3. Calvin

CALVIN

I pull up to the Pilates studio, my palms sweating against the steering wheel. The sign above the entrance glows with an inviting pink hue, but all I can think about is the prospect of my impending humiliation. I just spent the weekend watching social media videos of women taking over-confident men to a pilates class and turning them into laughingstocks. And I don’t want that. I’ve fallen flat on my face plenty of times on the ice and come out fine, but something about the idea of failing at glorified stretching makes me cringe. What was I thinking agreeing to this?

Stepping out of my truck, I adjust my hoodie and look around nervously, hoping no one recognizes me. True to her word, Olivia found an out-of-the-way studio located between our two cities. It’s the last place anyone would expect to see me, but that doesn’t ease the knot tightening in my stomach. I’ve faced down opposing players with steel-toed boots and been crushed against the boards countless times, but this? This is different. No amount of muscle or grit can prepare you for what it’s like to face the judgment of a room full of bendy bodies and yoga pants—especially if one of them is a hockey fan and recognizes me. I’m taking a huge risk here.

“Just fucking get it over with, Barrett,” I say to myself, taking a deep breath and pushing through the studio door, the soft chime of bells announces my entry and I’m immediately greeted by a smiling Olivia waiting for me by the front desk. In my hoodie and sweatpants, I look like I’m getting ready to rob a bank. But she’s looking perfectly composed in her workout gear—a fitted tank top and leggings that accentuate her curves in a way that shouldn’t be legal. My eyes linger a moment too long on the swell of her belly and the thickness of her thighs before I force them back to her face and mentally congratulate myself on not getting hard. I’ve wanted her since the moment I saw her in her team uniform, but seeing her in form-fitting lycra, a tiny sliver of skin peeking out between her singlet and her yoga pants, is a whole new level of torment. I swallow hard and draw a steady breath.

“Was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.” She smirks, her eyes raking over me like a scout assessing a new recruit. “Interesting choice of outfit. You’ll die if you don’t remove that hoodie, though.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, figuring she’s close enough to the game to know that players still get spotted in the most unexpected places, and I’m not about to be photographed taking a pilates class. I’m already mocked enough in the press from being benched most of the season and I don’t need the world knowing that I’m one bad stretch away from a total meltdown.

“Suit yourself,” she replies with a playful smile, showing off those sharp features that somehow manage to soften when she’s teasing me. “Just don’t blame me when you end up a sweaty, overheated mess.”

Olivia gestures toward the studio, and I follow her inside. The room is filled with pastel mats and an array of pilates equipment that looks suspiciously like medieval torture devices. I glance at the other participants—some in deep conversation, others already in poses that don’t look as hard as I thought they would. Hmm. Maybe I’m just overthinking this and I’ll be fine.

“Wait,” I say suddenly, gently grabbing Olivia’s arm to stop her before she gets to the front of the room. She stops in her tracks and looks at me.

“Jesus, Barrett. I thought you’d at least get through the warmup before you freaked out and bailed,” she teases.

I roll my eyes and drop my hand. “Hilarious. I was just thinkin’ maybe we could set up in the back?”

Olivia raises an eyebrow. “Wow. You really don't want to be seen with me, do you?”

Heat floods to my face, and I stumble over my words. “No, no, that's not it at all. I just... I don't want to draw too much attention.”

She stares at me for a moment, her expression stern but her lips quirking up at the corners. “Relax, Calvin. I'm just messing with you. I get it. You're a big shot hockey player, and you don't want any sneaky photos to get out.”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

Olivia nods, leading me to the back of the room instead. “Lucky for you, I know exactly how to hide from prying eyes. But if you don’t quit doing an impression of the uni bomber, it won’t matter where we set up. You really need to lose that hoodie. It’s drawing more attention than your shoulders.”

I tilt my head slightly. “My shoulders draw too much attention?”

She opens her mouth and falters a little. “Well, yeah. They’re just...” She holds are hands out as wide as her arms allow “… so broad. Surely you’ve noticed that you have to turn slightly to get through a doorway.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “I’m aware. But now I’m also aware that you've been checkin’ out my shoulders. Something else you wanna check out, doc? I can turn around real slow for you.”

