Page 51 of Puck Sweat Love

“That’s the one.” Dex nods. “Whole team should be on their way soon. Although...” He lowers his voice as he leans closer. “Might be rough getting them calmed down today. Everyone’s pretty wound-up.”

My stomach tightens as I whisper, “Yeah, I could feel it when I walked in. What’s going on?”

Dex shrugs, but his eyes tell me he knows more than he’s saying. “Just new coach, new players. New chemistry with the team. You know how it is. Pro sports is never easy, but it’s harder when there’s a lot of change and a bad egg or two starts stirring the pot.” He busies himself folding a pile of towels on the table against the wall. “Not my business though. I don’t say a word. Just keep myself to myself. I’m sure it’ll all work itself out eventually.”

I want to press him further, but he’s already said more than he should. I’ve been working in pro sports long enough to know team politics can be tricky and there are ears everywhere.

So, I force myself to give him a simple thank you and a wave before heading toward Studio B.

As I go, my thoughts turn to Tank, wondering how he’s handling the apparent drama, especially after our magical, stress-free weeks of near-constant bliss. When we weren’t banging, we were eating amazing food, break dancing on the pad he set up behind the studio, going for long walks by the river, or hanging out with Stone and his friends at Stone’s pool, enjoying the last gasp of summer. Tank and I get along so well—in bed and out of it—and I can honestly say I’ve never fallen this hard and fast for someone before. It just feels meant to be, completely heavenly in every way.

Which is probably making this transition even harder for Tank…

Bad vibes are bad enough when you haven’t been lulled into a state of ease and contentment with fun, friendship, fabulous fucking, and movie nights in bed with Mr. Sniffles giving you his best snuggles.

Hopefully he’s okay.

I should know soon. He’s required to attend the team yoga classes just like the other players, after all.

Studio B is smaller than I’d prefer—pro-athletes aren’t known for being petite or great at negotiating space with their neighbors when they’re extending a leg in down dog—but we’ll make the best of it. I can always reach out about moving back to the larger space later, if needed.

I get to work setting up, arranging my portable speaker and placing my demonstration mat at the front of the room. Players should start filtering in in about fifteen minutes, which means Tank should be here any second. We agreed to meet a little early so I could get the TLDR on his day so far. But ten minutes pass, then twelve, and there’s still no sign of him.

I check my phone.

Huh, no messages either.

The first players begin to arrive—mostly the younger guys who are eager to make a good impression or simply have no one to gossip with in the halls with just yet. I don’t care what men say, they’re twice as gossipy as women, especially pro athletes. I’ve never met an NHL player who wouldn’t dish like it was his job once he was comfortable enough to let his guard down.

The new recruits greet me with varying degrees of enthusiasm, some genuinely interested in taking class, others clearly just following orders. Stone eventually wanders in with a group of veterans, but even his usually easy smile is strained.

When he spots me, there’s a flicker of something in his blue eyes—concern, maybe?—before he waves and grabs a mat from the stack.

“Hey, Steph,” he says, as he unrolls his mat in the second row. “Good to see you. How’s your Monday?”

“I think maybe better than yours, so far.” I arch a brow. “Have you seen Tank?”

Stone’s jaw tightens as he averts his gaze. “Yeah, he’s… He’ll be here. He was still in the weight room when I left.”

I’m about to probe him for more details when Coach Lauder strides in, his presence immediately commanding attention. The middle-aged man with the military buzz cut gives me a curt nod—more acknowledgment than I usually get from the guy who insisted on having me “audition” at the beginning of the summer to remain on as the team yoga teacher, despite my stellar reputation and reviews—before addressing the room.

“Alright, gentlemen. Ms. Love is here to lead you through your recovery yoga. I expect full participation. This isn’t optional.” His eyes scan the space, narrowing as he reaches the back row. “Where’s LiBassi?”

The question hangs in the air for a beat too long before the door swings open. Tank enters quickly, his face a mask that doesn’t quite hide the storm in his eyes. I’ve seen a storm likethat before, but only once—on the day he came around the corner at the festival to find Drake stepping up on me and for a second, I was sure I was about to witness a murder.

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.”

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