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)
“Good, but this blood pressure needs to come down,” Doc Peterson continues, setting his tablet on a small rolling cart and facing me directly. “You need to stop pushing so hard. Make time to relax and take better care of yourself. No one can grind twenty-four seven.”
“I don’t grind twenty-four seven,” I say, earning a dubious grunt from Stone. I glare his way. “I don’t. I’ve cut down on my client load.”
“And you added coaching at the youth camps,” Stone counters. “Which is even more work. I love kids as much as the next guy, but that’s a lot of chaos. Why don’t you let me help you out? I can fill in for you tomorrow at camp, finish Friday out strong for the rugrats. That way you’ll have three days to chill out.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to feel grateful instead of threatened. Stone is just trying to be a friend. It isn’t his fault that I take every sign that my body might be deteriorating as an existential threat. “But I don’t need rest.”
“I agree,” the doc says, surprising me. “Rest alone isn’t going to cut it. You need coping skills, a way to process stress effectively. You can only muscle through on will power alone for so long, Theodore.”
I stare at the floor, at the scuffed toes of my motorcycle boots, not wanting to admit he could be right. Three years ago, I was circling the drain—a washed-up goalie with a pill habit and nowhere to go but six feet under. Now, through pure will power and grit, I’ve rebuilt my life, my career. But my body, the only thing I’ve ever been able to rely on, is betraying me. And I know enough about health and fitness to realize stress is at least partly to blame.
I’m just not sure what the hell I’m supposed to do about it.
“What are my options?” I finally ask, the words like ash in my mouth. “I really don’t want to be on blood pressure meds. I don’t like taking pills.” The irony of that statement isn’t lost on me, but what can I say? Now that I’m clean, I want to stay clean. I don’t touch even over-the-counter drugs aside from the occasional ibuprofen and arnica gel I rub on my shoulder before bed.
Doc Peterson sighs. “Medication might become necessary down the line, but I would suggest lifestyle modifications first. Better nutrition, lower salt intake, a potassium supplement, consistent sleep… And yoga could be great for you. I bet you would really benefit from some time on the mat.”
Stone makes a choking sound that I’m pretty sure is suppressed laughter.
It makes me wish I’d held on to Bucky, so I’d have something to throw at him.
“Stretching? You think I need more stretching?” I ask, my tone making it clear what I think of that.
“Yoga is a lot more than stretching,” Peterson says. “It’s a form of moving meditation, of body-mind awareness. You practice dealing with physical stress on the mat, so you’re more prepared for all kinds of stress in your daily life.” He smiles, his brown eyes crinkling at the edges. “And it’s fun. I feel great after yoga.”
“Me, too,” Stone pipes up, the traitor. “There’s actually a woman who teaches a team class on Saturday mornings when the Badgers are in town. I met her when I was visiting a friend here last year. She’s super cute. I think her name is Stacey or Stephanie or something?”
I frown harder. “It’s Stephanie.”
Stone’s brows lift. “Oh yeah? You know her?”
I do know Stephanie, a perky little hippie who’s close with my friend Shane’s girlfriend, Bree. She’s beautiful, ridiculously innocent-looking for a woman in her twenties, and so sweet that the one time I chatted with her for more than a few minutes, I nearly developed a cavity.
“No offense, but I’d rather be punched in the stomach,” I say. “Repeatedly. I can’t handle that much positivity at once. Especially first thing in the morning.”
Stone smirks. “Well, lucky for you, she has her own studio and teaches evening classes, too.”
“Stephanie Love, right?” Peterson asks, continuing at Stone’s nod. “Yeah, she’s great. She specializes in the needs of athletes, especially hockey players. I think she’d be a good fit for you, Theodore. And I’m pretty sure she’ll be teaching classes during training camp, too, so you’d benefit from getting to know her style.”
Perfect. They’re ganging up on me now.
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the scratch of my stubble against my palm, counting silently to ten to keep from saying something I’ll regret. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think. Just do it. Sign up for a couple classes a week until camp starts,” the doctor says. “Consider it a prescription, and we’ll check in again at your intake physical. Here, I actually think I have one of her cards in my wallet.”