Chapter Three
Downward Spiral
Winnie
I arrive at the training room forty-five minutes early because I’m an overachiever with anxiety issues.
The space is quiet and empty. I flip on the lights and take a moment to breathe it in. This is my second official session. Yesterday was rough, but today will be better. Today I’m prepared.
I set out fifteen mats in neat rows, spacing them evenly. I test the sound system, queuing up a playlist I made specifically for this—ambient, calming, nothing like the heavy rock music blaring from the weight room yesterday. I arrange foam rollers along the wall and stack yoga blocks by the door.
I check my reflection in the mirror. Black leggings, fitted tank, hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Professional but practical. Nothing provocative. Nothing that says look at me.
Not that it matters. They looked anyway yesterday.
I push the thought away and focus on stretching, warming up my body while I wait. Twenty minutes until the session starts. Twenty minutes of peace.
Except at 8:42, I notice movement outside the glass doors.
Three players are already gathered in the hallway, peering in. One of them waves.
By 8:50, there are seven.
By 8:55, there are twelve—and more are trickling in from the locker room.
I stare at my roster sheet. Fifteen players signed up for today’s session.
So why, when I open the doors at 8:58, do twenty-three bodies pour into my training room like I’m giving away free beer?
“Is there a sign-up sheet I missed?” I ask no one in particular.
“I signed up,” Logan says brightly, claiming his spot in the front row. Of course he’s in the front row. “I’m very committed to my flexibility.”
“Me too,” says a guy I don’t recognize. Tall, dark hair, looks like he’s never touched his toes in his life. “Huge flexibility guy.”
“Same,” says another. “Can’t get enough of this… stretching stuff.”
They’re not even trying to be subtle, grinning and elbowing each other like this is all some big joke—like I’m a joke.
I take a breath and remind myself that I am a professional. I have a degree. I have certifications. I have handled difficult clients before. But I have never handled twenty-three professional athletes who are clearly just here to watch me bend over.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands together with more confidence than I feel. “We’re going to need more mats. If you don’t have one, check the equipment closet.”
A few guys head to the back, jostling each other like teenagers. Someone makes a joke I don’t catch, and there’s a burst of laughter that feels pointed.
I keep my expression neutral. Friendly. Unbothered.
Inside, my stomach is churning.
I’m arranging people into rows, trying to create some semblance of order, when I notice him.
Banks Callahan.
He’s in the far corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Not on a mat. Not stretching. Just… standing there. Watching.
Even from across the room, he’s impossible to miss.
The man is massive—easily six-four, dark hair, a sharp jaw covered in a few days’ worth of stubble, and a face that looks like it was carved specifically to intimidate.
Everything about him screams stay away, from the hard set of his mouth to the way he holds himself apart from everyone else, like he’s observing the room rather than participating in it.
And yet.
There’s something about the intensity of his stare that catches me off guard, sends a little jolt of awareness straight through my chest. His eyes are dark, almost black in this lighting, and they’re fixed on me with an unsettling focus.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t do anything except hold my gaze for a beat too long before looking away.
I look away too, annoyed at myself for noticing. For feeling anything.
The one time I met him, he acted odd. Cold. Couldn’t even manage basic human conversation.
I don’t have time to analyze whatever that’s about because Grayson Reed is pushing his way to the front of the room, and my whole body tenses.
“Saved you a spot,” Logan says to him, patting the mat beside his.
“Nah.” Grayson drops his mat directly in front of me. Like, three feet in front of me. Close enough that I could reach out and touch him. “I want the best view.”
My jaw tightens. “The view is the same from every mat.”
“I disagree.” He grins up at me, sprawling back on his elbows like he’s settling in for a show. “Some angles are better than others.”
Ignore him. Just ignore him.
“Alright, everyone find a mat and settle in.” I wait for the shuffling to stop, the conversations to die down. It takes longer than it should. “Welcome to session two. Let’s start with cat-cow…”
I demonstrate the pose, arching my back slowly, then rounding it. Basic stuff. Beginner level. Something I’ve taught a thousand times without incident.
Grayson lets out a low whistle.
Someone behind him snickers.
I’m suddenly aware that I’m on my hands and knees, in a bent over position, but I pretend I don’t hear it. Keep moving. Keep teaching. Don’t let them see you flinch.
“Good. Now move into downward dog. Hips up, heels reaching toward the floor.”
I walk through the rows, making corrections, keeping my voice steady. Most of the guys are actually trying—awkwardly, with the flexibility of concrete, but trying. A few are hopeless, but they’re making an effort.
“Breathe into the stretch,” I say, adjusting someone’s hand placement. “Don’t force it.”
“I’d let her force me into anything,” someone mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
My cheeks burn. I keep walking.
Then I get to Grayson.
He’s not even attempting the pose. He’s just kneeling on his mat, watching me with that smug expression I’m starting to hate. His eyes track my every movement like I’m entertainment.
