Chapter 22 Harlan
Harlan
Seeing Katie in her cute blue yoga pants, that tight pink yoga top, and that sexy, swishy ponytail? Well, let’s just say it frazzles my brain.
But I’m a good boy.
I’m in the zone.
The cat, cow, dog zone.
We are just a yoga teacher and a client, not the man and woman who cancelled a hot date last night.
In a private room at her studio, designed for one-on-one sessions, Katie takes me through several poses, then says it’s time for a lunge twist.
“This is critical for a receiver. It’ll help as you lunge for catches,” she says.
I’ve done plenty of stretches over the years, just like this one. But Katie studies me like a scientist, then shifts my body like a sculptor, setting her hands on my hips, urging me to deepen the rotation.
I’d like to deepen other rotations.
“There! That’s perfect. Now just hold it,” she says, so damn encouraging as she sinks into the same pose, twisting her elbow against her thigh, looking supple and flexible and all sorts of bendy.
“Show-off.”
“I just like to move my body,” she says with a smile.
And that’s not helping, because I like all the ways she moves my body, as well.
Like when we switch to a frog pose. “On your hands and knees,” she says.
“Things I’d like to say to you,” I mutter, and dammit, that’s not the cat-cow zone. That’s the naughty zone.
Must stay out of it.
“Harlan Taylor,” she admonishes, but there’s a sexy note in her voice that tells me she, too, is savoring every flirty morsel we allow ourselves.
Which isn’t much, but I’ll take what I can get.
“Then you need to slide out your knees a little bit, like a frog.”
I settle into the awkward AF pose. “I look like a dork.”
“Yes, but who cares?” she asks with an easy shrug, a sexy jut of her shoulder. I swear, everything this woman does is sexy to me.
But I also like talking to her.
Chatting with Katie is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. Always has been, ever since the first night at that wedding. We just clicked. She’s a kindred spirit.
“Doesn’t matter if you look dorky. Or silly. Just…laugh,” she suggests.
“Aren’t you supposed to say…I dunno…om or namaste?” I tease.
She settles onto her mat next to me, getting into the same pose, first on her hands and knees, then sliding her knees out to the side. Looking like a frog, obvs. “I take the poses seriously, but I don’t take myself too seriously,” she says, then her lips curve into a sly smirk. “Ribbit.”
I chuckle. “I’ve got some animal noises for you right here.” As I hold the weird pose, I give her my best roar. “Rawr!”
She cracks up, falling face-first to the mat as she slaps the floor.
“What? Was I not fearsome as a lion?” I arch a brow.
She turns to me. “You’re as fearsome as the king of the lion frogs, Harlan!”
“See if I ever entertain you with animal sounds again,” I say, but I’m laughing too.
Especially since we’re definitely not in the naughty zone anymore. That has to be good for our brand-new working relationship.
“Moo,” she says, quickly zipping out of the frog pose and into a bovine one, bowing her back. Seconds later, she’s arching like a cat. “Meow.”
I whimper.
Katie is a very sexy yoga cat.
“Meow-zers,” I say.
Hopping out of the position, she moves behind me, dropping her hands to my hips and wiggling them.
Her tone is teacherly again, the yoga instructor who believes in what she does.
“If you can hold the frog pose for at least a few minutes every day, that’ll help release the groin and inner thigh.
Those are locations for a lot of injuries.
You want to keep the groin nice and soft. ”
“No, I don’t want my groin soft,” I blurt. Because I can’t not go there.
She laughs, giving another slight adjustment. “There. Just hold.” But her soft voice and her gentle hands are having the opposite effect on me.
This one-on-one is not helping my dirty brain. I can’t stop thinking about the one-on-ones I crave with her.
Yup, hands-on is leading to hard-on. I cast about for neutral topics. “So, is it true yoga is cheaper than therapy?”
Her blue eyes twinkle. “Guess it depends on what I charge the Renegades,” she says with a wink.
“I like your capitalist side.”
“Nothing wrong with wanting to make a good living,” she says, lady boss and owning it. Damn, that’s hot too.
“I couldn’t agree more.” I cycle to another of her yoga sayings from her clothing line. “Is yoga your favorite way to pretend to work out?”
She’s quiet for a beat, then sits next to me, meeting my gaze. “Are you just quoting me back to me now?”
I flash a grin. “Seems I am. I researched more about your business before these sessions. Still love the cute sayings.”
Her smile is magnetic. “Thank you. I’m flattered you did that.”
“I like your style. I like what you’ve built.”
Her eyes shimmer with happiness. I love that I put that look there. “That means a lot to me. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I like watching you play. I’m having a big ol’ watch party this weekend with my girlfriends. We’re talking charcuterie boards, wine, nachos, and Jillian’s special guacamole mix. And we’ll be rooting for you.”
Pride suffuses my whole being.
There is something fulfilling about playing a game you’re good at for a woman you like.
Even if you can’t have her.
I wish this could work. I wish we could move forward, earning first down after first down. But it seems the universe’s defensive line is tougher than us right now, and we’re punting rather than picking up where we left off.
Not now, and not for the foreseeable future.
But maybe at the end of the season? Coach said we’d be doing yoga for that long, but when we’re done, maybe our timing will finally line up.
I tuck that thought away. I’ll hold on to it until the moment is right to bring it up.
***
On Thursday after our team workout, I do one of my favorite things—I pick Abby up from school.
