The instructor glances toward us nervously.
I bury my face in my hands. This is my villain origin story.
The instructor clears her throat delicately. “Let’s begin in child’s pose.”
Gram claps her hands. “Let’s get bendy, bitches.”
One woman gasps. Several people flinch.
We move through poses—or at least, we try to. Every time the instructor saysflow with your breath, Gram grunts like she’s deadlifting furniture.
At one point, she falls out of downward dog and blames the “slippery energy of Mercury.”
By the time we reach savasana, the instructor’s forehead vein is pulsing. “Now,” she whispers, “find stillness. Release all negativity.”
Gram raises a hand.
“Yes?” the instructor asks cautiously.
“I’m trying,” Gram says. “But Peyton’s goalie keeps glaring at people like he’s one bad day away from homicide.”
The entire class erupts in laughter.
I seriously contemplate fleeing into the Vermont wilderness.
“Now,” the instructor says, “inhale slowly, filling your lungs?—”
“Filled mine with tequila last night," Gram chirps. "Same thing, right?”
Dear God. Would the floor open up and swallow me?
Somehow? It gets worse.
Twenty minutes later, the studio door opens again.
My heart stops the second I spot him.
Daltyn stands there, wearing a pair of sweatpants and an Avalanche sweatshirt. He’s massive, broody, and still sweaty from practice. And somehow even hotter than usual.
Every woman in the studio visibly straightens.
His eyes meet mine.
Gram gasps dramatically. “THERE’S HER MAN!”
Oh my God.
Daltyn closes his eyes briefly, as if questioning his existence. Then he walks toward me anyway.
We are sitting cross-legged, our hands pressed together.
“Namaste,” the instructor says.
“Namaste,” the class answers.
The room practically vibrates with female interest as he stops beside my mat. “Fun class?”
I stare at him like he’s lost his mind.
