Page 52 of Puck Sweat Love

I launch into my carefully planned sequence, keeping my voice steady and soothing despite the worry gnawing at my insides. As I move around the room, offering guidance and the occasional adjustment, I steal glances at Tank. His movementsare technically correct, but lacking their usual focus, and his gaze is guarded, almost cold.

Something is obviously very wrong, and I hate that I can’t help him through it.

I guide the team through hip openers and gentle twists, reminding them about proper breathing techniques and the importance of staying present. Most of them are making a decent effort—even the rookies who looked skeptical at first. But Tank doesn’t seem to be listening, not the way he usually does during class.

“Now let’s move into pigeon pose,” I instruct, demonstrating the deep hip stretch. “This one can be intense, so listen to your body. If you need to modify, I’ll be coming around to help. Nice,” I murmur as I pass a younger guy already dropping easily into the pose.

“A good goalie always has open hips,” the man says, flashing a big grin my way as he leans deeper in the stretch.

Ah, this must be Garcia. Tank’s nemesis.

Fighting the urge to loathe him on my boyfriend’s behalf—I know better than to cling to negative emotions, I really do, even when it’s hard—I smile and move on, helping the man behind him prop a block under his hip to keep him from compromising his form or tweaking a knee.

I keep going, slowly working toward Tank. A few assists later, I’ve made my way to the back corner where he’s holding the pose with all the ease of a kid riding his first rollercoaster, clinging to the lap bar for dear life.

Up close, his energy is even more concerning, a tightly-wound coil ready to snap, and his hands are curled into fists atop the black mat.

“Can I offer an adjustment?” I ask softly, professional but with a subtle warmth I reserve for him.

His eyes meet mine briefly before flicking away. “I’m fine.”

But he’s not. His hip flexors and shoulders are screaming—I can see it in the tension in his body, the way he’s barely breathing.

“Just a small one,” I insist gently, placing a hand between his shoulder blades. “Breathe into my hand, and let your chest soften toward the ground.”

He exhales roughly, allowing me the smallest adjustment. When I lean closer, I murmur, “You okay?”

His jaw clenches. “Not now, Teach,” he mutters. “Or I’ll blow. Later.”

Ugh, I hate to leave him like this, but he’s right. There’s nothing either of us can do about whatever’s happening now. I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before moving on to the next student, but for the rest of class, I’m distracted, worried.

By the time we reach savasana, my own nerves are raw, something that almost never happens while I’m teaching.

When I finally ring the small bell to signal the end of practice, Tank’s the first one heading for the door. I fight the urge to call after him or worse,runafter him.

Whatever he’s going through, it’s clear he isn’t ready to start processing it. Not here, not yet. And I get it, I really do, but I already know the hours between now and when camp is over and he’s free to talk are going to drag by like torture.

“Hey,” Stone appears at my elbow, his voice low. “Don’t take it personally. He’s just having a rough day.”

“What happened?” I ask, not bothering to mask my concern. Stone knows how close Tank and I have been getting better than just about anyone.

He glances around, making sure no one’s listening in before he says, “Coach made a pointed speech this morning about how no position is guaranteed. Made it clear the final goalie lineup, especially, wasn’t set in stone. He wants to ‘see some real hustle’ before he makes up his mind.” Stone runs a hand through hisdamp hair. “After all the work Tank’s put in and the fact that he’s played in the NHL before, we all thought he’d get the starter spot over the rookie. But it looks like Lauder’s making it a competition between him and Garcia.”

My stomach drops. “Oh, no. That hardly seems fair.”

“Yeah, well, fair doesn’t always factor into the picture in pro sports, especially when one person is a kiss ass and one is… Well, one is Tank.” Stone’s expression darkens as he whispers, “Garcia’s been in Hartley’s ear for weeks, talking up his own game while taking digs about Tank being in recovery. It’s bullshit, but Hartley has an ex-brother-in-law who was an addict, who he hates like jock itch so…” He sighs. “It just sucks. The people who know him know there’s no way in hell Tank is going to relapse, but Hartleydoesn’tknow him. And after Garcia gets through with him, he’s probably not going to be making an effort to change that.”

I frown, spirits continuing to plummet as I realize how bad this is. “But surely Coach Lauder won’t get sucked in by all that. Not once he sees that Tank’s clearly the better goaltender.”

Stone’s nose wrinkles and his lip curls in an expression that isn’t comforting. At all. “I mean, I hope, but Lauder’s new here too. Which means he’s probably going to be more inclined to listen to management. And Hartley’s been with the organization for years. It’s all a hot mess and a damned shame. Tank busted his ass to get here. Now, it seems like the cards are stacked against him.”

“But he deserves a second chance,” I say, knowing I’m being naïve, but unable to help it. “We all do.”

“Not everyone believes in second chances,” Stone continues. “Especially in this business. It’s not right, but it’s reality.”

Almost all the players have filtered out of the studio by now. I know Stone has to leave soon, too, but first, I have to ask, “Whatcan I do? I have to do something. I hate how helpless I feel right now.”

Stone gives me a sad smile. “Just be there for him. You know Tank, he’s got a lot of pride, and he’s used to fighting his battles alone. Having someone in his corner who believes in him will mean a lot.” He nudges my shoulder with his elbow. “Especially when it’s you. He really cares about you. It’s cute. And his blood pressure was way down at his check-up earlier, so there’s something you guys can celebrate later.”

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