements are stiff, mechanical, nothing like the man who held me close this morning, pressing sleepy kisses to my shoulder before reluctantly heading home to get ready for his big day.
I want to go to him, to offer comfort, but twenty-eight pairs of eyes are on me, waiting. At the moment, I have to be a professional before I’m a girlfriend, but hopefully I can use the class to remind everyone to breathe, release, and reset.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” I begin, centering myself as best I can. “For those who don’t know me, I’m Stephanie Love. I’ve been teaching professionally for six years, three with a special focus on pro-athletes, and I’ll be leading your recovery sessions throughout camp and into the season. Today, we’re going to focus on releasing tension in the hips and lower back, areas you all know take a beating when you’re on the ice. But let’s start with finding an easy seat on your mat, whatever feels good in your body, and closing your eyes.”
I launch into my carefully planned sequence, keeping my voice steady and soothing despite the worry gnawing at my insides. As I move around the room, offering guidance and the occasional adjustment, I steal glances at Tank. His movements are technically correct, but lacking their usual focus, and his gaze is guarded, almost cold.
Something is obviously very wrong, and I hate that I can’t help him through it.
I guide the team through hip openers and gentle twists, reminding them about proper breathing techniques and the importance of staying present. Most of them are making a decent effort—even the rookies who looked skeptical at first. But Tank doesn’t seem to be listening, not the way he usually does during class.
“Now let’s move into pigeon pose,” I instruct, demonstrating the deep hip stretch. “This one can be intense, so listen to your body. If you need to modify, I’ll be coming around to help. Nice,” I murmur as I pass a younger guy already dropping easily into the pose.
“A good goalie always has open hips,” the man says, flashing a big grin my way as he leans deeper in the stretch.
Ah, this must be Garcia. Tank’s nemesis.
Fighting the urge to loathe him on my boyfriend’s behalf—I know better than to cling to negative emotions, I really do, even when it’s hard—I smile and move on, helping the man behind him prop a block under his hip to keep him from compromising his form or tweaking a knee.
I keep going, slowly working toward Tank. A few assists later, I’ve made my way to the back corner where he’s holding the pose with all the ease of a kid riding his first rollercoaster, clinging to the lap bar for dear life.
Up close, his energy is even more concerning, a tightly-wound coil ready to snap, and his hands are curled into fists atop the black mat.
“Can I offer an adjustment?” I ask softly, professional but with a subtle warmth I reserve for him.
His eyes meet mine briefly before flicking away. “I’m fine.”
But he’s not. His hip flexors and shoulders are screaming—I can see it in the tension in his body, the way he’s barely breathing.
“Just a small one,” I insist gently, placing a hand between his shoulder blades. “Breathe into my hand, and let your chest soften toward the ground.”
He exhales roughly, allowing me the smallest adjustment. When I lean closer, I murmur, “You okay?”
His jaw clenches. “Not now, Teach,” he mutters. “Or I’ll blow. Later.”
Ugh, I hate to leave him like this, but he’s right. There’s nothing either of us can do about whatever’s happening now. I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before moving on to the next student, but for the rest of class, I’m distracted, worried.
By the time we reach savasana, my own nerves are raw, something that almost never happens while I’m teaching.
When I finally ring the small bell to signal the end of practice, Tank’s the first one heading for the door. I fight the urge to call after him or worse, run after him.
Whatever he’s going through, it’s clear he isn’t ready to start processing it. Not here, not yet. And I get it, I really do, but I already know the hours between now and when camp is over and he’s free to talk are going to drag by like torture.
“Hey,” Stone appears at my elbow, his voice low. “Don’t take it personally. He’s just having a rough day.”
“What happened?” I ask, not bothering to mask my concern. Stone knows how close Tank and I have been getting better than just about anyone.
