Page 19 of 1 Last Shot

Fuck.

The idea of taking a yoga class makes my skin crawl, but I can't deny that this is a good deal. I've been begging Coach for that matchup since I showed up here. Stretching out on a mat once a week is a decent trade for the opportunity to pummel a shitty ex-teammate into the ground.

"Fine," I choke out. "I'll sign up tomorrow. So I'll be in here on Thursday."

He gives me a hard nod. "Fine. Now get out of here. Ice the shoulder, andno punching anything. Or anyone."

I barely contain the offended growl that wants to tear out of me that he's treating me like this. Like achild. Just because I'm not a fucking pussy and crying to him about an injury.

I'm too angry to even say goodbye to anyone as I storm out. Not that I do normally, but I feel especially pissed at my "teammates” when there’s pain radiating in my body and frustration welling in my heart.

* * *

I drink myself into a stupor that night.

If I can't work out tomorrow, I might as well enjoy the only vice I inherited from my mother.

It takes me less time than usual to get to the no-pain point—which I'm especially thankful for tonight, because my shoulder has really been killing me all day—and then the blackout point hits not long after that. When I wake up the next morning, it's with zero memories and the mother of all hangovers.

Having passed out on the couch, I push myself into a sitting position, immediately remembering yesterday's events when a searing pain shoots up my shoulder. I collapse back on to the cushions with a groan.

When I manage to push myself up with my other arm, I notice my laptop on the floor beside me. I try to remember why I was on it last night, but come up blank when my head starts to pound with every one of my heartbeats. I drag the piece of technology onto my lap with another groan.

As soon as the screen lights up, last night comes rushing back:fucking yoga in Philadelphia. That's the last search on my screen.

There are more studios than I thought there would be, which makes me grimace and quickly mark the one that's closest to me. What do I care if it's actually a good spot? I'm only doing this because Coach told me to. Might as well just pick the one that’s first on the list.

I fill out the ‘Contact Me’ form and within a few hours, I'm confirmed for a spot in the beginner class this afternoon.

Fucking wonderful.

I kill time with some video games, but before I know it, I'm changing into workout clothesand packing up work clothes for my shift at the strip club afterward. It’s a ten minute ride to the studio.

I don't even have to guess what my face looks like walking into the building—the reactions of the people I pass tell me exactly what I look like. Either their eyes widen, or they catch a glimpse of me and immediately jump back to create space between us. The reactions aren't uncommon in general, but in a place like this? I stick out like a sore thumb.

"Hi, can I help you?"

I turn to the chick sitting behind the desk and say gruffly, "Yeah, I signed up for the intro class today."

She smiles and moves her focus from my stiff posture to the computer screen in front of her. "Kane Whitaker?"

I don't have it in me to respond anymore. I amthiscloseto walking out of this place as it is—screw Chevlin, I'm going to fightCoachfor this.

I nod.

"You're right on time. Go ahead in, there are cubbies for your bag and extra mats if you need to borrow one for today. Your instructor should already be in there."

Another nod. Then I'm striding past more wide-eyed girls and walking into the yoga room.

Only to come face to face with Isabella.

"Fuck," I breathe.

8

ISABELLA

I think a full minute passes before Kane snaps out of our weird, shocked haze first. "You’ve got to be shitting me,” he says. “You go here?"

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