Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
It’s morning skate and it’s optional, especially since we had a game yesterday afternoon. But I’ve always taken the option since I’ve been with the Golden State Foxes.
We’re almost halfway into a long season, but it’s been a good season so far. I’m grateful to be on this team after being traded from New York a year and a half ago. My old team was going nowhere, and my personal life wasn’t much better. The two seem to move in tandem.
I shake off the memory of Samantha and her tricky ways, her multiple profiles, her stacks of lies. Here on the ice, all thoughts of that shitty year disappear. It’s just me and the game and the challenge as we move into passing drills. Gavin slides the puck to me, then I wing it over to him as we attack the net. He shuffles it back, and I take aim and slap one past Dev in the net once more.
“Just don’t forget to do that in a game,” Dev calls out.
Which, ouch.
Yes, I’d like to score more points when it matters. Who wouldn’t, really? But I’m acutely aware that I’m surrounded by great players here on this team. I’m not one of those great players. I’d like my stats to be better, my contributions stronger, my game time just…more.
We move through power-play practice, then deflections, then the clock unwinds, and we head to the tunnel. Hollis is right behind me, and Gavin too.
“Gonna hit the weights,” Gavin says, which is Gavin-speak for who’s in.
I’ll go later at my building. “Can’t,” I say, and they know why. But it feels…strange, maybe, to admit that after last night.
“Because you have yoga class,” Hollis singsongs.
That’s the problem with sticking to a regular schedule. Your mates know your whereabouts too well. “Yeah, I do,” I say, like saying it casually will make my attendance seem…casual.
“Well, you wouldn’t want to mess with a streak,” Gavin deadpans when we reach the hallway leading to the locker room.
And…touché.
“Exactly. My devotion to yoga is why we’re winning,” I say.
“Then, better not miss a class. Say hi to Briar for all of us,” Gavin adds.
“Give her our love,” Hollis says, batting his lashes.
My friends are such assholes. It was Gavin’s fucking idea to get her the gift. “Absolutely. I’m definitely going to talk to her about the two of you.”
“Knew it,” Gavin says, then tips his chin at Hollis. “Weight room?”
“And then fish tacos.”
“It’s not a game day,” Gavin points out, and the two of them argue about fish tacos and rituals the rest of the way.
When I’m out of my gear and into joggers and trainers, I take off. Yes, I am religious about weights, exercise, yoga, and practice. I’m religious about making the most of my opportunity to play. I can’t squander it. Not when it’s something others in my family don’t have. I’ll do what it takes to have a body that works, that can play at the highest level. A private trainer I hired this year recommended adding yoga to my routine. “You can pivot better. Have more explosive crossovers. It can give you an edge,” he’d said.
In this sport, an edge can make all the difference between a good year and a great one. An edge makes you better than the next guy they’ll trade you for.
When I leave the rink, I head over to Fillmore Street, to the studio where Briar teaches.
As I near the red-brick facade of Peak Performance Yoga, my skin buzzes like it usually does when I know I’m going to see her. But the charge is even more electric after last night.
Which is utterly fucking ridiculous.
I mean, it’s not like I’m going to ask her out—not after what her wanker of an ex did to her less than twenty-four hours ago. I’m off romance altogether, too, after Samantha.
This buzzing in my cells is just…because I like her style of exercise.
Yeah right.
After I check in I head to the class, but she’s not here greeting students, setting out mats, or offering individual tips. She’s usually here early. Ten minutes early. Like I normally am.
I’m not bothered. I’m really not bothered.
I grab a spot, roll out my mat, and take a drink from my water bottle. The class filters in. I check the time.
Class should start in three minutes.
A bright voice carries confidently across the studio. “Good morning, friends. Are you ready to flow and flex today?”
Stupid fucking grin.
I fight it off over her usual greeting as she strides to the front of the class on agile bare feet, dressed in sky-blue leggings with crisscross cutouts along the side revealing her creamy flesh.
After she sets down her mat, her blue eyes linger on me a little longer than they do everyone else. They curve up in a hint of a grin, a private acknowledgement of last night.