Page 37 of Breakneck Hockey

“Okay. You’re super hot, but you’re a dick, Sutter,” Casey says. He smirks. “This is Rachel Meyer.”

I shake her hand. She’s got a strong handshake. She’s wearing baggy pants like a normal person. Pants that haveBantam Girls Hockeywritten up the leg.

“You play hockey?” I ask.

“Yep. All Meyers do. These are old pants, though. I’ll be moving into midget this season.”

She talks about Meyers like everyone should know who—or what—they are.

“This is Jack’s sister-in-law, or she will be if Merc ever puts a ring on it. Trish is teaching the class.”

Whoa. Way too many people to remember, but now I want to know what the fuck the connection is. “Trish?”

“Trish is married to Bea Meyer, Merc and Rachel’s oldest sister. They were there when I was at Jack and Merc’s the other day and Trish suggested we come because we’re both having the same hip tightness. Trish only does this part-time and this is the only class we could make it to. Figures you’d be here, Sutter.”

“I live a block away. Don’t act like I’m the interloper. If anyone’s an interloper, it’s you.”

“Wow. Does he ever smile?” she asks.

“I’ve gotten him to smile once or twice,” Casey says. “But he’s mostly like this. See what I have to put up with?”

I growl.

“He’s like a dog, too. A big rottweiler,” she says.

“You should see how many locks he has on his doors. Also very Doberman-like. I’ve coined the term doberweiler.”

“Yeah, I see it,” she says.

There’s fucking two of them. If they’re gonna talk about me like I’m not here, I’m checking out. I take a sip of water and stretch out on my mat, doing my best to block out their conversation. It’s kinda hard when Alderchuck’s purposefully trying to rile me up, though.

He’s also flirting. Sinking back into some pre-class Child’s pose in those tight pants so I can see that round ass of his.

Rachel laughs. “You two are idiots.”

I can’t argue with that.

The class fills, and the instructor—Trish, I guess—floats out from the back to the mat on the stage at the front of the room. “Namas-fucking-te, peeps. Let’s do this.”

I didn’t know swearing was allowed in yoga. I might start coming more often.

Scratch that. I’m only coming again if Alderchuck’s not here. The class is fucking torture with his tight body open wide before me. His hair’s tied in a man bun. I want to tug the elastic out and run my hands through his soft locks. If I can see his nuts in those pants, so can everyone else, and I don’t like it. At least two of the other men have snuck glances at his junk. I want to cover him up.

And yeah, Iknow. But just because I don’t want Alderchuck, doesn’t mean I want anyone else to have him.

The class ends seventy-five long minutes later. Alderchuck should be less attractive when he’s dripping with sweat, but he’s not. I know what he looks like naked and glistening. I want to rip the clothes off him, which is exactly why I shouldn’t. This whole thing with him’s gone too far, and I’m ending this here. Now. Today.

I’m quiet as I roll up my mat, thinking about how I’ll do it. Know what? Doing anything big will make it too much like a breakup and we’re not something to break up. I’m just gonna walk the fuck out and never call him again. A good old-fashioned ghosting.

Easy.

I grab my small bag from the cubby in the changeroom that smells worse than a hockey locker. Too many hairy sweaty men, not enough bottles of disinfectant.

“Hey handsome, I saw how flexible you were in there.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.”

That’s Alderchuck’s voice … and another man. Is someone hitting on my Alderchuck?

---