It was during our talk of my Olympic experiences that I started feeling a little guilty for lying to Ryker. I lied to him when I told him I was only interested in his abilities and what he could do for the Cold Fury because of my analysis of the numbers. I boiled him down to numbers and lied because I didn’t want to ever admit to him I felt a bit of a kindred pull.
I know exactly what it’s like to have something very important riding on your shoulders as a goalie and then lose it all. I know this because the reason I have a silver medal instead of a gold from my first Winter Olympics at the age of eighteen is because I missed a save during a shootout. A single puck escaped my clutches, and the entire team wore silver around their necks rather than gold, and we had to listen to the Canadian national anthem versus “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
It is because of that experience that I understand Ryker and his motivations this season better than any other person except perhaps Ryker himself.
And so I let that guilt and my stupid attraction and the fact that my ego and pride were all validated by him lead me to invite him to my yoga session today. I hold this class—Flexibility with Yoga—twice a week in a rented studio. I’ve been doing yoga since I was about fourteen and there hasn’t been any other exercise or workout plan that has met my needs as a goalie. When you’re in the net, you depend first and foremost on your reflexes, but then your body had better be ready to bend and stretch to accommodate when those reflexes demand you to stop the puck. A goalie had better be prepared to go down into a full split if need be to catch a dribbling biscuit on the ice. After I stopped playing hockey, I stuck with the regimen and even trained to be an instructor. It’s my way of keeping me connected to the world outside my hockey bubble.
When I asked Ryker if he did yoga, he just looked at me with one eyebrow cocked skeptically. For the first time, I could see that there were some things that Ryker felt shouldn’t be shared by both women and men. I could tell he thought he might lose testosterone if he did yoga.
I assured him that no one would question his masculinity and that there were a few guys in the class. When he still looked doubtful, I realized just how much I wanted to see him again when I threw down a challenge.
“I get it,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders as I stood up from behind my desk. “Most people can’t make it through a full workout. I’ll give you a pass.”
Sparks sizzled in his eyes and I had to practically bite my tongue in half not to laugh when he stood up from his chair and said, “I can handle anything you throw my way, Big Bang. I’ll be there.”
And then he left.
Just left, although he did say, “Catch you later” over his shoulder. I didn’t know whether to be incensed by his lack of professionalism toward me as the GM or charmed by his comfort around me.
And what in the hell did he mean by Big Bang?
“You’re wearing a groove in that sidewalk the way you’re pacing back and forth,” I hear from my left and my head snaps that way. “Too much on your mind?”
Ryker walks toward me with a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a pair of red workout shorts and a dark gray sweatshirt, which is all that’s really needed because Decembers in the Carolinas are pretty mild. All of my stressful thoughts actually dissipate as I take him in, and I get a slight flutter in my belly when I notice his eyes quickly rake over me. It’s the first time he’s ever done that, having always maintained his focus on my face. I don’t think I’m looking particularly sexy with my black yoga pants and a long-sleeved fitted workout top, my hair pulled back into a very short ponytail essentially to keep it out of my eyes. I don’t have an ounce of makeup on and for some weird reason, I’m a little self-conscious of that now.
Shaking my head and banishing such girlie thoughts, I give him a sharp nod of my head in greeting. “I thought you were chickening out.”
“Never,” is all he says as he reaches for the glass door and holds it open for me.
I walk in before him, and mentally imagine his eyes are pinned to my ass. I say a silent prayer of thanks to the yoga gods for keeping it firm and nicely rounded.
Once in the studio, I do a quick count and see we’re almost full at twelve students. I put myself in instructor mode, clearing my thoughts so I can focus on the fundamentals once we begin.
“You can drop your bag over near the wall and grab a mat,” I tell Ryker as I point him in the direction. “Lose the shoes and socks.”
I purposely give my back to Ryker, making my way to the front of the studio, which is nothing but one large mirror that takes up the entire wall. I greet a few of the students as they unroll their mats and make small talk, and then sneak a quick peek in the reflection at Ryker. He’s shown no hesitation in coming to the front of the class, a testament to his confidence, and I see he removed not only his shoes and socks, but his sweatshirt too, leaving behind a matching dark gray T-shirt that clings to every muscle in his chest and abdomen.
Ryker also didn’t hesitate to park himself right beside Melissa Graves, blond, big-chested recent divorcée who once confided in me that she was taking this class to keep herself limber while considering the possibilities of a second marriage. She gave me a wink and a nudge to my shoulder and asked, “You know what I mean?”
