92. Human Origami
HUMAN ORIGAMI
LAYTON
Saturday came and went. Sunday too. And with it way too much liquor. I’m not that guy, but this weekend I was. And it’s killing me today.
I turned off my phone after the team’s head of public affairs woke me on Saturday morning. Not having bothered to read my email, she wanted to hear it firsthand. I was in no mood after her phone call and having to rehash everything. I got pissed all over again.
That fucker’s hands on Livy. His handprint on her neck. Him taking her to the floor, not caring that she’s pocket-sized, and he could’ve done real damage.
A quick Google search proved he is exactly the douche-canoe I assumed he was, including a DUI arrest a couple of years ago. Between the fucked-up misogynistic shit he spewed on Twitter and knowing he could’ve truly hurt her, I want to throat punch him.
Not to mention the fact that it bothers me that he was touching her. She’s not mine. Aside from common decency, why should I care?
She’s gorgeous, there’s no doubt. Her body is every man’s fantasy. Or at least mine. I don’t need the overgrown tits, especially the fake ones. That firm ass does it for me, for sure. But her confidence in her body—not because of a surgeon’s work, but because of her own—that’s my kryptonite.
She works for that shit. I know what that takes. I understand the discipline and the sacrifice. I also know the mental game. That’s at least half of it.
And she has that in spades.
Smart, tough, fit, disciplined, funny, and stunningly beautiful in the cute sort of way. That’s Livy Morgan in a nutshell.
She’s a distraction I do not need, and one I cannot afford.
I’m in the prime of my career. This is the time when I forge ahead. I have to push harder and lift more. Run faster, pull everything I can from this life since it’s such a flash in the pan.
Because of that, I’m here again, on my mat, trying to convince myself that strange yoga shapes can improve my speed. A month ago, I’d have laughed at the absurdity of it. I still could. But if it can get me closer to my goals, I’ll do it… despite Pixie, not because of her.
Mind on the prize, Ranger.
“Breathe deeply and move into warrior pose. Chin down. Press your heels into the floor as you exhale. Lift your abs as you roll your shoulder blades back. Hold right here.”
Small hands grab my hips from behind and strong fingers flex as she tilts my pelvis, forcing me into the proper formation. “Good, Layton. Breathe.” Her voice is quiet and a bit hesitant. “Again.”
My body wants relief, and my shoulders give ever so slightly to release the pressure.
I see her bare feet in front of me just before her warm hands press on my lats, rearranging my body, stopping the relief I’d just given myself. Fuck me. “Thirty seconds,” she says for only me to hear.
“Less than a minute now. Focus.” She walks away.
“Now, move in to Triangle pose. Take your right hand with your palm open, arm extended, and lift your fingers to the ceiling. Keep your eyes on your fingers. Don’t push.
Do what you can, but this shouldn’t hurt.
It’s about balance. Do as much as you can without—”
As if he planned it, Mattis topples one way, swearing, and taking Reed with him.
“—falling,” Livy finishes.
The laughter that erupts in the room breaks my Livy haze and reminds me again why I’m here.
I have to stop thinking about her soft hands on my back and forget the feel of her at my hips. If I think about how flexible she is or how bendy she could get, I’ll have to stay in downward dog because my dick will be doing a sun salutation like it wants to do right now.
Speed. Endurance. Flexibility. Those thoughts don’t work.
Old shriveled-up balls. Grandmothers with saggy tits.
Better.
Now I have a semi, but at least it’s not waving hello at the instructor. Cold showers. Getting caught masturbating by your parents. Now we’re getting somewhere. Getting caught doing the deed by your kids. Depends on how hot their mom is.
Fuck.
“What is it, Layton?”
Oh shit. I said that out loud.
“Nothing. Just want to get the most out of this and realized my breathing wasn’t right.”
She will never believe me.
“Don’t criticize yourself. The idea here is to be stronger with each practice.”
“So Mattis not falling is a win?”
Mattis chuckles and grunts in agreement.
Reed mutters, “For me it is.”
“Aren’t we lowering the bar a bit too much?”
“This is about development. A week from now or a month from now, is there improvement?”
And then, to prove her point, she folds next to me, chest to thighs, nose to knees, placing her hands on the floor.
She raises up as if into a handstand—not something I’ve ever been able to do after the first attempt left me with an egg on my temple when I was eleven—and presses up, folding her knees into her armpits.
Her breathing is steady, and there she floats, human origami in front of me.
