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)
Shit…
Clearly, whatever’s going wrong has gone extra wrong for Tank.
“Sorry I’m late, Coach,” he says, his voice clipped.
Lauder gives him a long look. “Get set up, and don’t make a habit of it.”
Tank nods, grabbing a mat from the stack and finding a spot in the back corner—far from Stone, far from me, far from everyone. His movements are stiff, mechanical, nothing like the man who held me close this morning, pressing sleepy kisses to my shoulder before reluctantly heading home to get ready for his big day.
I want to go to him, to offer comfort, but twenty-eight pairs of eyes are on me, waiting. At the moment, I have to be a professional before I’m a girlfriend, but hopefully I can use the class to remind everyone to breathe, release, and reset.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” I begin, centering myself as best I can. “For those who don’t know me, I’m Stephanie Love. I’ve been teaching professionally for six years, three with a special focus on pro-athletes, and I’ll be leading your recovery sessions throughout camp and into the season. Today, we’re going to focus on releasing tension in the hips and lower back, areas you all know take a beating when you’re on the ice. But let’s start with finding an easy seat on your mat, whatever feels good in your body, and closing your eyes.”
I launch into my carefully planned sequence, keeping my voice steady and soothing despite the worry gnawing at my insides. As I move around the room, offering guidance and the occasional adjustment, I steal glances at Tank. His movements are technically correct, but lacking their usual focus, and his gaze is guarded, almost cold.
Something is obviously very wrong, and I hate that I can’t help him through it.
I guide the team through hip openers and gentle twists, reminding them about proper breathing techniques and the importance of staying present. Most of them are making a decent effort—even the rookies who looked skeptical at first. But Tank doesn’t seem to be listening, not the way he usually does during class.
“Now let’s move into pigeon pose,” I instruct, demonstrating the deep hip stretch. “This one can be intense, so listen to your body. If you need to modify, I’ll be coming around to help. Nice,” I murmur as I pass a younger guy already dropping easily into the pose.
“A good goalie always has open hips,” the man says, flashing a big grin my way as he leans deeper in the stretch.
Ah, this must be Garcia. Tank’s nemesis.
Fighting the urge to loathe him on my boyfriend’s behalf—I know better than to cling to negative emotions, I really do, even when it’s hard—I smile and move on, helping the man behind him prop a block under his hip to keep him from compromising his form or tweaking a knee.
I keep going, slowly working toward Tank. A few assists later, I’ve made my way to the back corner where he’s holding the pose with all the ease of a kid riding his first rollercoaster, clinging to the lap bar for dear life.
Up close, his energy is even more concerning, a tightly-wound coil ready to snap, and his hands are curled into fists atop the black mat.
“Can I offer an adjustment?” I ask softly, professional but with a subtle warmth I reserve for him.
His eyes meet mine briefly before flicking away. “I’m fine.”
But he’s not. His hip flexors and shoulders are screaming—I can see it in the tension in his body, the way he’s barely breathing.
“Just a small one,” I insist gently, placing a hand between his shoulder blades. “Breathe into my hand, and let your chest soften toward the ground.”
He exhales roughly, allowing me the smallest adjustment. When I lean closer, I murmur, “You okay?”
His jaw clenches. “Not now, Teach,” he mutters. “Or I’ll blow. Later.”
Ugh, I hate to leave him like this, but he’s right. There’s nothing either of us can do about whatever’s happening now. I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before moving on to the next student, but for the rest of class, I’m distracted, worried.
By the time we reach savasana, my own nerves are raw, something that almost never happens while I’m teaching.
When I finally ring the small bell to signal the end of practice, Tank’s the first one heading for the door. I fight the urge to call after him or worse, run after him.
Whatever he’s going through, it’s clear he isn’t ready to start processing it. Not here, not yet. And I get it, I really do, but I already know the hours between now and when camp is over and he’s free to talk are going to drag by like torture.
“Hey,” Stone appears at my elbow, his voice low. “Don’t take it personally. He’s just having a rough day.”
“What happened?” I ask, not bothering to mask my concern. Stone knows how close Tank and I have been getting better than just about anyone.