Pucked Up Love

by Lili Valente

  And so, though the last thing I want to do on this bright and beautiful Saturday morning is stick my ass into the air and breathe deeply for an hour and a half, here I am in the workout studio down the hall from the locker room, getting my downward dog on with Wallace, Petrov, and a handful of other hardcore players who aren’t too sore from last night’s game to make it to yoga class.

  “Inhale.” Stephanie, our patchouli-scented instructor pulls in a deep breath as she pads barefoot around the room between our mats, offering encouragement and making adjustments. “And as you exhale, allow your heels to drop closer to the floor. Tilt your pelvis, aiming your sit-bones toward the back wall as you draw your belly in toward your spine and allow your shoulders to sink closer to your mat. Beautiful, Shane.”

  “Thank you, Stephanie. I feel beautiful,” Wallace says in his deep, gravelly voice, sending a ripple of laughter through the room.

  “Good, then let’s see if you’re ready to go deeper.” Stephanie, accustomed to taking shit from our goalie, places her hands on Wallace’s lower back and leans in, pushing his heels closer to his mat, summoning a groan from low in his throat. “Breathe into the discomfort,” Stephanie says, a peaceful, yet slightly wicked, smile curving her full lips. “Will, gaze on your navel—there’s nothing to see here. Keep your focus on your own mat.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I murmur, inspiring another soft wave of chuckles. At five-two and maybe a hundred pounds dripping wet, Stephanie is hardly an intimidating physical specimen, but the woman rules her yoga classes with a gently padded iron fist. She is not to be toyed with, and we all do our best to give her the respect she deserves as an expert in her field—because most of us lack the flexibility to do even half the poses she demonstrates each class.

  “Now shift forward into plank and hold,” Stephanie says. “We’ll move slowly through this first sun salutation, and then I want you to do five cycles on your own. Let your breath instigate your movement and allow it to flow through your transition from one posture to the next.”

  Once the self-guided portion of the class begins, I turn my attention inward, letting the moving meditation take me to that quiet, focused place I first accessed on the ice. Entering the flow state during games—that domain where body and mind are completely in sync and working almost effortlessly together toward a goal—is what hooked me on hockey for life. Later, I realized that state of harmony was available to me in other places, too. In the bedroom, for example, with a submissive woman who knows how to let power exchange work its magic on both of us.

  For me, Domination isn’t just about control or even hot sex; it’s about tapping into something primal and true, something as powerful as the utterly peaceful place I’ve been lucky enough to visit a few times in Stephanie’s class.

  Today, though, I already know I won’t be reaching anything close to nirvana.

  Even as I focus on the asana, the scene at Hailey’s apartment last night plays on repeat inside my decidedly un-peaceful mind. She was so close to embracing the experience. But instead of easing into the flow, she ran from me, the same way she did the night I proposed.

  Up until last September, I’d never known Hailey to be a runner. I mean, she literally goes jogging almost every day and has never met a 5k she didn’t want to sign up for, but she’s always faced problems head on.

  When we were struggling to establish domestic bliss our first year together, Hailey was the one who insisted we sit down and talk through our grievances until we discovered a better way to cohabitate—a way that involved me taking out the trash before it started to overflow and her removing the blond squirrel from the shower drain after she washed her hair instead of leaving it there to cause plumbing problems. When our first financial advisor ignored her suggestions for our business because she was younger and female, she kindly, but firmly, let him go, and she tolerates exactly zero bullshit from her students, her employees, or the bums who hang around the relatively unsavory corner our gym calls home.

  She is sweet as sunshine, but she’s also tough as nails. So why did she run? From me of all people?

  She has to know that I would never hurt her. Even if I had her tied up and at my mercy, I would never take a scene in a direction she hadn’t given me explicit permission to pursue.

  And even if she doesn’t understand that yet, if her grasp on proper BDSM etiquette isn’t as strong as it could be, that doesn’t explain why she ran from me the night I proposed. For the thousandth time, my gut insists that there’s something I’m missing about that night, a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t fit.

