“Hi, everyone. I’m subbing for Amanda today. If you haven’t been in my classes before, I’m Devin.”
Everything stops. My heart, my breath, possibly time itself.
I turn slowly, like moving too fast might shatter this moment, and Devin’s gaze lands on me at the exact same second. Her eyes—those deep brown eyes that used to look at me like I hung the moon—widen. Pink blooms across her cheeks, traveling down her neck to disappear beneath her fitted tank top. Then she looks away, deliberately focusing on everyone but me.
“I know this is an arthritis-friendly class.” Her voice wavers for just a second before she finds her teaching rhythm. “And I want to assure you that I’m familiar with all of the modifications. I’m a physical therapist by day, so we’ll be going really slow, making sure nothing is too strenuous. This is about feeling good in your body, not pushing through pain.”
My heart beats so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. Should I leave? Roll up this embarrassingly new mat and flee before this gets more awkward? The way she looked away—was it because she doesn’t want me here? Because seeing me brings back memories she’s worked hard to bury?
Or is she just as shocked as I am?
She was friendly enough at the rink, professional and kind when I was hyperventilating like a rookie before his firstgame. But maybe that was just her being a good therapist, nothing more.
“We’ll start with some gentle warm-ups,” she continues, her voice finding its steady rhythm, that stream-like quality that used to lull me to sleep. “Then move through a series of poses designed to improve flexibility without stressing your joints. I have cards here—red means no adjustments, green means yes. Place them at the top of your mat so I know your preference.”
She moves through the room with an economy of motion, each step deliberate but graceful. Five years, and she still moves like a dancer, all controlled strength and fluid lines. When she reaches my mat, she extends a card. Our fingers brush as I take it, just the briefest contact, but electricity shoots up my arm more intense than any wrist pain.
“Thank you.” The words come out rougher than intended.
A ghost of something flickers in her eyes before she moves on. I watch her walk to the front of the room, noting the slight favor of her left side—so subtle most wouldn’t notice, but I know her body’s language, even after all this time.
The card sits in my palm. Red for no, green for yes. If I choose green, will she think I’m some creep trying to manipulate her into touching me? But I genuinely need the adjustments. My form is probably terrible. Green side up.
“Let’s begin in child’s pose,” Devin says, demonstrating at the front. “This is always available to you throughout class. If something doesn’t feel right, come back here.”
The first poses are gentle, exactly as promised. But the best part isn’t the stretch in my spine or the surprising relief in my shoulders. It’s Devin’s voice, washing over me like warm honey. That same steady cadence, pitched low and soothing. “Breathe into the pose. Don’t force anything. Your body knows what it needs.”
If anyone asked, I would say it’s been five years since I heard that voice guiding me through movements. But that’snot the truth. After we broke up, I found her online yoga videos. Downloaded every single one like some desperate digital hoarder. For months, I’d play them on repeat as I fell asleep. On nights when anxiety clawed at my chest and my mind raced through every mistake I’d ever made on the ice, her voice was the only thing that could reel me back from the edge.
The breakup was my fault. I’d fumbled the most important thing in my life, though it took me years to understand exactly how. The way I’d dismissed her exhaustion as laziness. The way I’d acted like her chronic fatigue was somehow about me, an inconvenience to my life.
“Now, moving into downward dog. Remember, this isn’t about creating a perfect triangle. It’s about finding what feels good for your body today.”
The woman next to me flows into the pose like water. I lumber into position like a bear waking from hibernation.
“Spread your fingers wide,” Devin instructs. “Press through your palms, but if your wrists are sensitive, you can modify by coming down to your forearms.”
She’s not looking at me when she says it, but somehow I know it’s meant for me. I stubbornly stay on my palms, even as my wrist screams in protest.
We move through a series of poses that sound simple but leave my muscles shaking. Warrior one, warrior two, triangle pose. My balance wavers during tree pose, my standing leg trembling. Devin passes by, and I catch her scent—still the same after all these years, something floral mixed with something uniquely her.
“Let me help with your alignment,” she murmurs, professional but gentle.
Her hands settle on my hips, adjusting the angle with light pressure. Her fingers graze the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up, and heat barrels through me. Every nerve endingzeroes in on those points of contact. The room suddenly feels too warm, too small.
She must feel it too because pink creeps up her neck as she steps back, turning away quickly to help another student.
The rest of class blurs together. Poses flow into each other while I try to focus on breathing instead of the way Devin’s voice wraps around me like a familiar blanket. By the time we reach final relaxation, I’m sweating more than I do after a five-mile run, and my muscles feel like overcooked spaghetti.
“Take your time coming back,” Devin says softly as people begin to stir from savasana. “There’s no rush. When you’re ready, roll to your side and press yourself up to seated.”
People start rolling up their mats, chatting quietly as they filter toward the door. Devin stations herself there, apparently committed to saying goodbye to each person. The couple thanks her for the modifications. The twenty-something tells her she’ll definitely be back.
Under the guise of stretching—really just sitting on my mat pretending my hamstrings need extra attention—I wait until I’m the last one. My heart pounds as I finally stand, rolling my mat with shaking hands, and walk to the door.
Devin’s eyelashes flutter as I get closer, and a warm rush of excitement ripples through me. It feels like when I first saw her, over ten years ago—when I was a defenseman on the New York team and she was an intern assigned to work with the players. It was her smile that drew me in first.
And those eyes… I could get lost in them for days.