Quietly, she says, “Does it matter if it took weeks of attempts to succeed? What if I failed for a year? What about two? Does it negate the results? What if—” She bends her elbows, not losing the line of her body, and straightens one leg toward the ceiling.
“What if it took years to master? Was it worth it?”
My mouth is agape. I’m trying not to feel the burn in what she calls Downward Dog and she’s holding herself on some hidden fulcrum of balance.
“All of life is about progress. Otherwise, you’d be on the JV team, dropping passes, hoping for ice cream after the game.” She unfolds herself, placing one foot and then another on the ground and standing once again.
“‘If you’re not growing,’” I start.
“… ‘You’re dying.’ Lou Holtz.” She holds my gaze for a beat too long before walking back to the front of the room. “Let’s finish today with some meditation.”
I don’t know whether to be embarrassed at being called out, encouraged, or flat-out impressed. All three is more like it.
And she knows it too.
Fuck my life.
Livy
I wish I could say my mind is straight, but skipping my beach practice three mornings in a row has me irritable. It always centers me, and I need that. Tomorrow, come hell or high water, I’ll be there. If the photographers are still there, they can watch me, darn it.
I’m over hiding out as if I’m a criminal or in witness protection. I’m a woman who was accosted at a bar, not a specimen to be studied. I didn’t start the situation or perpetuate it. I deserve neither credit nor scrutiny.
The only reason anyone cares isn’t even because I was wronged. They care because the person who stepped in to save me is famous.
And hot.
In a lot of people’s minds, handsome and prominent are enough to warrant attention. And Layton Ranger certainly garners attention.
So the media can watch all they want. The gossip rags can speculate all they want. And everyone else can shove it.
I have my mojo back as I head toward my afternoon appointment with our public affairs team. When my phone vibrates, I assume it’s the appointment reminder for the meeting I’m walking to.
Instead, it’s my sister.
Tally: You never answered me.
Tally: Mother is bothering me at work about the whole situation. Do I need to handle this?
I swear I can hear her sigh from Manhattan.
Tally: I don’t have to tell you how embarrassing it is to have the pictures of you dressed as a streetwalker in my corporate email.
And, there it is. Four texts, if you include Saturday’s, is all it takes for my sister to make this whole situation about her. How it impacts her career, her time, her emotions. The inconvenience to her life.
Me: I’m fine. Thanks for asking.
I don’t know why I bother trying to connect anymore. We’re so different. But she’s family. She’s my sister, for goodness’ sake, and I won’t cut her off despite her disdain for me.
Tally: I don’t have time for your pity party. Do I or do I not need to step in legally regarding this situation?
Me: Not now. I’ll let you know if I need you.
I turn my phone off, not caring about the vibrations and message alerts that keep appearing.
When I put on that wig on Friday night, I never assumed that Monday afternoon I’d still be dealing with the fallout. Or that the fallout would include Tally’s reprimands.
“They’re ready for you.”
I was so lost in my thoughts that I failed to greet Mrs. Bennett, the woman who runs the corporate floor like a stern grandmother.
She reminds me of a school principal when I was a kid—the older woman who always wore hose and a skirt with heels.
That generation of ladies whose hair is always done and whose earrings are never missing.
The kind that could look down their nose at me and, with just one glance, stop me in my tracks if I were misbehaving.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bennett.” I nod and avoid banal conversation.
When I push open the door, I couldn’t be more shocked.
The room is full. It’s not just the public affairs team. It’s club management. There’s the medical staff leadership, including Dr. Silverberg, plus a handful of suits.
And Layton Ranger.
A Layton Ranger whose tee and athletic pants look oddly out of place in a room full of people dressed as if they don’t work with a bunch of athletes.
My sports bra, tank, and yoga pants might as well be a bikini for as exposed as I feel.
How I didn’t look at the meeting invite they sent is beyond me. I blame my lack of vitamin D and Tommy. In all fairness, I stopped truly blaming him a while ago, but he’s still the fall boy for everything that goes wrong.
Flat tire? Tommy.
Hangnail? Tommy.
Failing to see who was on a meeting invitation regarding my career? Obviously… Tommy.
“Good afternoon.” I hold my shoulders back and fake confidence I do not feel right now.
“Dr. Morgan. Come in and have a seat.” The team’s GM extends a hand, and I sit where he indicates… at the foot of the table with a view of everyone, excluded from the pack, on display for everyone to see.