  Before I got down on one knee at the party, Hailey hadn’t given the slightest sign that anything was wrong. We’d been planning a ski vacation for December, considering selling our condo to buy a house in the suburbs where we could finally get the dog we’d both been wanting, and debating whether to rent a bowling alley or an indoor trampoline park for our next joint birthday celebration—we were born on the same day, eight years apart, and took advantage of coincidence to throw a massive bash every year.

  There were so many things binding us together—love, friendship, laughter, tradition, shared goals, shared dreams—so why the hell have I spent the last year alone? I’m still not buying that a need to prove she could make it on her own was enough to derail our love train.

  There has to be something else. But what the fuck is it?

  “Exhale, Will.” Stephanie’s gentle whisper and her hands on the small of my back as I push into my final downward-facing dog draw my attention to my clenched jaw. “Why don’t you take child’s pose for a minute and try to let go of whatever story is taking control. Let go, and come back to the intention you set at the beginning of class.”

  With a sigh, I sink onto my knees and rest my forehead on the floor, taking child’s pose and closing my eyes, though I know focus is a lost cause at this point. As we’d sat cross-legged on our mats at the beginning of class, I’d planned to concentrate on gratitude, something that always gives me a lift when I’m feeling down. It’s hard to be cranky over a missed shot or murderous over a ref’s crap call when you’re giving thanks for your strength, your skill, and the fact that in a world filled with suffering people you get to play a game you love for a living.

  But right now, I’m having a hard time accessing a grateful headspace. Yes, I’ve been given more than my fair share of gifts, but what use is fame, talent, or money without someone to share it with? Without the one woman who made me feel seen, understood, and loved for who I am, not how much I make or the cool things I can make my body do on the ice.

  No, I’m definitely not feeling the grateful vibe. I’m feeling frustrated and confused and on the verge of rolling off my mat and slipping quietly out the door. Maybe it would be best to bail and take my bad attitude with me, leaving the rest of my teammates to tie themselves in pretzels in peace.

  I’m about to make a break for freedom when Wallace hisses, “Hey, want to grab a coffee after class? Need to get something off my chest.”

  I turn my head to meet his gaze beneath my outstretched arm, noting how different he looks upside down, with his bright white teeth glowing against his still summer-tan skin in the dim light of the studio. “What? Did you hit on one of my sisters again?”

  Wallace rolls his eyes. “No, I don’t have a death wish, asshole, and that happened way before I knew who was related to who around here. There’s just something—”

  “Breathe now, boys, gossip later.” Stephanie steps between us, her bare feet silent on the glossy wood floor.

  “Yes, teach,” Wallace says. “Sorry. I just wanted to tell Saunders how inspiring I find his child’s pose. He looks like a cute little baby, all curled up on his mat like that.”

  Chuckles fill the room, and I smile. “Thank you, Wallace. And I’m proud of you for wearing boxer briefs under your shorts today so we don’t all have to get an eyeful of your hairy balls every time you take down dog.”

  The chuckles become full-blown waves of laughter,
and before long, the entire class has fallen out of their posture and Stephanie is glaring at me with her arms crossed at her chest. But her dark eyes are dancing and her lips are curved, so I know she isn’t really mad.

  Hell, she’s probably grateful someone finally called Wallace out so he and all the other assholes who forget to wear something tight under their gym shorts can mend their ball-flashing ways.

  “Okay, since we’re all in such good spirits today, we’ll move right on to hip openers,” Stephanie says, inspiring a groan from everyone except Wallace. As a goalie, he has to be more flexible than the rest of us.

  And though I enjoy making fun of the weird frog stretch he does during warm-ups, as we move into pigeon pose, I make a note to incorporate more stretching into my pre-game routine. Within the first few seconds in pigeon, my hips are on fire and my lower back is insisting that yoga is the devil’s exercise. By the time we’ve been in the posture for a minute—one-third the minimum time Stephanie insists we hold hip openers—the entire class is grumbling and cussing, sweating and whining and generally acting like a pack of Grade A Diaper Babies.