Olivia's cheeks flush, but she maintains her composure. “Calm down, hotshot. It’s just hard not to notice how broad you are when your shoulders are directly in my line of sight.” She touches the top of her head with her flattened hand and gestures toward me, demonstrating that the top of her head comes up to just below my chin. “Plus, you’re just fucking huge, Barrett. You attract attention no matter what, so just lose the hoodie, OK? Seriously, you're gonna overheat and die if you keep it on. And if I have to administer any more medical care than I already have, I might have to start charging.”

I hesitate for a moment, glancing around the room. She's right, of course. The studio is already warm, and I can feel the sweat starting to gather at the base of my neck. With a sigh, I reach up and pull the hoodie over my head, revealing a tight-fitting t-shirt that clings to my chest and arms.

Olivia's eyes widen slightly, and I swear I catch her gaze lingering on my biceps before she quickly looks away. “There, that's better,” she says, her voice a little higher than usual. “Now you look like you're ready to actually participate instead of just lurking in the shadows.”

I grin, enjoying the effect I seem to be having on her. “Well, I aim to please, doc. Anything else you think I should be removing?”

She shoots me a sidelong glance. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Barrett.”

Oh, I want to get ahead of myself. I want to get so far ahead that I already know the taste of her pussy on my tongue and the sound she makes when I sink my cock deep inside her. I want to know what it feels like to have her breath hitch in her throat as I tease her taut nipples between my teeth, and I want to know how hoarse she’ll get from screaming while I make her come. Over, and over, and over again. But I rein that all in, keeping my thoughts to myself. Because while I can look at her and know she’s forever, I need to be careful not to scare her away by coming on too strong, too soon. But mark my words, the moment I see even the slight chance for an in with her, I’m taking it.

As we settle in, I can't help but notice how close we are. There's barely a foot of space between us, and I smell the sweet scent of her shampoo that seems to float my way as she ties her hair into a knot on the top of her head. I’m suddenly hyperaware of every little thing—the gentle curve of her jaw, the way her fingers deftly twist the elastic band, or how her blue eyes dart to me with a blend of amusement and confusion. It’s like she’s trying to figure me out, even though I’d happily be an open book for her if that’s what she wanted.

“You need something?” she asks when I don’t look away.

My mouth twitches up on one side as I shake my head and give my eyes a moment to really drink in the stunning woman sitting beside me.

“Just enjoying the view, doc. Can't blame a guy for appreciating beauty when he sees it.”

Olivia's eyes widen, and for a moment, I think I've overstepped. But then she laughs, a soft, melodic sound that wakes my dick right up. “You're a dangerous man, Calvin Barrett. Smooth-talking like that might get you into trouble one day. We aren’t on the same team, remember?”

“And yet you’re the one who invited me here. Maybe we both like courting a little trouble,” I counter, my eyes locked on hers.

She holds my gaze, her pupils dilating as if she’s weighing her options. For me, the only option here is her. But when she clears her throat and shifts slightly, I can tell she’s trying to regain control. “Courting trouble? I don’t think so, Mr. Barrett,” she retorts, even though her voice has a tiny wobble to it. “I’m not one for trouble at all.” I respond by just quirking a brow at her. She clears her throat and juts her chin in the air. “We should probably just focus on the class.” Her eyes stray back to mine. “Wouldn't want you to pull something before we even start.”

“Right, the class. Can't let ourselves get distracted from what the real goal is here.” I hold her eyes, the tension crackling between us, until the instructor calls for class to start and we’re forced to turn our attention to the front of the room.

But even as we begin to warm up with a series of gentle stretches, it’s hard to focus on anything but Olivia. The way her body bends and shifts commands my attention. All I can think about is how I’d like to take advantage of that flexibility of hers in a more horizontal context. I imagine tracing my fingers down her curves, feeling her shudder under my touch. I bet she's got one hell of a grip when she's not busy keeping athletes in top form, and the moment I can get her into a more private setting, I'm eager to find out.

I return my attention to the front of the room, trying to will my wayward thoughts into submission. There's no denying it. Olivia Angelo has gotten under my skin in all the right ways. And I won’t rest until I’ve dug myself deep under hers and she has my baby in her belly.

We transition from the warm-up to the ‘Hundred’ a classic Pilates move that involves lying on your back, lifting your head and shoulders off the mat, and pumping your arms up and down while keeping your legs extended and hovering above the ground. It looks simple enough when the instructor demonstrates, her core engaged and her breathing steady. But as I attempt to mimic her form, my thoughts quickly go from fantasizing about Olivia beneath me to, ‘Oh shit, this fucking hurts!’

