Page 24 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“Lateral steps. Red band. Just like we practiced.”
I eye it like it might bite. “You sure this isn’t just a glorified bungee cord? Looks like something you’d find in a CrossFit starter pack.”
He grins, annoyingly patient. “Three sets of twelve. Deep stance.”
Then, the part I was hoping he forgot.
His gaze drops to my brace.
“Gotta come off.”
And just like that, my stomach does this dip.
Not from nerves, exactly. More like resentment.
That brace might be annoying, but it’s been physically, mentally, and emotionally holding me together. Taking it off in the yoga studio was a matter of . . . I don’t know. It felt weird to be dragging so much attention toward me. But here, with bright lights, shiny floors, and people who move without thinking, it feels like walking a tightrope without a net.
As I’m about to make an excuse, he repeats, “That brace has to come off.”
Resigned, I squat, barely, to peel the Velcro apart, the rip louder than it needs to be. Set the brace down beside the bench like it’s something precious. Like it might miss me.
My leg doesn’t feel supported—it feels exposed. Loose. Wrong.
I straighten, wrap the band around my legs, and take a breath. I pretend it is for focus and not low-key panic.
“Ready?” Alex asks, still doing that encouraging nod as if I haven’t been clenching my jaw since I stepped through the doors.
“No,” I say flatly. “But let’s do it anyway.”
He doesn’t push.
Just gestures toward the turf and steps back to let me work.
And I do, sort of.
My stance isn’t as deep as it should be. My glutes are bitching. My knee is holding a grudge. But I move. Side to side. Band stretched, core tight, sweat already prickling down my back.
I keep going, jaw tight, mind louder than the playlist humming through the speakers.
This is fine.
It’s all fine.
Even if it doesn’t feel like it.
I loop the band around my thighs and get into position. First step—tight. Second—unbalanced. Third—I hesitate.
Not because I can’t do it but because I’m already feeling the crack in my rhythm. By rep seven, I’m gritting my teeth. By rep nine, my thigh starts burning.
By rep ten, my knee stutters. Buckles then locks.
I straighten the band, snapping around my legs with a slap.
“I’m not doing this,” I mutter, already pulling the loop off and letting it fall to the mat.
Alex blinks. “It’s the same drill we’ve been trying to work on all week.”
“Yeah, and it’s not working. Repeating the same thing over and over again is fucking stupid.”
