Page 5 of Puck Sweat Love

“The more you can get your house in order, the better,” Stone continues. “Get that blood pressure down, take care of your shoulder, make it as easy as possible for management to welcome you to the team with open arms.”

I nod. “You’re right. I’ll find a yoga class and back off any shoulder-taxing shit in my coaching sessions. I didn’t come this far to hand the starting position to Garcia because I was pushing too hard.”

“Good.” Stone lifts a hand for me to clasp as we stop by where I parked my Harley. “And sleep in tomorrow, okay? I’ll cover you at camp.”

I nod, waving as he starts toward his truck. “Thanks, brother. Appreciate it.”

I settle my helmet into place before pulling out Stephanie’s card, staring at it in the glow of the parking lot lights. The thought of subjecting myself to toxic hippie positivity for a couple hours a week isn’t ideal, but I want a successful return to the NHL more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

If there’s even a snowball’s chance in hell that Stephanie Love can help with that…

I tuck the card back into my pocket.

One session. I’ll try one session, see how many cavities I get, and go from there.

After all, how bad could it possibly be?

CHAPTER 2

STEPHANIE

Breathe in light; breathe out tension.

Breathe in love; breathe out fear.

That’s my mantra on Friday afternoon, as I quietly chant through my meditation. The late afternoon stillness wraps around me like a blanket, offering peace before I jump back into teaching for several more hours.

Well, something close to peace anyway…

Mr. Sniffles, my gold and gray pug, snores with impressive volume from his bed next to my yoga mat, occasionally emitting a snort so loud it threatens to shatter my Zen and the space-time continuum. But that’s okay. His little round body rising and falling with each snore is its own kind of mindfulness reminder.

My phone buzzes on the floor beside me. Twice. Three times. Four.

I ignore it. The messages will still be there when my fifteen minutes of recentering are over.

The phone buzzes six more times in rapid succession.

I crack a lid.

It buzzes twice more.

So much for enlightenment…

With a sigh, I pluck it from the ground.

Drake. Ugh, of course it’s Drake, the only person I know who would text a dozen times without waiting for an answer.

I should ignore him. I promised myself I would ignore him. I promisedBreeI would ignore him.

Eight more buzzes.

“Geez, all right, you maniac,” I mutter, snatching the phone and scrolling to the top of his stream of textual diarrhea.

From the texts of Stephanie Love

and Drake Barrow

Drake: Hey Steph, you up there? Come down and see me, baby.

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