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)
His expression is so horrified, I have to fight a laugh. “Um, sure,” he says. “Yeah. Thank you.”
I return a moment later with the largest pair of pants I could find in the loaner bin to see Mr. Sniffles investigating our new student, sniffing enthusiastically at Tank’s boots as he slides them into a cubby.
Tank scratches at my pug’s wrinkly neck with a soft smile that makes him easily a hundred times more attractive. He’s sexy when he’s all scowly, but he’s action-movie-star irresistible when he smiles.
Be still my bad-boy-with-a-sweet-side loving heart…
“That’s Mr. Sniffles,” I say, as I drop the pants on top of his cubby. “Studio mascot, emotional support animal, and generally wise and wonderful beastie of my heart.”
“He’s a champ, I can tell. Aren’t you, Sniffles?” Tank asks, the warmth leaving his voice as he reaches for the pants. “Thanks for these. I’ll change and find a place in the back. Out of the way.”
“Set up wherever you’re comfortable,” I tell him, waving as Hattie, one of my senior students climbs the steps outside. “Like I said, this is a small class, full of great people. You’re in for a lovely first practice.”
He grunts, and I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to tease him about his language of grunts.
That would be too much like flirting, and I refuse to flirt with a client.
Or a bad boy.
Or any combination of the two.
Within ten minutes, the entire class is on their mats—three middle-aged women who come each week together, a college girl recovering from a gymnastics injury, Hattie, my senior queen, and Old Pete, who started yoga after his heart attack last year. They’re all eyeing the massive, cranky beast in the back row when I walk in, clearly curious about the newbie.
Or maybe they’re concerned for their safety…
Tank’s scowl is even more ominous than before.
“Everyone, this is Tank. He’s joining us for his first class today,” I announce as I place Mr. Sniffles in his special corner bed and offer everyone a welcoming grin. “Tank, this is the Friday afternoon dream team. Welcome to our weekly happy hour. Let’s start in child’s pose today, lovelies.”
I take my place at the front of the class, demonstrating the pose before turning to study my students, including Tank who appears to have fairly open hip flexors for a musclebound guy.
“Close your eyes if that feels right,” I add, “and bring your attention to your breath. Just observe, at first. See where you might be holding tension, where things feel free. Be aware of any thoughts or feelings that might arise with the breath, and gently let those go. Arrive here and now, taking a moment to be grateful for this time on your mat.”
I guide them out of child’s pose, into cat and cow poses, before taking our first, gentle, bent-leg downward facing dog.
My regulars follow along easily, their bodies familiar with the routine. Tank lags a few seconds behind, but catches on quickly, the way most athletes do.
But the poor man clearly has a boatload of tension in his shoulders. Even after three rounds of sun salutations, he’s still as stiff as he was from the first forward fold.
“Now back to downward dog and hold for five long inhalations and exhalations,” I say as I make my way toward him. I crouch beside his mat as I whisper, “May I offer an adjustment?”
“What?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“An adjustment for your form,” I repeat. “I think it might help with the pain in your shoulder.”
“I…” He trails off with a sigh. “Sure. Can’t feel any weirder about having my ass up in the air than I do already, I guess.”
I smile. “Everything new feels a little weird at first, right?” I move behind him, gently gripping his hips, keeping my focus on my professional obligation to a student, not the fact that Tank is so muscular his glutes are practically bursting through his borrowed pants.
The man is a seriously impressive specimen.
“Okay, bend your knees,” I murmur. “Perfect, a little more. Good. Now engage your core and shift back, putting more weight in the heels.” I guide his hips closer to the wall behind him. “Push through your fingertips, paying extra attention to your pointer finger and thumb. Brilliant.” I move back to crouch by his mat, resting a light palm between his shoulders. “Now let your chest sink toward the ground. Perfect! How does that feel?”
He grunts. “Better. Good, actually.”
“Amazing,” I say, giving his shoulder blades one last, encouraging rub. “You take direction very well. And just remember, there should never be pain during your practice. Discomfort is fine, as long as you can keep your breath fairly even, but if you feel pain, back off, and I’ll come help you find a version of the posture that works.”
To the rest of the class, I guide in a louder voice, “Now, bend your knees, look up to the mat between your hands, and step or lightly hop to the top of your mat.”