Now, I have done a million sit-ups and crunches throughout my career. But within about thirty seconds of doing this, my abs are quivering and my lower back is straining. I’m even struggling to keep my legs straight. Fuck. This is only the first serious exercise.

“Breathe, Calvin,” Olivia whispers, her voice cutting through the panic in my mind. “The key is to focus on your exhale and let your core do the work.”

I nod, gritting my teeth as I try to follow her advice. We move on to the ‘Roll-Up,’ a move that involves slowly peeling your spine off the mat, vertebra by vertebra, until you're sitting up with your arms reaching toward your toes. Olivia makes it look effortless, her body forming a perfect curve as she rolls up and down. Meanwhile, I feel like a beached whale, my muscles straining and my breath coming in short, choppy bursts. This is no walk in the park.

As the class progresses, each new exercise seems to highlight another area of weakness in my body. The ‘Single Leg Circles’ reveal just how tight my hips are, while the ‘Crisscross’ makes me acutely aware of the imbalance between my left and right obliques. By the time we get to the ‘Teaser,’ a move that involves balancing on your sit bones with your legs extended and your arms reaching forward, I'm drenched in sweat and my muscles are screaming in protest.

I glance over at Olivia, who looks like she's barely broken a sweat. She catches my eye and gives me an encouraging smile. “You’re doing great,” she stage whispers. And while I nod and attempt a smile back, in my mind I’m screaming, What the fuck?

Is this some kind of joke?

I'm certainly not laughing, though I can see the humor in the situation. Here I am, a professional athlete who's spent years honing his body for peak performance on the ice, reduced to a panting, trembling mess by a Pilates class. It’s ridiculous. But I refuse to look the fool by giving up.

Instead, I take a deep breath and try to channel some of that competitive spirit that's served me so well on the ice. I may not be graceful or coordinated, but I'll be damned if I let this class defeat me. With a grunt of effort, I pull myself into the ‘Teaser’ position, my muscles trembling with the exertion while I wonder how completely destroying my core is supposed to help my ankle.

As the class progresses, the instructor calls out, “Side Kicks! Front and back.” Olivia turns to me with a grin. “OK, hotshot. This one's right up your alley. It's great for ankle mobility and leg strength.”

I’d make a smartass remark, but I’m so fucking winded that all I can do is nod. Still, I’m eager to try something that might actually benefit my game. The instructor demonstrates the move, lying on her side with her head resting on her outstretched arm. She lengthens her top leg, pointing her toes before kicking forward and then back, all while maintaining a flexed ankle.

As I get into position, Olivia leans over to adjust my alignment. Her touch is gentle but firm, and I feel a spark of electricity where her hands meet my skin. “Make sure to keep your core engaged and your hips stacked,” she murmurs. “And really focus on that ankle movement, pointing and flexing with each kick.”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the effect her proximity has on my body. As I start the exercise, I concentrate on isolating the movement in my ankle, feeling the muscles stretch and contract with each kick. It's a strange sensation, but I can tell it's targeting an area that's often neglected in my usual training.

Olivia watches me closely, her eyes tracking my form. “Good, Calvin. You're getting the hang of it. Just make sure to keep that top hip from rolling back as you kick.”

I make the adjustment, and suddenly, the movement feels more fluid and controlled. I can sense the muscles in my legs and core working in harmony, and for a moment, I forget about the burning in my abs and the sweat dripping down my face.

A few more exercises and a cool down later, the class is over and I’m trying to act like I’m not about to die as I sip from my water bottle.

“Nice work, Barrett,” Olivia says, giving me a nod of approval. “Maybe you're not as hopeless as I thought.”

I feign offense, but I can’t hide my grin. This beauty can praise me, put me down, tie me in knots—physically and emotionally—and I'd still come back for more. “I’ll have you know this entire class has been a breeze.”

Olivia laughs, and the sound sends a thrill through me. “A breeze? OK, hotshot. Next time we’ll do a reformer class.”

My brows shoot up. “Next time, huh? That mean you wanna see me again, doc?”

Olivia smirks. “Well, considering your ankle still needs work, and you barely survived your first Pilates class, I think it's safe to say we'll be seeing each other again, Barrett.”