Page 34 of Behind the Net

There’s a weird feeling in my chest, like I don’t want to say goodbye. Without thinking, I set my coffee mug on the table and nod once at her.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

She stares at me in confusion.

I pull my sneakers on, ignoring the warning feeling at the edge of my consciousness. It’s just yoga, I tell myself. I’m already in workout clothes since I was planning to take Daisy on an easy run this morning. I’ll do this instead.

“I’m sore today. Yoga helps with my flexibility.”

She bites her lip, and my gaze traces the curve of her mouth. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I open the door. “After you.”

When she offers me a shy smile in the elevator, the warning feeling goes silent. Maybe she wants to spend more time with me, too.

CHAPTER18

PIPPA

“We’re breathing,”Hazel reminds the class, walking slowly around us to make adjustments to our poses. She rests her palm on my lower back, and I deepen the downward dog stretch.

Sweat drips off my nose and onto the mat. I know this class is calledhot yoga, but I forgothowhot it really is. I’ve chugged two bottles of water in forty minutes. Sweat pools in my sports bra, and as I tilt with the pose, reaching for the sky with my right hand, it pours out. My underwear is damp, and not in the fun way.

I glance over at Jamie, and our eyes meet. His cheeks are flushed from the heat. His shirt came off a few minutes into class, and I can’t seem to focus on the poses or Hazel’s voice. There are only three other people in the class, but I barely notice them.

Jamie Streicher’s body is perfect. Beads of sweat roll down his washboard abs. A smattering of dark, neatly trimmed chest hair spans his broad chest. Thick, muscular arms hold him up during poses. His pecs and calves? Chiseled from stone. Down his stomach, a trail of hair leads into his shorts, and my mind snags on it again and again.

Every time he moves, his muscles ripple. Combined with his bright eyes and intimidating strength, he’s the perfect picture of vitality and power.

Arousal thrums low in my stomach, and I’m picturing him picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder.

Maybe I spoke too soon about my underwear.

He’s also insanely flexible. From the depth and balance to his poses, he’s done yoga before.

“Child’s pose,” Hazel says beside me in an emphasizing tone, like this isn’t the first time she’s said it. She widens her eyes at me, a silent question ofdude, what are you doing?in her eyes, and I hurry into the pose.

Letting Jamie come with me was a terrible idea. I can’t stop staring at him. He’s a flawless Olympian—my dad told me he played in the last Winter Olympics for Canada—and right now, I look like a sewer rat.

We hang out in child’s pose for a while, and Hazel refills our water bottles. When I glance over at Jamie, his back muscles don’t look as tight as before.

He has a lot of back muscles. I clench my eyes closed and put my head down, deepening the pose. It’s not like that with Jamie, and no good can come from ogling him.

I remember the low groan I heard from his room this morning. I keep telling myself it was just him stretching, waking up. He said he was sore. It was probably that.

It doesn’t stop me from picturing what else that groan could have been from, though.

Hazel pokes me in the ribs. The rest of the class is in chair pose, and I’m still in child’s pose.

“Focus,” she murmurs as she passes.

I’m focused, alright. Focused on the shirtless hockey player who’s miles out of my league.

* * *

After class is over and I take a quick shower in the change room, I head back to the lobby. The students from class are taking a photo with Jamie. The two yoga teachers who were at the front desk when we checked in are waiting, eyes on him, and when it’s their turn, they’re at his side in a flash, arms around his waist. Something pinches between my ribs.

He isn’t smiling, but he also isn’t glaring. One of the women nestles closer to him, and his gaze flicks over to me.

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