88. Definitely One Who Wants to Play
DEFINITELY ONE WHO WANTS TO PLAY
LIVY
I let my screen door slap behind me as I clear the street and walk to the center of the empty sand.
The sound of the waves and the smell of salt greet me, and I begin as I do each morning with a sun salutation and vitamin sea.
This is the place I vacate my stresses, ambitions, and disappointments… and focus.
I settle into my practice, concentrating on fluidity in the movements, focusing on my breathing, and drinking deeply of the peace this time offers.
I thank the universe for the beautiful display this morning and squeeze the cool sand between my toes.
Despite the cool morning, I’m soaked in sweat but am equal parts relaxed and reinvigorated.
I need everything about yoga to recenter me. It saved me in a dark time and has never forsaken me since. I’m thankful for the peace it offers, even as the world swirls around me.
“Namaste,” I offer to the water and the waves.
I head back home to my dog. Most people wonder if he’s a Dane-Dalmatian mix because of his coloring, but he’s all Dane. He’s a Harlequin and is a stunner.
“Kyle, you ready for a walk?”
He comes skidding toward me. He has boundless energy and joy and wishes he could be a lap dog even though he’s pushing one-hundred-and-seventy pounds and hasn’t ever fit in my lap. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t try, though.
He’s a rescue. Well, not really. I mean, I rescued him from a puppy mill by paying a ludicrous sum of money for him, but I make myself feel less horrible about feeding that machine by knowing I saved him.
To be honest, he saved me back.
I was brand new to Florida, moving to Miami to accept my first PT job before the NFL job was on the horizon.
We must be a pair. I’m slight. I call myself “hobbit size” because I practically am.
I’m five-one and totally count that one.
If Kyle were to stand and place his paws on my shoulders, he’d easily tower over me by a foot or more.
He could also rip my arm out of socket if he felt like it.
He’s got more than sixty pounds on me and is all muscle.
I latch his leash onto his collar, and we head out into the morning sunshine. Kyle needs to burn some energy before I leave for the day.
He’s well trained. He has to be. A sweet gangly puppy is darling. But a full-grown dog with that energy and size would be heck on wheels if not properly trained. So, I worked with him. Now, at almost sixteen months, he’s incredibly disciplined. He’s also wholly spoiled. I take credit for both.
Aside from a few quirks like chipped paint on corners in the house from his tail whipping, scuff marks on furniture, and all the other things that a giant breed brings to the table, he’s practically perfect. We won’t discuss my dog food bill.
We stroll the neighborhood. I walk. He practically struts. Within thirty minutes, he’s worn out. Giant breeds are like that—churn and burn, and then hours of lazy recovery.
I shower and get ready for my day. “Have a great day, Kyle. Stay off the counters.” The last part is just for me.
There’s evidence he does whatever he darn well pleases while I’m gone.
If it bothered me, I’d care, but he’s a good boy and loves me well, so I overlook some things that wouldn’t work for others.
I head into the office and try my sister while en route.
The call rings once and gets sent to voicemail.
“You’ve reached the voicemail of Natalia Morgan.
Please leave your name, number, and the nature of your call, and I, or someone on my team, will return your call as quickly as we’re able. Text messages will not be returned.”
“Tally, it’s Livy. I heard you made partner. I’m so happy for you and so proud of you. I’d love to catch up when you have time.” I’ll try her again in a week. No doubt it’ll take almost a month to have a five-minute chat about her latest promotion.
When the team needed a PT, they didn’t put it on the job boards. The industry is tight, and poor hires, especially when it comes to team health, can be disastrous. A friend of mine in private practice heard about it through a client of hers who plays in the league and encouraged me to apply.
The wreckage and testosterone of this kind of clientele didn’t seem like my thing, but in my three months here, I’ve come to love it. I can truly help. The clients all want to be better and are willing to put in the hard work.