Yeah…I got it then, and as she introduces herself to Ryker, I get it now. Her eyes are hungry as she eats him up, her finger twirling a lock of hair. And is that…did she?
I know exactly what it’s like to have something very important riding on your shoulders as a goalie and then lose it all. I know this because the reason I have a silver medal instead of a gold from my first Winter Olympics at the age of eighteen is because I missed a save during a shootout. A single puck escaped my clutches, and the entire team wore silver around their necks rather than gold, and we had to listen to the Canadian national anthem versus “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
It is because of that experience that I understand Ryker and his motivations this season better than any other person except perhaps Ryker himself.
And so I let that guilt and my stupid attraction and the fact that my ego and pride were all validated by him lead me to invite him to my yoga session today. I hold this class—Flexibility with Yoga—twice a week in a rented studio. I’ve been doing yoga since I was about fourteen and there hasn’t been any other exercise or workout plan that has met my needs as a goalie. When you’re in the net, you depend first and foremost on your reflexes, but then your body had better be ready to bend and stretch to accommodate when those reflexes demand you to stop the puck. A goalie had better be prepared to go down into a full split if need be to catch a dribbling biscuit on the ice. After I stopped playing hockey, I stuck with the regimen and even trained to be an instructor. It’s my way of keeping me connected to the world outside my hockey bubble.
When I asked Ryker if he did yoga, he just looked at me with one eyebrow cocked skeptically. For the first time, I could see that there were some things that Ryker felt shouldn’t be shared by both women and men. I could tell he thought he might lose testosterone if he did yoga.
I assured him that no one would question his masculinity and that there were a few guys in the class. When he still looked doubtful, I realized just how much I wanted to see him again when I threw down a challenge.
“I get it,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders as I stood up from behind my desk. “Most people can’t make it through a full workout. I’ll give you a pass.”
Sparks sizzled in his eyes and I had to practically bite my tongue in half not to laugh when he stood up from his chair and said, “I can handle anything you throw my way, Big Bang. I’ll be there.”
And then he left.
Just left, although he did say, “Catch you later” over his shoulder. I didn’t know whether to be incensed by his lack of professionalism toward me as the GM or charmed by his comfort around me.
And what in the hell did he mean by Big Bang?
“You’re wearing a groove in that sidewalk the way you’re pacing back and forth,” I hear from my left and my head snaps that way. “Too much on your mind?”
Ryker walks toward me with a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a pair of red workout shorts and a dark gray sweatshirt, which is all that’s really needed because Decembers in the Carolinas are pretty mild. All of my stressful thoughts actually dissipate as I take him in, and I get a slight flutter in my belly when I notice his eyes quickly rake over me. It’s the first time he’s ever done that, having always maintained his focus on my face. I don’t think I’m looking particularly sexy with my black yoga pants and a long-sleeved fitted workout top, my hair pulled back into a very short ponytail essentially to keep it out of my eyes. I don’t have an ounce of makeup on and for some weird reason, I’m a little self-conscious of that now.
Shaking my head and banishing such girlie thoughts, I give him a sharp nod of my head in greeting. “I thought you were chickening out.”
“Never,” is all he says as he reaches for the glass door and holds it open for me.
I walk in before him, and mentally imagine his eyes are pinned to my ass. I say a silent prayer of thanks to the yoga gods for keeping it firm and nicely rounded.
Once in the studio, I do a quick count and see we’re almost full at twelve students. I put myself in instructor mode, clearing my thoughts so I can focus on the fundamentals once we begin.
“You can drop your bag over near the wall and grab a mat,” I tell Ryker as I point him in the direction. “Lose the shoes and socks.”
I purposely give my back to Ryker, making my way to the front of the studio, which is nothing but one large mirror that takes up the entire wall. I greet a few of the students as they unroll their mats and make small talk, and then sneak a quick peek in the reflection at Ryker. He’s shown no hesitation in coming to the front of the class, a testament to his confidence, and I see he removed not only his shoes and socks, but his sweatshirt too, leaving behind a matching dark gray T-shirt that clings to every muscle in his chest and abdomen.
Ryker also didn’t hesitate to park himself right beside Melissa Graves, blond, big-chested recent divorcée who once confided in me that she was taking this class to keep herself limber while considering the possibilities of a second marriage. She gave me a wink and a nudge to my shoulder and asked, “You know what I mean?”
Yeah…I got it then, and as she introduces herself to Ryker, I get it now. Her eyes are hungry as she eats him up, her finger twirling a lock of hair. And is that…did she?