“Need some help?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“Depends.” He leans back on his heels, making a show of looking me up and down. “You gonna come over here and adjust me? Get those hands on my body?”
A few guys nearby snicker. Someone coughs to cover a laugh.
My face is on fire now. “If you’re not going to participate, you can leave.”
“Oh, I’m participating.” His eyes drift down my body with zero subtlety. “I’m very engaged. In fact, I’ve got some tight spots that could really use your attention.”
More laughter. My hands are trembling. I lace them in front of me and try to remain calm.
“Reed.” The voice comes from the back of the room.
Banks hasn’t moved from his spot against the wall. His arms are still crossed, his expression unreadable. But something in his tone—low, flat, dangerous—makes Grayson’s smirk falter.
“What?”
“Shut up.”
It’s not loud. It’s not aggressive. It’s just… final. Like a door closing.
Grayson holds Banks’s stare for a moment, some silent challenge passing between them. Then he rolls his eyes and turns back to his mat, suddenly very interested in attempting downward dog.
I take the opportunity to move to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between us as possible. My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.
The rest of the session is a blur.
I go through the motions—warrior one, warrior two, triangle pose—but my heart isn’t in it.
Every time I demonstrate a stretch, I feel eyes on me.
Every time I bend forward, I hear whispers.
A few guys are legitimately trying to follow along, but they’re drowned out by the ones who treat every pose like a chance to stare.
“Fold forward from the hips,” I instruct, demonstrating. “Let your head hang heavy.”
“I’ll let something hang heavy,” someone mutters, and there’s another ripple of laughter.
I don’t look up. Don’t react. Don’t give them the satisfaction.
By the time I dismiss the group, I’m barely holding it together.
“Great session,” Logan says on his way out, seemingly oblivious to everything that just happened. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Sure.” My smile feels like plastic. Like it might crack if I hold it too long.
The room empties slowly. Too slowly. I busy myself collecting foam rollers.
When I finally look up, Banks is still there.
He’s by the door now, one hand on the frame, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders. He’s watching me with that same unreadable expression, and I can’t tell if he’s concerned, annoyed, or just waiting for something.
“You okay?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. It’s the most words he’s ever said to me.
“Fine,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just stands there like he’s waiting for a different answer.
I turn to face him fully, irritation flaring. “I said I’m fine. Why are you still here? You don’t even do yoga. Dana told me you don’t do group sessions.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
A flash of heat barrels through me. “And? Did you enjoy the show?” The bitterness in my voice surprises me.
His jaw tightens. “Not particularly.”
We stare at each other for a beat too long. I don’t know what I expect him to say—an apology, an explanation, something. But he just nods once, sharp and final, and walks out.
The door swings shut behind him.
I wait until his footsteps fade. Then I walk very calmly to the equipment closet, close the door behind me, and sink down against the wall.
My hands are shaking. My eyes are burning. I press the heels of my palms against them and take a breath that comes out way too shaky.
This is fine. I’m fine. It’s just a job. It’s just some comments. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.
Except this was supposed to be my fresh start. My new beginning. And I’m hiding in a closet trying not to cry. It’s not like I think they’re dangerous. They’re just… immature. But immature adds up. And it makes it impossible to be taken seriously.
My phone buzzes. It’s Tori, almost like she has a sixth sense.
Tori: How was session 2?
I stare at the screen for a long moment. Then my fingers start moving over the keys.
Me: Not great. I can’t do my job if they’re all staring at my ass, Tor.
Tori: That bad?
Me: Worse. Way more players showed up than signed up. They’re not here to stretch. They’re here to watch me. Like I’m the entertainment.
Tori: Shit. I’m sorry.
Me: There’s this ass named Grayson. He sat in the front row. Three feet away from me. Made comments the whole time.
Tori: I’m going to kill him.
Me: Get in line.
I lean my head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. A rack of resistance bands hangs above me, looking as tangled as I feel.
Tori: What did Dana say?
Me: I haven’t told her.
Tori: Winnie.
Me: I know. But what am I supposed to say? “Hi, the guys think I’m hot and it’s making my job hard”? She’ll think I’m being dramatic. Or worse, she’ll think I can’t handle it.
Tori: You shouldn’t HAVE to handle it.
Me: But I do. That’s the reality. I’m the “hot” yoga instructor and they’re professional athletes with the maturity of middle schoolers. If I complain, I’m the problem. If I don’t complain, nothing changes.
Three dots appear and disappear. Appear again.
Tori: Okay. We’re figuring this out tonight. My place. Wine. Brainstorming.
Me: Yes! What time?
Tori: 7. Bring snacks. I’ll bring solutions.
Me: That’s a lot of pressure on the solutions.
Tori: I thrive under pressure. See you tonight.
I pocket my phone and take another breath. Then I push myself to my feet, check my reflection in the tiny mirror on the back of the door—yep, mascara smudged, just as I suspected—and clean myself up as best I can.
I square my shoulders, paste on a smile, and walk back out into the facility.
Tonight. Wine and solutions. I just have to make it to tonight.