Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“I am,” I acknowledge. “But I don’t know if that’s really been serving me. It might be time to let that go. Open my mind a little.”
Stone’s eyes flicker with mischief again, signaling the end of the serious portion of our discussion. “Been serving you… Look at you, Cranky Tanky. You’re starting to sound like a yoga guru already.” Mimicking Stephanie’s soothing “yoga” voice with eerie accuracy he adds, “Exhale and release what doesn’t serve. Inhale possibility. Exhale limitations. Namaste.”
I grin. “Not bad. If the star forward thing doesn’t work out, you could teach yoga. Or start one of those podcasts people listen to when they’re trying to go to sleep.”
He groans. “Dude, I love those. How did I sleep before Sleepy Time with Sylvia? Have you listened to that one? Her voice is magic.”
I shake my head. “Nah, I sleep just fine. I’m out the second my head hits the pillow. Especially lately. The yoga really is helping. I’ve been sleeping great, the pain in my shoulder is better…” I shrug. “I mean, I haven’t checked my blood pressure since the doc did, but it feels better. So far, I have zero complaints.”
“Especially about your hot teacher,” he says, wagging his brows again. “Maybe I should try a private lesson, if they’re that helpful.”
“Maybe you should,” I say, refusing to give him the satisfaction of threatening to punch him again. “Steph’s got a gift for knowing what’s wrong with a body and how to fix it.”
“How to fix a body…” Stone hesitates before adding with a bat of his lashes, “And how to fix a Cranky Tanky heart.”
I snort, but I’m laughing as I tell him to go fuck himself.
We head for the door, Stone singing “Cranky Tanky Heart” to the tune of “Achy Breaky Heart” beneath his breath as I roll my eyes.
But after we’ve said our goodbyes, and I’m walking back to where I parked my bike behind the practice rink, I can’t help thinking that maybe he’s right. And maybe I need to trust that that my heart knows what it’s doing.
Before I second guess the instinct, I pull out my cell, calling the woman who’s been living rent free in my head since the first time she guided me into downward facing dog.
Steph answers on the second ring with a husky, “Hello, mister. I was just thinking of you.”
“Yeah?” I ask, spirits lifting simply from hearing her voice. “Good things, I hope.”
“Very good,” she murmurs. “I’m in the bath, actually. With some candles. And some…impure thoughts.”
“I can be over in five minutes,” I rumble, making her laugh.
“A part of me would love that,” she says, pausing a beat before she adds, “but a part of me wants to take things slow, if that’s okay?”
“No rush,” I assure her. “And no pressure from me.”
“I know,” she says. “You’re not a pressuring kind of guy. So, what have you been up to tonight?”
“Just dinner with a friend,” I say. “And thinking of you. I was wondering if you might be able to get away on Saturday afternoon. I know you have classes, but there’s a thing I’d like to take you to.”
“A thing?” she echoes.
“A fun thing,” I add. “A thing I think you’ll enjoy, but it’s an hour south and only from noon to six on Saturday.”
“I’m intrigued, and I like fun things. How about I get a sub for my afternoon classes and you can pick me up at the studio at eleven fifteen?”
My heart lifts again. “Sounds good. See you then.”
“Hopefully, I’ll see you before then, too,” she says. “For class tomorrow night and maybe lunch on Thursday? My treat? Mr. Sniffles wants to take you to his favorite taco hut before they close for the summer.”
“Tell Mr. Sniffles I’d love that,” I say, my smile clear in my voice.
“Yay, he’ll be thrilled,” she says. “Good night, Theodore. Excited to see you tomorrow.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Goodnight, Teach.”
Hanging up, I pocket my phone and take a deep breath of the evening air. It’s been a helluva week and a half—from being trapped in that equipment room and my rigid status quo to a kind of flow and ease I haven’t felt in years. For the first time in a long time, I’m not overthinking every move. I’m just here. Now. Looking forward to whatever comes next.
As I round the corner to the parking lot, my step is light. I’m not expecting anything negative. I certainly don’t expect to find a weasel cooking up a scheme to stab me in the back.
I don’t know for sure that Garcia is scheming about me, but he’s definitely scheming. And he’s absolutely a weasel. I suppose there could be an innocent explanation for the furtive-looking conversation he’s having near the arena exit with Jim Hartley, assistant to the GM, but I can’t imagine one.