Page 7 of Puck Sweat Love

I’m stronger than that.

And I need peace way more than I need orgasms.

Stephanie: Goodbye, Drake. Take care. Don’t text me again.

There.Done. No more nonsense. I silence my phone, set it face down, and close my eyes again.

Breathe in calm; breathe out Drake.

Mr. Sniffles chooses that moment to wake up, stretching with a dramatic groan before waddling over to my mat and planting himself directly in the middle of it, one paw on my ankle.

I open my eyes to find him staring up at me, his eyes bulging in his wrinkled face with expectation.

“Hey, buddy,” I say with a laugh, scratching behind his ears. “Ready for early old man supper?”

He snorts his agreement, and I’m forced to admit meditation defeat. For now. But my four o’clock beginner flow class is a chill bunch. They’ll be happy to spend a few extra moments in savasana at the end of class, giving us all time to recenter before I dive into my hot yoga class at five-thirty and an inversion intensive with my advanced students at seven.

I scoop Mr. Sniffles into my arms, carrying him to the small kitchenette at the back of the studio, where I set him down next to his bowl. While he chomps happily on his grain-free organic meal (which costs more per pound than anything I feed myself), I grab a protein smoothie from the mini-fridge and head back toward the lobby.

On my way, my phone buzzes in the side pocket of my yoga pants, but I ignore it, having had my fill of Drake drama for the day.

Instead, I focus on sweeping up in the lobby, lighting candles, and confirming private appointments for next week via email, including a few sessions with NHL players—and wannabe players—who have become my special niche.

At first, teaching yoga to a bunch of professional athletes was like trying to herd cats. Big, muscular cats who thought flexibility was for “girls and goalies” and meditation was a waste of time that could be better spent grunting in the weight room. But over the past few years, I’ve won most of them over. They’ve discovered that better balance means fewer falls on the ice, better focus means fewer penalties, and better recovery means fewer injuries.

Plus, I don’t take any of their macho bullshit, which they secretly appreciate.

Finished with email, I give in to the urge to check my phone—5 more ridiculous messages from Drake, which I swipe away without reading—before taking Mr. Sniffles out to the small back garden to do his business.

I’ve just returned inside when the rumble of a motorcycle engine cuts through the peaceful ambiance in the studio. It’s a distinctive sound—deep, powerful, with that unmistakable Harley growl that vibrates up through the floorboards.

Through the front windows, I watch as a matte black motorcycle pulls up to the curb. The rider is tall and broad-shouldered, clad in worn jeans and a leather jacket despite the August heat. Even with his face obscured by a helmet, there’s something magnetic about him, a confident ease in the way he swings his leg over the bike, a casual strength in the way he props it on its stand.

I’m not proud of the little flutter in my stomach in response.

After Drake, I promised myself I was done with “bad boys,” done with men who radiate danger and complications. I’ve spent the last four months purging that attraction from my system, focusing on stable, centered energy.

But damn if this guy doesn’t look…delicious.

Mr. Sniffles lets out a suspicious snort beside me, as if reading my thoughts and judging them. Harshly.

“I know, I know,” I whisper. “I’m just looking. Window shopping is still allowed.”

The rider removes his helmet, and recognition strikes like a meditation bell ringing through the air, shocking me from my wayward thoughts. That sharp jawline covered in dark stubble, those intense eyes, the scars that cut through different places on both his eyebrows, giving him a permanent “don’t fuck with me” expression…

It’s Theodore “Tank” LiBassi, Shane and Bree’s brooding friend, the one I briefly chatted with at happy hour earlier this summer. The one who lurked at the edges of the beer garden, nursing a single Pale Ale, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than in a garden on a sunny day, surrounded by good friends and great music.

The one who declined my invitation to dance with a grunt that might have meant “no thanks” or “I’d rather eat glass, leave me alone, you weird woman.”

So, basically, exactly my type of trouble, historically speaking. The kind of man I have decided to avoid at all costs. And now, he’s walking up the steps to my little brownstone studio, apparently not in the neighborhood to hit the motorcycle bar down the street or the army-navy surplus on the corner.

Nope. He’s coming here.

Inside. Right now.

Shit!

I smooth down my tank top and flip a stray braid over my shoulder, reminding myself that I’m a professional. If he’s here for my beginner flow class, I’ll treat him like any other student—with respect, patience, and absolutely no thoughts about how nice those tattooed arms of his would feel wrapped around me.

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