Page 13 of Puck Sweat Love

CHAPTER 3

TANK

When I wake up the next morning, I experience something I haven’t in a long time. I am…relaxed. Not completely—that’s a foreign concept at this point in my life—but there’s a noticeable difference in how my muscles feel, especially across my chest.

They’re more pliable, open.

It’s even easier to breathe.

I pull in a deeper breath, enjoying the odd sense of ease.

Even my bum shoulder has more mobility than usual. I’m sore, but when I give the joint an experimental roll, the sharp pain from yesterday is gone.

Looks like that yoga class was exactly what I needed, as much as my inner stubborn cuss wanted to deny it.

And Stephanie?

She’s not a spacy hippie at all. She’s smart, intense, with an impressive knowledge of human physiology and a gentle, but commanding teaching style that brought out the best in every member of her class. Even me, a man who rolled into her studio with an attitude that was dubious, at best.

I really didn’t expect to enjoy the class so much.

I also didn’t expect to enjoy the feel of her hand on my shoulder. Or to find myself lingering after class to pet her fucking dog. Or to have every protective instinct in my body go on high alert when her piece of shit ex popped up uninvited, starting personal drama in her place of business.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Don’t even think about it, dumbass.”

I can’t develop a crush on Shane’s friend. I don’t have time for a crush, especially not on a woman I’m going to keep running into for the foreseeable future. My relationships only end one way—badly—and I want to keep the stress levels low among the few people I consider good friends.

I learned what happens when you mix love and friendship the hard way.

The hardest way…

My best friend Yoda did right by my sister, Betsy. He loved her with every piece of his big, sweet soul, but when Betsy died in that car crash, our friendship died with her. We still talk, we still care about each other, but our relationship has never been the same. Betsy’s ghost is always there between us, reminding us of what we’ve lost, tainting even good times with tragedy. The days when we’d swing by each other’s houses every weekend to shoot hoops or watch hockey or drink beer and play around with Yoda’s paints are long gone. We see each other maybe two or three times a year now, if we’re lucky.

I don’t need any more friendships like that, and I definitely don’t need romantic complications fucking with my focus a few weeks before training camp starts.

After all, I’ve proven I’m even worse at love than I am at staying on the straight and narrow. The only woman I’ve ever loved is currently in prison, at least partially thanks to my selfish ass. If I hadn’t ended things, if I hadn’t run from everything I felt for Michelle, if I hadn’t come back to make things right a little too late, both our lives might have been so different.

But I don’t think about things like that anymore.

Life is what it is, and I just have to make the best of it.

I throw back the covers and head for the shower, setting it to cold. I focus on clearing my head, banishing thoughts of Stephanie’s big, soft eyes, the graceful way she moves, the mixture of gentleness and confidence in her touch. I refuse to think about how good she smelled—even after an hour-long yoga class—or her diabolically cute smile, or the fact that even the sight of her bare feet was enough to send impure thoughts racing through my head.

I’m not some weirdo with a fetish. I’ve never had a single erotic thought about a woman’s nicely even toes or the elegant arch of her foot.

Until last night…

I crank the water temperature even lower, the better to convince little Tank that getting a hard-on for our yoga teacher is a bad idea.

I’m focused on making one hell of an NHL comeback, not hooking up.

Especially not with a woman who seems to have a thing for yuppie dude bros. Drake looked exactly like the kind of pretentious, poser prick who makes downtown Portland a stupid place to be on the weekend. Every Saturday, these “cool guys” flood downtown, laughing too loud over forty-dollar martinis, bobbing their heads to garbage indie rock, and bitching about the homeless ruining the view from their condo.

I can’t imagine what an intelligent, self-respecting woman like Stephanie had in common with that human chode.

But it’s not any of my business who she dates.

I’m not going to think about it.

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