Trained by the Mountain Daddy (Mountain Daddy Matches #3)

Chapter 1 - Geoff

one

Geoff

"You look like shit."

John doesn't even look up from dealing the cards, just states it like he's commenting on the weather. Bastard.

I down the rest of my whiskey and reach for the bottle, but Marshall's hand intercepts mine. "How much have you had tonight?"

"Not enough." My back is screaming. Has been for three days straight. The pills aren't working anymore, and I'm not about to go crawling back for more.

Rex leans back in his chair, studying me with those cold operator eyes. "When's the last time you actually slept through the night?"

"I sleep fine." The lie sounds weak even to my own ears.

"Bullshit," Geoff mutters. We're at his place, the cabin he shares with Lilah now. There are pink throw pillows on his couch. The guys give him endless shit about it, but he doesn't care. That's what being pussy-whipped looks like, I guess.

"Intervention time," John announces, setting down the cards. "We're worried about you."

I sigh. I try to stand, but my back spasms hard enough to make me grab the table for support. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Marshall says quietly. "You're getting worse. Drinking more, showing up less. When's the last time you did anything besides sit in your cabin and feel sorry for yourself?"

I want to hit something, want to tell them all to go to hell. But they're not wrong. I've been spiraling for months, ever since the pain got bad enough that even the whiskey doesn't help anymore.

"What do you want me to do? Physical therapy didn't work. Pills don't work. Surgery's off the table unless I want to risk paralysis."

"Yoga," John says simply.

I stare at him for a long moment, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn't come, I let out a harsh laugh. "You're joking."

"I'm not. Before I met Bunny, I was doing yoga for my shoulder. Helped more than anything else."

"Yoga is for housewives and hippies."

"Yoga is for anyone smart enough to try it," Marshall corrects. "Charlie does it. Says it's harder than it looks."

"I'm not doing fucking yoga."

Rex pulls out his phone, taps something. "Too late. Already signed you up for a trial class."

"You what?"

"Lilah's Light Yoga Studio. Tomorrow morning, 10 AM. Teacher's name is Lilah Sweet."

"I'm not going."

"You're going," Marshall says in that voice. The one that used to make privates jump during drills. "Because if you don't, we're staging a real intervention. The kind where we drag your ass to the hospital and make them admit you."

"You can't—"

"We can and we will," John interrupts. "You're our brother, Geoff. We're not watching you drink yourself to death in that cabin."

I look around the table. These assholes. These goddamn meddling assholes who won't let me self-destruct in peace.

"One class," I grind out. "One. And when it doesn't work, you all leave me the hell alone."

"Deal," Rex says, smirking like he already knows something I don't.

The next morning, I'm standing outside Lilah's Light Yoga Studio, hungover and furious. The place looks exactly how I imagined - painted in pastels, crystals hanging in the windows, a wooden sign with flowing script and what appears to be a lotus flower.

Smells like patchouli had a baby with a flower shop when I walk in.

The studio itself is one big room with hardwood floors and floor-to-ceiling windows. There are plants everywhere. Inspirational quotes painted on the walls in looping cursive. Soft music playing from hidden speakers - the kind with wind chimes and ocean sounds.

I want to leave immediately.

"Welcome!"

I turn. The instructor is walking toward me with a smile so bright it physically hurts to look at.

She's tiny. This girl can't be more than 5'4" with blonde hair in a high ponytail and wearing head-to-toe pink.

Pink leggings that hug curves I shouldn't be noticing, pink sports bra under a loose pink tank top, even pink running shoes.

She looks like a fucking cupcake.

"You must be Geoff! Your friends told me all about you!" She's still smiling. How is she still smiling? "I'm Lilah! I'm so excited to help you on your wellness journey!"

"My friends are assholes."

The smile doesn't even flicker. "That's okay! Anger is just passion without direction. We'll channel that energy into positive movement!"

Kill me now.

"Look, I'm only here because they forced me. I don't believe in this hippie bullshit, and I'm probably going to hate every second of it."

"That's wonderful!" Still smiling. Still so goddamn perky. "Honesty is so important! Let's get you set up with a mat."

She leads me to the back of the room, chattering the whole time about breathing techniques and mindful movement. I tune most of it out, focusing on not limping. My back is on fire already and class hasn't even started.

Five other people trickle in. Two middle-aged women who look like they live at the country club. One guy in his sixties. A younger woman with a baby bump. And a man in his forties who shows up twenty minutes late, disrupting everyone.

