Page 21 of From Wink to Kink

CHUCK

After an hourof tossing and turning on my eco-friendly mattress, probably stuffed with kale and broken dreams, I figure it’s time to get off my ass and check Pura Vida out. After all, I’m stuck here for a week, and I can’t hide in my room the whole damn time. Maybe if I tire myself out enough, I can get some sleep tonight. Plus, I should probably figure out where the hell everything is in this hippie paradise. I’m eventually going to need to score a meal.

I step out of my bungalow and as soon as I start walking, the humid air assaults every inch of my being. Turns out that in the jungle, if you hold still—very still—your suffering is minimized. But the minute you start exerting yourself, even the slightest movement causes perspiration to explode from pores you didn’t even know you had. In about thirty seconds, I am soaked and trying to keep the sweat from stinging my eyes.

I’m a fucking pro athlete and don’t think I’ve ever sweated like this.

I push through my discomfort and head down a winding path where I see lush, tropical flowers spilling everywhere and climbing up trellises and trees. I also spot signs posted at various intersections. But these aren't your typicalPool This WayorRestaurant 100msigns. Oh no, that would be too simple for Pura Vida.

Tantric Awakening, 3 p.m., Lotus Pavilion, one sign proclaims in flowing script. I blink, sure I've misread it. Tantric? Isn't that...? Nah, it's probably just some weird yoga terminology. Right?

A little further down, another sign catches my eye:Sensual Meditation and Partner Breathing, 5 p.m., Bliss Garden. Okay, now they're just messing with me. Partner breathing? Is that code for something? I shake my head, trying to dislodge the decidedly not-very-tranquil images forming in my mind.

More signs ahead.Positions Discovered. Swing Positivity. Enhancement Workshop. Three or More Fun.

Why do these all sound… vaguely sexual?

Or is this some kind of fancy yoga terminology? I make a mental note to work on terminology so I don’t stand out anymore than I already do.

I round a corner, nearly colliding with a couple walking hand in hand. They're wearing... well, not much. The guy's in a pair of shorts that leave little to the imagination, and the woman's outfit seems to consist mainly of strategically placed flowers.

"’Scuse me," I mutter, stepping aside.

The woman's eyes widen in recognition. "Wait, aren't you Chuck Newcomb? The hockey player?"

Well, shit. So much for blending in. But my media training kicks in, and I flash my most charming smile. "Guilty as charged. Though I'm not sure how much of a hockey player I am without any ice around here."

She giggles. “Never thought I’d see someone like you at a retreat like this!”

That makes two of us, lady.

The man laughs too, but for different reasons. "Man, I saw that game where you took on the entire Winnipeg defense. Legendary! Ain’t this a kick in the ass, meeting you? I’m a huge fan."

Before I know it, I'm surrounded by a small group of guests, all eager to hear hockey stories. And, just as if Vince Vincent, the PR pro, was whispering in my ear, I oblige.

The little twerp would be so proud.

"So there I was, two minutes left in the third period," I begin, settling into my favorite post-game interview stance. "We're down by one, and Coach gives me The Look. You know the one—partI believe in you, and partif you screw this up, you're doing suicides until you puke."

The group laughs, hanging on my every word. It's nice. Familiar. In fact, for a moment, I forget I'm standing in the middle of a sweaty wellness retreat, probably breaking about a dozen rules about inner peace or whatever.

As I finish regaling them with tales of my on-ice heroics, only slightly exaggerated, I can't help but notice how... couple-y everyone is. Holding hands, stealing glances, standing just a little too close. A twinge of something—awkwardness? loneliness?—hits me out of nowhere.

Must be nice, I think, watching a guy casually drape his arm around his partner's shoulders. To have someone to share this weird place with. Someone to laugh with when you completely botch your yoga class or accidentally sign up for ‘Tantric Awakening’ thinking it's a sunrise hike.

I push the thought away. I'm Chuck Newcomb, star hockey player and officially certified bachelor. I don't do relationships. They're messy, complicated, and always seem to end withsomeone crying or throwing things. Sometimes both. I don’t mean to sound like a douche. There are just some things I’m good at and some I’m not. I own my shit, yo.

A couple to my left, let's call them Ken and Barbie, given their eerily perfect tans and white teeth, turn to me with matching megawatt smiles.

"Hey Chuck," Ken says, "we're heading to a group activity in about an hour. Want to join?"

I perk up at this. Finally, something normal-sounding. Maybe a nature hike or kayaking. "What kind of activity?" I ask.

With a feline smile, Barbie giggles, a sound that somehow manages to be both cute and slightly alarming. "Oh, you know, just a little... group bonding," she purrs with a wink.

Something about the way she says "bonding" makes me think we're not talking about trust falls here.

I have to clear my throat before I can speak. "Uh, thanks for the offer," I say, taking a small step back. "But I was actually planning on trying out a yoga class. You know, when in Rome and all that."

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