Besides, I won’t admit it to anyone except my bestie, but there aren’t fifty physical therapists on staff with the league, so it’s a small, rather elite fraternity of individuals. I’m proud of landing the role and even more proud of the work I’m doing here.
I go through files and correspondence with the athletic training team and medical staff and send appointment reminder texts out for meetings this afternoon.
Imagine my surprise when I arrive at morning yoga to find Layton Ranger already there, mat rolled out, and waiting.
Layton
I’m an idiot.
Or a sucker.
Or both.
Am I really to believe that the pocket-sized PT and her stretches can make me run faster?
“I need to have my head examined.”
“I already know that. But why today?” Marshall says as he enters the room.
“For falling for this.” I wave my hand around the room stopping on the roll-out mat to emphasize my point.
“Don’t laugh, okay?”
“You know me better than that, Marsh.”
“This loosens up my hips. I never said this and I’ll deny it if you repeat it, but I’ve been doing yoga and Pilates, and—”
“What?” I bark out a laugh.
“Fuck you, Ranger. I’ll say this. I’m off the line faster, and my Monday recovery doesn’t hurt the way it used to.”
“You believe that shit?”
“I’m telling you. Thirty-five years old and I’ve been squatting for two decades, lifting weights all that time. And the past two years? I’ve felt better after games and needed less ice.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m giving you an extra second, second and a half to go in motion. Seriously.”
I shake my head. I’m living in the twilight zone.
Marshall sits on his mat, cross-legged like Livy was yesterday. And before my very eyes, he folds in on himself, touching his forehead to his feet.
Carlson says behind me on a choked whisper, “Did the foul-mouth, dad-joke-telling Roderick Marshall just do what I think he did?”
I nod, hoping my jaw isn’t on the floor like those old cartoons.
“Challenge accepted.” Carlson flips his mat to the floor on the other side of our center and begins stretching. Of course, our kicker can put his right ankle past his ear, but that’s his job.
“Remember when I played smash-mouth football with men who didn’t do ballet?” It’s a rhetorical question, which works since neither answers me.
Slowly, twenty or so players and some of the athletic training staff filter in. Some stand and stretch. Others sit with their eyes closed or lie down and stare at the ceiling.
The sound of flowing water and Chinese stringed instruments floats around me, and the muted lights dim even further.
Livy Morgan enters in yet another top that’s open in the back, held on by strings of some sort and yoga pants that highlight her perfect tight ass. It’s small, maybe a handful for me, and—
“Mr. Ranger, are you staying to join us?”
It’s a needle scratching across a record as she busts me staring. Oh well, she put it out there on display.
I smirk. I can’t help it. “Just watching today.”
“Oh, I took you for a man of action, not someone who likes to watch from the bench.”
My groan is drowned out by the Oh, no, she didn’ts and the taunts of the men around me laughing at my expense.
“You’re right, Pix. I’m definitely one who wants to play. Let’s go.”
She lifts her chin and smirks right back. The glint in her eyes tells me I took her bait, and she thinks she’s won this game.
She has no clue. I don’t play; I win. I always win.
“Take your position, then.” She darts her eyes to my mat, walking away without looking back to see if I did as she instructed.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
I was wrong.
It isn’t fun.
It sucks, and I’m insane.
I might be able to run, but that fold-over shit Marshall did isn’t easy. I didn’t squeal when I tried, but my stupid hamstring screamed at me and reminded me I’m a runner, not a folder.
When Livy says, “Namaste,” and bows toward us, the relief I feel is in equal measure to something I struggle to put my finger on. I’m almost… reenergized, not that I’ll admit to it.
My teammates and I wander out to the cafeteria for some grub. I manage to resist looking back for the pixie to get another glance at her. No doubt she’d be a good fuck—I mean, she’s flexible and lithe, and that sass… But I don’t shit where I eat, so she’s off-limits.
Doesn’t mean I can’t flirt, though. I can at least picture her when I’m in bed.