Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
I flip the card over to find a class schedule on the back.
Huh. Looks like she has a slow flow class on Saturdays at 11:30…
I look at the clock by my bed, then instantly look away.
So, it’s only 9:00. So what? I’m not going to yoga again. Two days in a row is too much too soon. Worse, after the things I said last night, it might look…thirsty.
I really should have kept the “beautiful” comment to myself.
Besides, spacing my two classes a week out a little more makes sense from a conditioning point of view.
As I’m putting the card back down, I catch sight of the borrowed yoga pants I tossed over my desk chair last night. I did say that I’d wash them and bring them back to the studio. Maybe I shouldn’t wait on that.
After all, what if another guy my size needs a pair of loaner pants to keep from flashing his balls in his downward dog? No one wants to see hairy balls while they’re trying to Zen out. Balls are the opposite of Zen.
“This is a bad idea,” I tell myself even as I gather the pants and head to my small laundry room. “Bad and thirsty.”
Yet, come 11:10 a.m., I find myself pulling up to Love Lotus on my Harley, freshly washed yoga pants in my backpack. But that’s fine. I’ll just drop them off, make sure that the Tuesday “Yin Flow” evening class would be a good fit for a beginner, and leave.
In and out. No big deal.
The moment I push open the door, I’m hit with the low, rhythmic beat of drum music and the soft scent of eucalyptus. The lobby is empty, but I can hear Stephanie’s voice coming from the studio, guiding students through what sounds like a series of rapid movements.
Guess the 10:15 class isn’t out yet.
I hesitate, but decide to wait. I could just leave the pants at the desk with a note, but something compels me to stay. I tell myself that I just need to ask about that “Yin” class, but that’s one of the problems with lying to yourself—deep down you always know when you’re full of shit.
“Hey there! Back again already, are ya?” a creaky voice asks from behind me.
I turn to find an elderly man in bike shorts and a Portland Trailblazers t-shirt smiling at me. He’s at least eighty, with surprisingly muscular forearms and the kind of tan that comes from decades outdoors.
“Pete,” he says, extending a gnarled hand. “You were in yesterday’s beginner class. You’re an athlete, right? Gotta be with a build like that.”
“Tank,” I reply, shaking his hand. “Yeah, I’m a hockey player. Going to be playing for the Badgers this year.”
“Ah, a hockey man! I was a goalie myself, back in the 60s. Nothing professional, just local leagues.” He gestures to his leg. “Until this old thing gave out. Torn ACL, never healed right. Back then they didn’t have the surgeries they do now.”
I smile. “I’m a goaltender, too.”
“Best twenty-three years of my life,” he says proudly. “I was never as good as you NHL boys, but I held my own.” He hesitates, his eyes narrowing on my face. “Now that you mention the NHL, you do look familiar. Did you play for Seattle by any chance? Few years back?”
I blink, surprised. I was never a particularly popular player, certainly not the kind that got interviewed after the games or anything like that. “Yeah, I did. Good memory.”
Pete taps his temple with a weathered finger. “Still got most of my marbles, son. And I always keep track of the west coast teams. My wife used to complain about my sports habit.” His smile grew wistful. “But she liked watching, too. Especially hockey.” He winked before adding, “She thought you guys were the cutest ones.”
Before I can respond, the studio door opens and people begin to file out, their bodies glistening with sweat, expressions a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. As the last student leaves, Stephanie appears in the doorway, her braids pulled back in a high ponytail, wearing skin-tight purple leggings and a cropped black tank top that shows off its fair share of glistening skin.
She spots me and her eyes widen slightly before her lips curve into that same warm, slightly teasing smile from yesterday. “Well, Tank, this is a surprise. Back for more so soon?”
I hold up my backpack. “No, just came to return your pants.”
“Oh, well, thank you. But you didn’t have to rush,” she says, moving toward me. I catch the light scent of something floral mingled with a hint of sweat and have to fight the urge to lean in and inhale. “We have plenty of spare clothes hanging around.”
Pete clears his throat beside me. “Well, I’m back for more, Stephanie. And I think we should convince this big guy to stay, too. That way I won’t be the only dude in slow flow again.”