“Find your breathing.”
Her voice melts into something smooth and calm. My heart rate slows as I count my breaths, in for five, out for five. Her eyes are closed, her dark hair up in a ponytail with a few pieces loose in the front. She’s wearing a t-shirt that says Don’t Touch Me and navy yoga leggings with constellations all over them.
The deplorable, horny part of me thinks about her telling me she doesn’t wear panties under her leggings.
“You get to do this class the way you want,” she adds. “You’re the boss of your body. Be a good boss and listen to it.”
The authoritative yet gentle way she speaks makes me smile.
I scan the background of Hazel’s screen. Behind her, a mini fridge sits on top of a counter beside a narrow oven and stove. Her laptop is on the floor so I can’t see much except for a pink kettle on the counter. On the left side of the screen, a dark mahogany coffee table has been pushed beside a couch, and on the right, it looks like the edge of her bed.
Jesus. Hartley’s place is tiny.
“Set an intention,” she goes on, eyes still closed. “My intention is to feel good in my body, to quiet my mind, and to get a good stretch in before bed.”
In a game, my intention would be to score more goals than everyone else. Impress the coaches. Work until my muscles burn, until my lungs are on fire.
Hartley leads us through the yin poses, and when we move into reclined butterfly, a low groan slips out of me. Thank god I’m muted. The stretch pulls across my tight shoulders and up my inner thighs. The warm, sluggish haze of relaxation flows through me, making my limbs heavy and my thoughts slow.
“Find your breath,” she murmurs, and I count in for five, out for five. “Relax your jaw.”
I unclamp my molars. She’s sprawled out on her back, belly rising and falling with her breathing.
You can relax when you’re dead, I hear my dad say. His brutal approach to sports is nothing like this.
“It’s okay if your mind wanders,” she says, and it feels like she’s whispering directly in my ear. A shiver rolls down my spine. “Invite it back. Find your breath.”
Finally, we end on our backs, palms facing the ceiling. My body is relaxed, and my mind hums with content stillness as I listen to her soft voice.
“To close today’s practice, I want you to think about what makes you feel worthy.”
Confusion rises inside me. Worthy. I repeat the word in my head. Worthy of what?
“For me,” she says, smiling to herself, “I love hanging out with my sister. Pippa brings out all the best parts of me and I always go home feeling so happy and grateful.”
I’m mesmerized. She’s so beautiful. I wish I could record this so I could listen to it again and again.
“I love running,” she goes on. “Even when I’m huffing and puffing, there’s sweat in my eyes, and my face is red like a tomato, I love feeling strong in my body. I love what my body can do for me.
“And lastly, my work makes me feel worthy. I love seeing what the human body can do. We’re all capable of incredible things, no matter what type of body we’re moving in. I love playing a part in that.” She pauses. “Now, your turn. Where do you find your purpose? What makes you smile? What makes you feel loved?”
Worthy. The word flings itself around in my head, searching for a place to land. My purpose is to be the best hockey player possible, and anything less is failure.
What makes you feel loved?
A memory flits into my head. I was eleven, and it was the summer before my mom left. We were walking through the trails near our home in North Vancouver. We stopped at a creek, and she bent down to flick a few droplets of water at me, grinning. Her deep blue eyes, the same as mine, glowed in the forest light. I laughed and flicked the water right back at her.
“I love you. I hope you know that.”
A longing ache fills my chest. I haven’t heard those words since I was a kid, since she lived with us.
And I was the one who didn’t want to live with her. I was the one who wanted to stay with Dad full time because I’m always chasing his approval.
When class is over, there’s a chorus of farewells as people sign out.
“Miller,” she says. The others have left the virtual meeting room and we’re the only ones here. There’s something different in her voice as she studies me through the camera. “Are you okay?”
I force a wry smile. “You think I’m so out of shape that I couldn’t endure a little stretching, Hartley?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and panic spikes inside me that she’s not taking my bait.
“I don’t think that at all. I just think for someone from the world of macho jocks and push-ups, my class can be jarring.”
“Macho jocks and push-ups?” I repeat, starting to smile.
She grins. “I’m not wrong.”
“You’re not wrong.” Her smile makes the tight, ugly feeling in my throat dissipate. “Thanks for letting me join.”
She nods. “Good night.”
“Good night, Hartley.”
She ends the meeting, and I sit there, absentmindedly swiveling.
My dad’s approach to discomfort is practice. Practice until you can’t anymore. Tackle it head-on. Beat it out of yourself. Don’t run from it; conquer it. Crush it. Be the strongest and the fastest. Anything but the best is failure.
I pull up Hartley’s website and sign up for all ten classes in this session.
We’re walking through the terminal to board our flight home when something sparkly in a shop window catches my eye.
I lean down to study the tiny crystal dragon. It’s a pale blue, so cute and chubby like a cartoon, but with red eyes that glow under the lights.
A big smile spreads over my face.
“Miller,” Owens calls. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll be right there.” I turn back to the dragon and walk into the store.
It’s about time I buy Hartley a present.
CHAPTER 12
HAZEL
I’m in my office creating a recovery plan for a player when Rory plunks a tiny crystal dragon in front of me.
He smiles down at me, leaning on the doorframe, eyes warm and soft, and my stomach flutters. “Hartley,” he says by way of greeting.
Fuck, he looks good. Today was the toughest practice of the week, but Rory stands tall and his eyes are bright with energy.
I hate how athletic he is. I hate that he truly is one of the best athletes of his generation. I hate it, and yet I can’t help but marvel at him.
My eyes go to the sparkly little dragon on my desk. “What’s this?”
“You.”
My lips part in denial. “It is not.”
“Sure, it is. You’re my tiny fire-breathing dragon.” I glare at him and he nods, pointing at me. “Exactly like that. Red eyes and everything.”
A laugh bursts out of me and I pick the stupid thing up, studying it.
It’s cute.
“This is dumb,” I tell him as warmth spreads through my chest.