He glances around, making sure no one’s listening in before he says, “Coach made a pointed speech this morning about how no position is guaranteed. Made it clear the final goalie lineup, especially, wasn’t set in stone. He wants to ‘see some real hustle’ before he makes up his mind.” Stone runs a hand through his damp hair. “After all the work Tank’s put in and the fact that he’s played in the NHL before, we all thought he’d get the starter spot over the rookie. But it looks like Lauder’s making it a competition between him and Garcia.”
My stomach drops. “Oh, no. That hardly seems fair.”
“Yeah, well, fair doesn’t always factor into the picture in pro sports, especially when one person is a kiss ass and one is… Well, one is Tank.” Stone’s expression darkens as he whispers, “Garcia’s been in Hartley’s ear for weeks, talking up his own game while taking digs about Tank being in recovery. It’s bullshit, but Hartley has an ex-brother-in-law who was an addict, who he hates like jock itch so…” He sighs. “It just sucks. The people who know him know there’s no way in hell Tank is going to relapse, but Hartley doesn’t know him. And after Garcia gets through with him, he’s probably not going to be making an effort to change that.”
I frown, spirits continuing to plummet as I realize how bad this is. “But surely Coach Lauder won’t get sucked in by all that. Not once he sees that Tank’s clearly the better goaltender.”
Stone’s nose wrinkles and his lip curls in an expression that isn’t comforting. At all. “I mean, I hope, but Lauder’s new here too. Which means he’s probably going to be more inclined to listen to management. And Hartley’s been with the organization for years. It’s all a hot mess and a damned shame. Tank busted his ass to get here. Now, it seems like the cards are stacked against him.”
“But he deserves a second chance,” I say, knowing I’m being na?ve, but unable to help it. “We all do.”
“Not everyone believes in second chances,” Stone continues. “Especially in this business. It’s not right, but it’s reality.”
Almost all the players have filtered out of the studio by now. I know Stone has to leave soon, too, but first, I have to ask, “What can I do? I have to do something. I hate how helpless I feel right now.”
Stone gives me a sad smile. “Just be there for him. You know Tank, he’s got a lot of pride, and he’s used to fighting his battles alone. Having someone in his corner who believes in him will mean a lot.” He nudges my shoulder with his elbow. “Especially when it’s you. He really cares about you. It’s cute. And his blood pressure was way down at his check-up earlier, so there’s something you guys can celebrate later.”
I nod, trying to take comfort in that. “Thanks, Stone. See you Wednesday.”
“See you,” he says, ambling toward the door. “Keep us in your thoughts. Looks like it’s going to be a bumpy ride for a while.”
Once he’s gone, I gather my things mechanically, my earlier excitement about the weeks ahead overshadowed by worry. As I head toward the parking lot, I can’t shake the image of Tank’s fists pressing into his mat, the way he could barely meet my gaze.
What if he decides this is too much? That a new relationship is a distraction he can’t afford when his career is hanging in the balance all over again?
I wouldn’t blame him. This opportunity means everything to him—his redemption, his future, the culmination of years of hard work and sacrifice. If he thinks what’s happening between us might jeopardize that…
The thought makes my chest physically ache.
I don’t want to believe it’s possible. I want to trust that the love growing between us is stronger than that, but I remember how laser-focused Tank was on his comeback when we first met earlier in the summer. Shane practically had to drag him away from the rink for happy hour with friends.
And yes, what we’ve found is intense and rare, but that might make him even more tempted to bail. Does he have the capacity to navigate an intense connection like ours while also pouring every ounce of his energy into securing his position with the Badgers?
I honestly…don’t know.
I toss my yoga bag into the passenger seat of my car and slide behind the wheel, but I don’t start the engine.
Instead, I pull out my phone and type a quick message, needing Tank to know he’s in my thoughts— Stone filled me in. I’m so sorry things are sucking so hard right now. But I’m here for you, okay? Whatever you need—space, support, someone to talk to. Or just someone to hold you and tell you it’s all going to be okay. Because it will be. I hesitate before adding— You’re stronger than even you know, Grunty. I believe in you.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then lean back against the headrest, closing my eyes.
