Page 14 of Broken Hearts
“Fair enough.” He nods to me. “Thanks for your help, Sienna. I think we can manage on our own from here.”
I skate toward my team, sneaking a peek at Rhett skating along the wall. He really is a good skater, and something about seeing him in the full gear after knowing what he looks like underneath really does it for me. Yeah, I’d say I like this apology a whole lot better than his others.
“All right, boys,” Coach Meyers calls. “Keep it moving.”
The rest of practice is far less eventful. Coach Meyers keeps the hockey guys on point, and we work on jumps in small groups. There is no time to look at Rhett. Okay, there’s very little time. And the opportunities I do get, he’s completely focused on hockey.
After morning practice, I have classes until lunchtime, and then I have to book it over to Ray Fieldhouse where I teach barre and then yoga.
My schedule is crazy busy, but I happen to like it that way. And the money I’m making teaching group fitness classes will help pay my rent for a while after graduation. I still don’t have a job lined up, and with only two months until I say goodbye to college, it’s starting to feel like I never will.
How do people choose a career? Trying to imagine myself working forty-plus hours sitting behind a desk, working my fingers to the bone doing anything is difficult. Or maybe I just haven’t found the right thing. My dad thinks it’s the first of those two. “You can't expect to love any job right away. Work hard and be loyal,” he says, every chance he gets.
That has worked well for him. He started as an assistant and worked his way up to an executive at a software company. I’m proud of him, and I think it’s amazing what he’s done, but I’m not necessarily sold on his story being the right plan for me.
I have another interview next week, and I’m hoping that this time when I sit down across from the interviewer, I’ll feel something akin to genuine excitement.
As people trickle into the classroom, I smile and start the music. Barre isn’t my favorite class to teach, but it’s popular and almost always filled to capacity. Today is no different.
For thirty minutes, I lead them through a brutal toning workout using my ballet training.
“Eight more,” I call.
A collective groan sounds under the music. I know I’m an awful person because I love that groan. It means I’ve done my job. I glance up at the clock to make sure we’re on track. A line has already formed for the yoga class that starts next. I love teaching yoga. It’s not quite as popular as barre, but most of the students who attend are pretty advanced, so I can push them harder than if it were a class full of beginners.
"And you’re done. Nice job today."
As my barre students leave and yoga students start to come in, I take a drink of water and switch the music.
I’m rolling my mat onto the floor when I notice Rhett standing outside of the door. A few girls from my last class are lingering, checking him out. I look around for Maverick. He’s usually here by now, and the fact I even have to look for him should tell me he isn’t here. Johnny Maverick doesn’t enter a room without you noticing.
I still remember the first time he came into one of my classes. It was last year, about a month into his freshmen year. He was reluctant—not that I realized it at the time. But now, after getting to know his personality, I realize that was a much tamer, reserved person that walked into the studio.
Even reserved, I was intimidated. He’s a tall guy, covered in tattoos, dark hair—your basic bad boy. That is until he opens his mouth. Once I got to know him, I realized how nice and funny he is. He’s part of the reason I enjoy teaching this class so much. No matter how hard I push him, he manages to make it look easy.
But he’s not here, and instead, it’s another hockey player walking into the room. He approaches me at the front while others are finding places around the room to unroll their mats.
Dressed in athletic pants and a Valley U hockey T-shirt, he looks too hot to be real. He doesn’t have the same bad-boy look like Maverick. He’s more broody jock. Still, he has this appeal about him that is more than just his pretty face or his amazing arms, which I’m definitely not staring at.
“What are you doing here?” I’m pretty sure the question comes out like an accusation. He puts up all my defense modes like my brain is aware that letting him in would be oh so very bad for my heart.
“I want to apologize.” He holds up a hand when I start to interrupt. “I know, I already have, but I keep getting it wrong. And I’m probably going to this time, too. You seem like a cool chick. Mav has nothing but good things to say, and I guess I just want to make sure we’re good.” He smiles and points to his eye. “I have a matching black eye, and I did a suicide apology this morning.”
“Neither of those was by choice, but the second was pretty amusing.”
“Being here was all me though.” He grins, a boyish charm that I’m sure gets him whatever he wants.
“How’d you find me, anyway?”
“Maverick. Oh, and he wanted me to pass along a message that he has to miss yoga today because he’s meeting with Coach, but he’ll see you on Wednesday.” He nudges me playfully with an elbow. Even that small touch makes my heart rate accelerate. “We good?”
“Grab a mat.”
When my intentions are clear, his deep laughter spills out. The sound makes my stomach flip. “If I stay for class and do some downward dog and stretching shit, then we’re good?”
I smirk. Stretching shit? Oh, this is going to be fun.
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