7. I’m Just Here for the Balance

Rhys

I take a quick wrist shot, the puck whizzing past our goalie's glove and into the net. Dev grumbles from behind his mask, "I let that in."

"Are you sure about that?" I tease as I skate by our fiercely competitive goalie, sending a spray of ice in his direction.

Hollis takes his turn next, sprinting toward the net with determination. But Dev easily blocks Hollis's shot with his leg pad.

It's morning skate and it's optional, especially since we had a game yesterday afternoon. But I've always taken the option since I've been with the Golden State Foxes.

We're almost halfway into a long season, but it's been a good season so far. I'm grateful to be on this team after being traded from New York a year and a half ago. My old team was going nowhere, and my personal life wasn't much better. The two seem to move in tandem.

I shake off the memory of Samantha and her tricky ways, her multiple profiles, her stacks of lies. Here on the ice, all thoughts of that shitty year disappear. It's just me and the game and the challenge as we move into passing drills. Gavin slides the puck to me, then I wing it over to him as we attack the net. He shuffles it back, and I take aim and slap one past Dev in the net once more.

"Just don't forget to do that in a game," Dev calls out.

Which, ouch.

Yes, I'd like to score more points when it matters. Who wouldn't, really? But I'm acutely aware that I'm surrounded by great players here on this team. I'm not one of those great players. I'd like my stats to be better, my contributions stronger, my game time just…more.

We move through power-play practice, then deflections, then the clock unwinds, and we head to the tunnel. Hollis is right behind me, and Gavin too.

"Gonna hit the weights," Gavin says, which is Gavin-speak for who's in.

I'll go later at my building. "Can't," I say, and they know why. But it feels…strange, maybe, to admit that after last night.

"Because you have yoga class," Hollis singsongs.

That's the problem with sticking to a regular schedule. Your mates know your whereabouts too well. "Yeah, I do," I say, like saying it casually will make my attendance seem…casual.

"Well, you wouldn't want to mess with a streak," Gavin deadpans when we reach the hallway leading to the locker room.

And…touché.

"Exactly. My devotion to yoga is why we're winning," I say.

"Then, better not miss a class. Say hi to Briar for all of us," Gavin adds.

"Give her our love," Hollis says, batting his lashes.

My friends are such assholes. It was Gavin's fucking idea to get her the gift. "Absolutely. I'm definitely going to talk to her about the two of you."

"Knew it," Gavin says, then tips his chin at Hollis. "Weight room?"

"And then fish tacos."

"It's not a game day," Gavin points out, and the two of them argue about fish tacos and rituals the rest of the way.

When I'm out of my gear and into joggers and trainers, I take off. Yes, I am religious about weights, exercise, yoga, and practice. I'm religious about making the most of my opportunity to play. I can't squander it. Not when it's something others in my family don't have. I'll do what it takes to have a body that works, that can play at the highest level. A private trainer I hired this year recommended adding yoga to my routine. "You can pivot better. Have more explosive crossovers. It can give you an edge," he'd said.

In this sport, an edge can make all the difference between a good year and a great one. An edge makes you better than the next guy they'll trade you for.

When I leave the rink, I head over to Fillmore Street, to the studio where Briar teaches.

As I near the red-brick facade of Peak Performance Yoga, my skin buzzes like it usually does when I know I'm going to see her. But the charge is even more electric after last night.

Which is utterly fucking ridiculous.

I mean, it's not like I'm going to ask her out—not after what her wanker of an ex did to her less than twenty-four hours ago. I'm off romance altogether, too, after Samantha.

This buzzing in my cells is just…because I like her style of exercise.

Yeah right.

After I check in I head to the class, but she's not here greeting students, setting out mats, or offering individual tips. She's usually here early. Ten minutes early. Like I normally am.

I'm not bothered. I'm really not bothered.

I grab a spot, roll out my mat, and take a drink from my water bottle. The class filters in. I check the time.

Class should start in three minutes.

A bright voice carries confidently across the studio. "Good morning, friends. Are you ready to flow and flex today?"

Stupid fucking grin.

I fight it off over her usual greeting as she strides to the front of the class on agile bare feet, dressed in sky-blue leggings with crisscross cutouts along the side revealing her creamy flesh.

After she sets down her mat, her blue eyes linger on me a little longer than they do everyone else. They curve up in a hint of a grin, a private acknowledgement of last night.

At least, I hope.

Which is a stupid hope.

Dismissing it, I laser in on balance.

I'm just here for the balance. That edge.

That is all.

An hour later I roll up my mat, lingering behind as Briar says goodbye to other students. When everyone's gone, I head over. It'd be weird not to, I reckon. "And how is Frances Furbottom?"

"Very, very furry still. And, Rhys," she says, my name sounding like it tastes good on her lips, "thank you again for the gift. It was really incredible. I was going to send you guys a thank you this afternoon. I was just waiting for Ledger to send me your numbers."

Shit. I don't want her to think I'm in class today because I'm shilling for a thanks. "No worries. I'm just here to work on my balance," I say and wow, that doesn't sound like I'm trying to cover up a massive fucking crush. I try to inject some chill in my voice. "Anyway, I'm glad you got them."

Last night after she dropped us off, we didn't go back to check out Steven's building after all. We grabbed a beer and decided we couldn't just let a woman who'd been kicked out have to haul her clothes around in rubbish bags. We ordered some luggage online and since Hollis heard that she was staying with his cousin, we arranged for our group gift to arrive there this morning.

"I was just going to borrow some suitcases from Aubrey, but now I have my own. In pink and purple," Briar says, and she sounds delighted to have the luggage.

"We had a feeling you liked the colors," I say.

"Well, you felt right." She doesn't seem to realize the double entendre at first, then she does, dipping her face. "I mean…"

"Hopefully it feels good. You shouldn't hesitate to feel up luggage."

"Then I'll have my hands all over it later."

I might regret this later. I probably will. But I say it anyway. "Lucky luggage."

Her smile lingers, and for a long beat, the air sparks hotter between us, charged with this electricity. "And it'll go to good use. I'm going to Lucky Falls later today."

"Oh, really?" That's where the festival is. But it doesn't start for a week.

"I got into my rental early—break out the champagne—so at least I've got a place for a couple weeks. Which also gives me time to find a place in the city."

"You won't be teaching then? For the next week?" Ah fuck. I hope that doesn't sound like I'll be a sad sack, kicking a can around the fitness studio forlornly.

"I will. I'll drive back and forth from Lucky Falls each day."

That's an hour each way. I hate her ex even more than I did last night for this massive inconvenience. "We'll have to get you a gift of petrol next time," I say.

"You guys are already too good to me. Do you mind giving me Hollis's and Gavin's numbers?"

"No problem," I say, and we quickly exchange all the digits.

Then she reaches out and squeezes my bicep. "Thanks again for last night."

She holds my arm for a bit longer than I'd expect, which is fine by me. For a second, it looks like she's going to say something else. Maybe even lean in and give me a thank you kiss on the cheek.

But that's wishful thinking. Of course she doesn't do that. I've been burned by romance in the last year or so, but she was burned by it just last night.

Best if I keep this obsession exactly where it should stay—in a tiny purple and pink suitcase in the corner of my mind. Fact is, I should avoid her in Wine Country next week too.

It's a big festival. I probably won't even see her. "I hope you have a good time at the festival," she says.

"You too. I'll get you that champagne when you snag a new place."

"Champagne's my favorite," she says, and I file that away for safekeeping.

When I leave, my agent's name and number flashes across the phone and I tense.

This could be the news I've been dreading.