“Please be okay,” I whisper into the quiet car, hoping the universe is listening, and in the mood to help a girl out.
To help love out, because I am already so gone on this man. The thought of losing him is…
Well, it’s not something I’m going to think about because I know better than to tell myself scary stories about things that might not even happen.
At the studio, Mr. Sniffles greets me with his usual enthusiastic snorts as I unlock the door, his little body wiggling with excitement. I scoop him up, burying my face in his warm fur.
“Hey, buddy,” I murmur. “Missed you too. You ready to teach tonight?”
I’m not, really, but by the time the familiar faces appear and the mats are rolled out, I drop back into the zone. I teach three classes straight without glimpsing at my phone, knowing better than to let myself get distracted.
But when I check my cell after the last student has left, there still isn’t a message from Tank.
“I said he could have space if he needed it,” I tell Mr. Sniffles as we head to my car. “He probably needs to decompress.”
My dog shoots me a sad look that seems to say I’m kidding myself, and what I had with Tank was always too good to be true, but I refuse to let his negativity make me doubt my gut. Or my heart.
My heart knows this is real and rare. And I believe Tank knows that, too.
But will that be enough to keep us together if the rest of his world is falling apart? I don’t know, but I definitely need a Monday glass of wine.
Back at my apartment, I pour myself a generous glass of red and sag onto the couch. Not my usual post-yoga ritual, but today has been rougher than expected.
I check my phone again before I pull together a late dinner, but still…nothing.
Nothing, as I chop vegetables with more force than necessary while Mr. Sniffles circles my feet, hoping I’ll be a messy bitch who drops some treats for him. Nothing, as I eat my stir fry, clean up, and take Mr. Sniffles on his last walk of the night.
Nothing as I get ready for an early bedtime, without Tank crowded into my tiny bathroom with me to brush his teeth for the first time in weeks.
The sight of his toothbrush in the cup next to mine is enough to make the ache in my chest worse. We’ve been moving fast, spending almost every night together, but until now there wasn’t a doubt in mind that this speed was just fine. Fantastic, in fact. Why wait or set boundaries that don’t feel authentic, when it’s so natural—so wonderful—to be together?
But now…
I’m just settling under the covers, Mr. Sniffles curled against my side, when my phone lights up.
My heart does the same when I see the message is from Tank.
Sorry for going dark for a while, baby. I’ve been wrestling with some heavy stuff, but you’ve been on my mind all day. Can we talk tomorrow? I could swing by the studio after the six o’clock class, maybe?
I stare at the message, heart racing as I try to read between the lines, to decipher what this means. Has he been wrestling with how to end things with me? Or just processing the shock of the shitty situation he’s ended up in through no fault of his own?
He called me “baby.” That’s a good sign, right?
Or he’s just gearing up to let you down easy…
My fingers hover over the screen, debating my response, but in the end, I decide I have to be true to myself, no matter what’s going on with the man I already love so much. Of course. I’ll see you then. I hit send, then add— Hang in there, Theodore. I meant what I said earlier, I believe in you.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again. Finally— Thank you. Good Night, Love. Sweet dreams.
I sigh, trying not to read into any of that either, as I set my phone on the nightstand and turn off the light, staring into the darkness. Mr. Sniffles shifts against me, his warm body a comfort, but my mind continues to race.
My heart aches with how much I already care for this complicated, wounded, man. With how much I wish I could shield him from the pain and disappointment of today. How desperately I want to be a safe harbor for him in this storm.
But I can’t force it.
Can’t make him let me in, or choose me if he thinks he needs to choose hockey.
I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, but knowing it probably won’t, not with current state of my rumbling, tumbling monkey mind.
But tomorrow will be here soon enough.
We’ll talk then, and I’ll know where we stand.
Until then, all I can do is breathe.
And hope this love we’ve been building is as precious to Tank as it’s quickly becoming to me…