She bounds down the front steps of the school building, alongside a curly-haired blond, and barely gives me a chance to say hello.
“Hello—”
“Can we go to the playground around the corner? Audrey and I want to do the rock-climbing wall, and it’ll be so fun,” Abby says, then wraps an arm around her friend, who flashes me a gap-toothed smile.
“Please, Mister Taylor,” Audrey puts in. “My mom said it’s okay and you can drop me off in an hour,” Audrey adds quickly, gesturing to her mom who’s talking to another parent by the school entrance.
“And she only lives four blocks away,” Abby says at the speed of light.
Laughing, I finally get a word in edgewise. “Well, it seems you two have already plotted this whole playground playdate.”
“We did,” Abby says. “So, it’s a yes?”
“I’ll just check with Audrey’s mom.” I make my way to the school entrance, and once I confirm Audrey’s mom is cool with the plan, I return to the girls. “Rock-climbing time,” I say, grateful my life and my job allow me this sort of flexibility in the middle of the week.
But there’s only so much flexibility I have.
The next day is also technically my day with Abby, but I won’t be able to spend it with her. I don’t spend any weekends with her during football season. I’m either flying to another city or we’re in the team hotel, deliberately away from family. That’s just how it goes in the league.
In the morning, we grab the two most excellent apple pies we baked last night, then I take her to Danielle’s house around seven, since we have a 9:00 a.m. flight to Seattle for our game this weekend.
Danielle lets us in, and I step into the foyer.
“Thanks again for taking her to school. And having her this weekend and all the other weekends,” I say with a smile, and a little bit of sadness too.
“Easy-peasy,” Danielle says, and that’s my reminder to sweep away the pang of longing for weekends. Truly, I’m damn lucky to share this kid with a mom who’s so chill about, well, everything.
“And we made you two pies,” Abby announces, thrusting the pink boxes at her mom. “One’s for us to take to the gymnastics showcase on Saturday, and one is for you and Jamie to take to the hospital.”
Danielle’s eyes light up with culinary delight. “The parents will love it at Gym Buddies. And I guarantee the nurses will love this one too.” She turns to me. “They seriously appreciate it when doctors bring them pies baked by their favorite player.”
“You’re famous at Mommy’s hospital,” Abby says.
“Especially since you’ve been playing like you’re about to own the heck out of free agency,” Jamie calls from the kitchen, then pops his head in the doorway, waiting expectantly.
Like now is when I’m going to decide my off-season plans.
My entire career plans.
Truth is—I still don’t know what I’ll do in January.
No clue whatsoever. Maybe I’m waiting for a sign. Is my good health—knock on wood—a sign to keep playing? Or is it a sign to quit while I’m ahead?
I wish I knew.
Danielle rolls her eyes. “Jamie. He’s not going to just tell us one morning in the entryway.”
“A man can dream,” Jamie says with an easy shrug.
“And the answer is—I’ll keep making you pies,” I tell him, like that’s a satisfying answer.
But it’s the only one I can legitimately give.
I bend to scoop up Abby, giving her one more hug. “I’ll miss you, little bear. Good luck in your gymnastics showcase,” I say, since that’s another thing I’m going to miss this weekend.
“Good luck in your game.” She gives me knuckles, and her fist explosion is legendary, but it breaks my heart all at the same time.
***
We fly to Seattle to vie with one of the toughest teams in the league. That Sunday it’s the game of the day, a marquee matchup between two top teams in the west.
When we run through the corridor of the stadium and hit the field, that familiar rush of energy blasts through me.
Always has.
Ever since I was a kid and touched the gridiron for the first time, I’ve felt it. The thrill. The excitement. For nearly fifteen years, I’ve been playing the game I love for a living.
Will I still feel this way next year?
Who knows?
Right now, though, it’s game time.
And I’m in the zone.
Trouble is, so’s Seattle.
Their defense is on fire, and I don’t get a chance to make a single play during our first possession. I run a quick route right, but the secondary is all over me like flies on honey.
The game’s a tight one for the rest of the quarter, with both teams putting up zeroes.
When we get the ball with three minutes left before the end of the half, I’m raring to break the scoreless streak. Hell, we all are.
Cooper gives us the play, and I head to my spot on the line of scrimmage. I’m in motion, and once he takes the snap, I race off down the field, slip behind the linebackers, and catch a beautiful twenty-five-yard pass at the edge of the field.
And hot damn, I would love to sail away with this baby into the end zone, but Seattle’s about to steamroll me. I scramble two feet to get out of bounds, spinning around before the linebackers tackle me.
I land just so, and for a smidge of a second, I wait for that wince in my hamstring.
But I feel fine.
Completely fine.
And that makes me feel good.
Now, I know Katie didn’t cure my hamstring strain in a couple sessions. Sports and training don’t work that way.
But every little bit helps, and I’ll happily enjoy this moment, especially since it turns into a touchdown before the clock runs out and we head inside at the half.
The seven points is energizing, as it fucking should be.
And this—this is what I’ll miss if I retire.
The buzz, the intensity, the utter joy in making plays as a team.
That’s what we do in the second half, too, hunting for a chance to put more numbers up on the board.
It’s not easy, but Cooper slings another pass my way right before I spin out of bounds. But I haul it in, whirl around, and put my fleet feet to use to bring it all the way home.
I feel great when I reach the end zone.
The kind of great that makes me want to run to the stands and kiss the girl I like.
Too bad she’s not here.
And, more so, that we’re not together.