"Oh, Kevin! No worries!" Lilah immediately stops mid-instruction to accommodate him. "We're just getting started! Let me grab you a mat!"

She apologizes. To him. For him being late.

The class starts, and I'm immediately out of my depth. Everyone else seems to know what they're doing, flowing from one position to another while I'm stuck trying to figure out which way is up. Lilah comes over frequently to adjust my for.

"You're very tight through here," she murmurs, pressing on my lower back. "Try to breathe into the stretch."

"Trying not to scream," I grunt.

"That's valid! Pain is our body's way of communicating. Listen to what it's saying, but also push gently past your comfort zone."

Despite my cynicism, despite the pain, despite everything - my back actually feels marginally better halfway through the class. The constant stretching and controlled movement is doing something the pills never did.

Which pisses me off, because now I have to come back.

The credit card machine beeps during checkout. Lilah's face falls slightly. "Oh! You can just pay me next time!"

"Are you sure? I could run home and get my checkbook—"

"No, no! It's fine! Don't worry about it!"

Kevin, the guy who was late, is making comments while rolling up his mat. Something about how those pink leggings should be illegal. Something about the view during downward dog.

Lilah laughs. Uncomfortable, high-pitched. Changes the subject quickly instead of telling him to shut the fuck up or get out.

I stay until everyone leaves, pretending to struggle with the mat I'm returning just so I can speak to her alone.

"You always let people walk all over you like that?"

Her smile finally cracks, and all the sunshine drains out until she just looks tired. Small. "I don't."

"That guy was sexually harassing you. The late one disrupted everyone and cost you teaching time. The lady’s card declined and you just wrote it off like it was nothing. You apologized twelve times in the past hour for things that weren't your fault."

She deflates completely, shoulders curving inward. "I'm just trying to be nice."

"Nice is going to bankrupt you, sweetheart." I gesture toward the desk where I saw the late payment notice she tried to hide behind a stack of folders. "When's the last time you actually got paid by everyone in that class?"

Her eyes go wide with panic. "You can't tell anyone about that!"

"You need help. Not financial help. You need someone to teach you how to say no. Set boundaries. Stand up for yourself."

"And you're volunteering?" The question comes out more challenging than she probably meant it, and I can see there's some spine in her after all.

The words surprise us both, but looking at this tiny ball of anxiety and people-pleasing, thinking about how my buddies forced me here to fix my broken body... maybe we can help each other.

"Yeah," I hear myself say. "Maybe I am."

She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war happening behind those blue eyes. She wants help, afraid to accept it, not sure if she can trust this grumpy stranger who just called her out on all her bullshit.

"Why would you do that?" she finally asks.

Good question. Why would I?

Because she reminds me of every private I ever trained who was too soft for the Corps but had potential underneath.

Because her studio smells like flowers instead of whiskey and pain.

Because my back feels better than it has in months and I'm already thinking about tomorrow's pain levels.

Because she needs someone to protect her from herself, and I need someone to focus on besides my own broken pieces.

"Because I'm apparently a masochist who enjoys hippie bullshit," I say instead. "And because that class actually helped. So I'll be back. Three times a week, like the guys said. But if I'm suffering through this, you're going to stop being a doormat. Deal?"

She bites her lip, considering, then nods slowly. "Deal. But I don't know how to change."

"That's what I'm here for." I head for the door, then pause with my hand on the frame. "Same time Wednesday?"

"Wednesday's at 6 PM. Evening class."

"I'll be here. And Lilah?" I look back at her over my shoulder. "Next time someone makes a comment about your ass, you kick him out. Immediately. No second chances."

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "But he's a paying client."

"Is he though? Or is he another one who 'forgets' their wallet?"

She flushes. Busted.

"Wednesday," I repeat. "And send Kevin an email tonight telling him he's no longer welcome. If you can't do it, forward me his contact info. I will."

I leave before she can argue, before I can change my mind, before I can think too hard about what I just agreed to.

My phone buzzes before I'm even in my truck.

Marshall: How'd it go?

Me: I hate you all.

Marshall: So you're going back?

Me: Wednesday.

Marshall: Knew it. You're welcome.

But I'm smiling slightly as I drive home, and my back isn't screaming for the first time in weeks. Maybe the guys aren't complete assholes after all.

Maybe.