Page 15 of The Romance Line
She stops and turns around, a smile coasting across her face. “Hey, Everly. You ready to join us for class today? No heels though.”
I snort-laugh as I glance at my Louboutins. They definitely make me feel pretty and powerful, and the latter helps especially on days when I meet with my boss. “Doing yoga with thirty rowdy hockey players sounds like a whole new level in the world’s hardest video game,” I say.
“It is. But I keep them in line.”
“You sure do,” I say, then remember a debate I heard on the flight home. “Also, isn’t yoga supposed to be non-competitive? Wesley and Asher were arguing on the team plane about whose half-moon pose was better. What’s the deal with that?”
She smiles, shaking her head. “Next thing you know, they’ll try to have a contest in class.”
“And they’ll place bets. But what even is a half-moon pose?”
With zero hesitation, she shifts into a wide-leg stance, turns her torso to the right then drops her right hand to the floor. Once her palm hits the concrete, she lifts her back leg up, flexing her foot and tilting her hip toward the ceiling. It’s daunting and gorgeous at the same time. “You look like a beautiful half-windmill,” I say, and I also can’t decide whether to applaud or check if she has any bones left after contorting herself like that.
“Thanks. It’s all about having fun,” she continues when she pops out of the pose as seamlessly as she moved into it. “If you ever want a one-on-one session, I’d be happy to teach you. I bet you can do it,” she says, and my brain latches onto those positive words—I bet you can.
That’s what Marie said, too, when I told her I’d never be able to pole dance. Fun fact: I was wrong. Though, the un-fun fact is this—there are things in pole I can’t do. Or really, things I don’t do.
A memory of the night that changed my life three years ago grips me tight for a few seconds—the sounds, the sirens, the pain—but I do my best to shake it off and stay in the present. I continue down the hall as the guys start streaming out of the locker room, presumably to Briar’s afternoon class.
Wesley and Asher are the first to enter the hallway and Wesley tips his chin toward me in greeting. He’s involved with our team captain’s sister, Josie, who’s become a good friend of mine, so Wesley and I are sort of friends now too. “How’s it going, Everly? Anyone new you need to keep out of trouble? Besides Asher.”
I go on high alert as I shift my focus to our left winger by his side. Asher is one of the golden guys. He never causes problems. “Asher, what could you have possibly done?” I ask with some alarm.
But he simply flashes me one of his trademark nice guy grins, then says, “I was arguing with some fans online today.”
Worry slides down my spine, though I try to shove it aside and focus on fixing the problem. It’s triage time. “What did you say? Where did you say it? And who was there?”
Once I know that, I can devise a solution.
“Ev,” Asher says reassuringly. “You don’t need to worry. I do this all the time.”
And that does not help whatsoever. The hair on my arms stands on end. “That doesn’t make it better, Asher.”
“It was from my burner account, and I was only arguing about baseball. No one knows it’s me,” Asher explains.
Oh thank god. I breathe a sigh of relief, but it doesn’t last long. I stare sharply at him, waggling a finger. “But why? Why is that necessary, Asher?”
This guy signs autographs after every game. He rolls down his window when he leaves the players’ lot sometimes to snap selfies with fans. Why would he be arguing about baseball, even from a burner account?
Asher’s clever green eyes spark, like a flame’s been lit in them. “Because the trades some of the teams are making in the off-season are insane. Did you know that the Cougars let go of one of their big bats, and now the New York Comets think they’re going to land Julio Martinez, and it’s ridiculous. We needed Martinez and his RBIs. I swear I should have been a baseball general manager because I could do this better in my sleep.”
“And I ask again,” I say, kind but firm, “why are you arguing with fans online?”
“They don’t know it’s me,” he says with a casual shrug.
“Yet, Asher. They don’t know it’s youyet.”
Wesley clears his throat. “Asher likes to get in fights online because if he does it in person, Max always points out where Asher might be wrong. But with the Internet trolls, Asher can just fire off scathing insults about the other teams, so it’s a more satisfying argument for him.”
Asher shoots Wesley a look like his teammate haswounded his heart, when it’s more like Wesley wounded his pride. “Dude. You don’t like my arguments?”
“Dude, I tune them out,” Wesley says.
“So, you can see why I need to argue online. It’s an outlet.” Then Asher looks around, spinning in a full circle. “Speaking of Max, where is our resident Eeyore?”
Wesley shrugs as he scans the hallway. “Good question. Max usually tries to make it to yoga class.”
It is odd that he’s not around, but Max tends to follow the rules less than guys like Wesley and Asher, who show up for every morning skate and every yoga class.