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 wave him into the studio, “Come on, let’s get on the mat. You can tell me more about your history while we settle in. Any other injuries I should know about?”
“No, not really,” he says as he follows me into the warmer air in the studio. “Just the usual pulled muscles and bruises, mostly. I fractured my collarbone in a fight my rookie year in the minors, but it was just a hairline fracture and healed fine. There was another accident, off the ice, but I came back from that, too. The real reason I’m here is um…” He makes a grumbly noise before muttering in a softer voice, “my blood pressure.”
I glance up at him as I stop beside the mat I rolled out for him earlier. “Why are you embarrassed about your blood pressure?”
“I’m not.” He rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine, I am. I’m twenty-nine. I’m too young to have blood pressure problems. And yeah, I could eat better, but it’s not like I’m living on junk food. I salad at least four or five times a week.”
“You salad,” I repeat with a grin. “I like that. Salad should definitely be a verb. I also salad every chance I get, but I was still pre-diabetic for a long time. It’s just genetically something my family struggles with. All bodies have their issues. Our job is to meet them and address them with compassion and curiosity. Not judgment.”
He laughs again, softer this time, but the sound is still sweet. “You sound like my friend Yoda. He’s got Zen on lock, too.”
“Not the little green guy, I’m assuming?” I ask,
“No, childhood friend,” Tank says, his smile fading. “He was married to my sister before she passed.”
My brow furrows, my heart aching for him again. “I’m so sorry, Tank. That’s so rough.”
He nods. “Thanks. But it was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, sensing he hasn’t dealt with that grief any more than he’s dealt with the shame over whatever happened to make him leave the NHL the first time. “All the things we’ve suffered, physically and emotionally, live in our body. Until we process them, they’ll keep moving around in our tissue and organs, causing trouble, preventing us from leading our healthiest, happiest life.” I rest a hand lightly on his shoulder. “I’m so glad our paths crossed. I think a yoga practice is going to do amazing things for you.”
He leans in, tipping his head closer to mine. “Will you still think that if I tell you I’m not buying that emotions live in my tissues without some science to back it up?”
I lift my chin, fighting to keep my breath even as my lips move within inches of his. “I’ll text you some research study links later. Now, down in child’s pose, LiBassi. I need you to get out of your head and into those sticky ribs. We’re going to work on moving your breath lower in your body first. You have a tendency to lock up around the base of your ribcage. If we can open that up, you’re going to see improvement in your cardio performance almost overnight. I can sense you’re a ‘let me see the results’ kind of guy, so we’ll start there.”
That earns me another smile. “I didn’t realize I was so easy to read.”
“You aren’t,” I admit. “You’re still pretty mysterious, actually, but I’ll figure you out. If you decide to let me.”
He grunts.
I grunt back at him.
“Touché,” he says with a big, bold smile unlike any I’ve seen from him before. Then, he drops into child’s pose, just in time to keep him from seeing the way I melt in the sunshine of that grin.
Wow.
Who knew Tank was capable of a smile like that? Even yesterday, I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. Whether he wants to admit it or not, the practice is already at work in his body and his life.
And I’m even more committed to helping him heal in every way than I was before.
Which means professionalism is an absolute must.
A must, I repeat as I guide him through a gentle flow, correcting his postures with hands that are practically humming with awareness over every inch of his powerful body.
A must, I repeat as we take a break after the standing postures to take Mr. Sniffles for a short walk and feed him his supper.
A must, as Mr. Sniffles waddles over to snuggle next to Tank on his mat during his final resting pose, clearly as drawn to this damaged man as I am.
“I know, buddy,” I murmur as we watch Tank go a few minutes later, waving at him through the window. “But he’s just a client, and maybe, someday, a friend. Anything more would be crossing a line.”
Mr. Sniffles snorts, making it clear what he thinks of that.