Lauren sat up a little straighter and stopped glaring at him long enough to peer out her window at the antique brick facade of his row house. “Nice place, Mike.” Her voice was sharp.
“Thanks,” he said, feeling more than a little embarrassed. It was a ridiculously nice house, and fancier than he’d really planned on buying. But when you needed at least three bedrooms and you’re in a hurry, you had to buy what was on the market.
He opened the door, wondering where she lived, and what it was like there. “Want to come inside for a beer?” he heard himself ask. He wished he could take back everything he’d said in the past five minutes.
Slowly she shook her head. “It’s midnight. And I’m already in the car.”
Right. “Good night, Lo. Thanks for the ride, and have a safe trip home.”
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
He shut the door and stepped onto the curb so the car could roll away.
A moment later the car’s taillights turned out of sight.
NINETEEN
TAMPA, FLORIDA
MAY 2016
Four days later Lauren knelt in child’s pose on her yoga mat, which she’d unfurled on the wood floor in an exercise studio in the team’s Tampa hotel.
At the front of the room, Ari took the class through some breathing exercises. Lauren expanded her diaphragm on command, inhaling deeply. But she tuned Ari out in favor of indulging herself in a few private play-offs calculations.
The location of play-offs series games was always dependent on team standings. In this case, Tampa had entered the postseason with the higher ranking. So they’d enjoyed a home ice advantage for the first two games. Then there had been two in Brooklyn—the one where Mike fought Skews, and then another.
Which they’d lost, unfortunately.
The series was now tied 2–2, and Lauren was hoping her boys could win the next two in a row. According to the rules, game five was back in Tampa, which accounted for the location of today’s team yoga class. Game six would happen in Brooklyn. If the Bruisers could win two in a row, the series would be over then.
However.
If the series lasted seven games, the final one would take place in Tampa. That wasn’t going to be good for Lauren. Because on the date of game seven, she needed to be in New York, where her reproductive endocrinologist was located. If her calculations were right, she’d be ovulating then . . .
“Rise into tabletop,” Ari said at the front of the room. “Exhale, rounding your back, tucking your tailbone. Take stock of your body as we begin a series of cat and cow poses. What feels tight? What feels good? Take it slowly . . .”
Lauren listened to Ari’s voice and tried to shake off her private worries. Upstairs in her hotel room she had a test kit which would help her predict her ovulation. Today she’d take her last dose of the fertility medication, then she could begin testing tomorrow.
Maybe everything could still work out fine. Her body was unpredictable enough that she’d needed the drug to regulate her cycle. Maybe she would ovulate while she was still in New York for game six, or maybe her ovaries would wait until after game seven.
Whenever the test kit gave her the “smiley face” indicator, she’d call the doctor to make an appointment for her intrauterine insemination. The clinic was open seven days a week to accommodate the fickle ovaries of its patients.
Either way, she’d cheer hard for Brooklyn during games five and six. Win this, so we can stay home, she’d be praying.
Ari brought her class into a standing position. “Sweep your arms up on the inhale,” she instructed. “Bring your hands together at heart’s center. As you exhale, dive forward with length.”
As Lauren dove, she admired Mike’s well-muscled backside a couple of rows ahead of her. He was wearing a pair of Lycra shorts that were probably illegal in several states. When he folded his body forward, his nose came right to his knees, and his leg muscles stood at perfect attention like handsome soldiers ready for battle.
Wowzers.
Ari took the class through its first sun salutation, and Lauren found her eyes drifting to Mike over and over. “Rise into Warrior II,” the teacher said, and Mike lunged forward, his arms outstretched perfectly, his back muscles rippling.
Gawd. He was so beautiful. She’d never met anyone more comfortable in his own body. When they were together he used to walk around naked all the time, while she tried not to swallow her tongue. “Don’t you own any shirts?” she’d asked him one January evening, as he’d poured her a glass of wine wearing nothing but a pair of baggy shorts.
“I run hot,” he’d explained. “And this way there are fewer clothes in the way if you decide to pounce on me.”
If memory served, she’d done that very thing about fifteen minutes later.
In the past, when Lauren had fantasized about baby-making, she’d always imagined conceiving while burning up the sheets in his bed. Getting pregnant on a table at the fertility clinic had never been part of her life’s plan.
But that’s okay, she reminded herself. Things change, and I’m done feeling bitter. She followed the class into downward-facing dog pose and stretched her hamstrings. Yoga was relaxing. Maybe Ari would help her find a prenatal yoga class if she became pregnant next week.
Next week. Wow. A little zing of excitement pulsed through her body.
There were good things happening in her life, and not one of them depended on Mike Beacon.
After class, Lauren wiped down her yoga mat and rolled it up. She pulled a stretchy little skirt over her yoga leggings and took the elevator up to the top floor of the hotel. She occupied the usual suite, even though Nathan wouldn’t arrive to occupy the adjacent one until tonight.
Humming to herself, she almost didn’t notice the man standing beside her hotel room door. “Mike,” she squeaked, wishing too late that she hadn’t sounded so much like a teenage fan girl.
“There’s something I need to discuss with you,” he said. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” She took out her keycard, and tried to avoid glancing at his muscular legs. At least he’d pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts over his tight ones. That made concentrating a little easier. Though that T-shirt was stretched tightly across his pecs, and his skin glowed with the sweat of yoga exertion . . .
Stop. She had to cut out all the lustful thoughts about him. Thanks, hormones.
The door gave way and she stepped into her hotel suite. At least it wasn’t the same room or the same town where they’d had their recent sex fest. Small mercies.
“So . . .” Mike said, closing the door behind himself.
“So?” She had no idea what he wanted to discuss.
Frowning, he walked past her and sat down on the leather footstool in the suite’s seating area. He crossed his delectable arms in front of that lickable chest and looked up at her. “Sit down, honey.”
The small demand rankled for some reason. But she obeyed the request because it would probably get him out of her room more quickly. “Spit it out, Mike. I have a lot of work to do.” She sat on the sofa across from him.