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)
“So, when did you realize hockey was your other passion?” she asks as we dig in. “Aside from food, of course.”
I finish my first bite of fish taco. “My dad played. Not professionally or anything, just local leagues. He put me on skates as soon as I could walk. But, like I said, he was an asshole, so playing with him wasn’t fun. I wasn’t sure I was into hockey at first, but I liked it a lot more once I got a scholarship to a peewee league in second grade. By high school, it was an obsession.” Scooping up a bite of green curry, I ask, “How about you? Have you always been a yoga nerd?”
She shakes her head as she chews, swallowing before she says, “No, I was actually kind of a stress case as a kid. My entire life, my parents had me on this intense track—private school, college prep courses, ivy league friendly extracurriculars, the whole nine yards. They wanted me to become a doctor like my mom or a JAG, military lawyer like my dad. I went along with it for a long time, but it never felt right. Then, my junior year, my therapist suggested I try yoga to help with my anxiety, and…that was it. I was hooked. I finally started feeling at home in my own skin and knew I was never going to quit.”
“That’s great,” I say, thinking how much more at home I feel in mine after just a few sessions.
“Yeah, it was,” she says, sighing before she adds in a rueful voice, “But sadly, my parents didn’t think so. They were even less thrilled when I dropped out of college a few years later to teach full time.” I grunt and she nods. “Exactly. My dad was so mad he didn’t talk to me for six months.”
“I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
“It was, but we’ve made peace and put that behind us,” she says. “My parents see how happy I am, and that I’ve built something that’s special to me.” She arches a brow as she grins. “The fact that my business was in the black just a few months after opening the studio helped. It convinced my dad that maybe I didn’t need a fancy degree to run a business, after all.”
I watch as she feeds a tiny piece of grilled fish to Mr. Sniffles, who accepts it with reverent delicacy, snorting and snuffling as he takes it down. “They should be proud,” I say. “You’re good at what you do. Really good. You have a gift.”
She butts her shoulder gently against mine, a gesture that’s friendly, chummy even, but still makes my heart beat faster. “Aw, thank you. That means a lot to me. Really. I think you do, too. Shane couldn’t say enough good things about his private sessions with you. I can’t wait to see you play.”
I exhale a long breath. “We’ll see. I’ve been out of the game a long time. And I’m a geezer compared to most of the guys on the team.”
“You’re not a geezer,” she says, her voice husky. “Not even close. You’re a man in your prime and you’re going to tear it up on the ice this season, no doubt in my mind.”
My gaze locks with hers and a wave of connection unlike anything I’ve felt in years vibrates in the air between us.
I want to tell her how much that means to me. To tell her that I appreciate her support, her friendship. But I’m not quite there, and I’m not sure either of us is ready to admit that this is starting to feel like more than a teacher-student thing.
More than a friend thing…
“Tank?” she whispers, making my stomach flip.
“Yes?” I murmur.
“I need more skewers,” she adds in an even softer voice. “I thought one would be enough, but it isn’t.”
Smiling, I nod toward our nearly-empty plates. “Take care of that last bite of fish taco, and I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you so much. Yay!” She claps her hands, beaming as I stand, her obvious delight making me happy.
She’s easy to please, and I enjoy pleasing her.
Doing my best not to think about pleasing her in other ways, I fetch two more skewers and we finish up the final bites of curry, eating until we’re both so stuffed, we can’t wedge in another bite.
Afterward, we clear our table and make our way back to my Harley. As I help secure Mr. Sniffles in his sidecar and strap his helmet into place, I find myself wishing it wasn’t time to say goodbye.
The ride to Stephanie’s apartment building is quiet, the streets of her residential neighborhood mostly empty at eleven p.m. She directs me with gentle taps on my shoulder, and soon we’re pulling up outside a modest, four-story brick building with a neatly trimmed hedge outside.