  If our enemies on the ice could see us now, they’d never fear a Portland Badger again.

  The thought ignites something deep in my brain, setting a candle to burning in the darkness. Everyone has vulnerable places they prefer to keep hidden from their enemies and sometimes even from their friends.

  What if popping the question shot an arrow through a chink in Hailey’s armor I hadn’t suspected was there? What if she has issues with the institution of marriage for some reason, despite her parents clearly loving relationship?

  Oddly enough, we had never discussed getting hitched before the day I decided to pull a ring out of my pocket. We’d discussed almost everything else—from how many kids we wanted to the best places to retire when we were old and gray but still in great shape because we would refuse to let ourselves go—but not the actual “I do” process. I had simply expected that marriage was something that would happen before we decided to start our family.

  And though it’s a cliché, I know that assuming often does make an ass out of “U” and me. It’s always better to communicate than to assume.

  Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe Hailey’s afraid of getting married, or morally against the institution for some reason, and that’s what sent us veering off course. Maybe that’s why she ran last night, too—not because she wasn’t into the idea of having play time, but because she realized play time might lead us down a road that ends in a big commitment, sooner or later.

  The idea swims around in my head, growing larger and more fully formed as the class rolls on. By the time we reach savasana and are granted the sweet relief of lying in corpse pose for the oh-so-relaxing last ten minutes of class, I’ve decided the theory is worth putting to the test.

  But how?

  I’m still noodling on that when class ends, Stephanie thanks us for the opportunity to serve us on our yoga journey—she seems to mean it every time, the sweetheart—and we all roll off our mats to gather our things.

  I’ve totally forgotten about Wallace and his need to unburden himself until he jabs me in the ribs with his rolled-up yoga mat and asks, “Still up for coffee? Or we can just take the long way to the parking lot if you don’t have time to caffeinate.”

  “Sure, let’s walk, what’s up?” I fall in beside him as he starts for the door, pausing to high-five my teammates on the way. We’re a close group, those of us man enough to admit we need some yoga in our life—and in our aching joints—and I always feel closer to them after our ninety minutes of mindful torture.

  But I always feel close to Wallace. I took him under my wing when he was drafted three years ago—the kid was so nervous during his first practice I knew someone had to hold his hand or he wouldn’t make it a month as a Badger—and we’ve been good friends ever since. Once he felt comfortable enough to relax, Wallace turned out to be hilarious and have a heart as big as his bear-like body.

  I consider him an honorary little brother, one I often like more than my biological brother, Jacob, who lives to stress my parents out with his latest get-rich-quick scheme or plan to hitchhike across Canada in the middle of winter.

  “It’s about Sabrina, Hailey’s sister?” Wallace crosses his arms over his mat, pinning it to his chest with an anxious look that makes me arch a brow.

  “Yeah, I know Sabrina. And I’m aware that she’s Hailey’s sister. What about her?”

  Wallace laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah, right, well… So, I ran into her last night outside of Voodoo Donuts at, like, two in the morning. Some friends and I were looking for something to soak up the beer, ended up grabbing a table next to Sabrina’s, and I got a good look at the dude she was hanging out with…”

  I nod. “Looked like bad news?”

  “Oh, he is absolutely bad news.” Wallace’s shakes his head. “This guy is a confirmed douchebag of the highest order. He was dating my friend Cane’s twin sister Cami for six months. He cheated on her non-stop, wrecked her car and refused to pay for the repairs, and gave her a nasty case of crabs before he dumped her for another girl on her birthday.”

  “Repulsive,” I observe. “He sounds like a shit weasel, but you don’t have to worry about Sabrina. She’s not the type to suffer fools. She’ll realize he’s full of shit and dump his ass before things get too serious.”

  Wallace pulls a face. “I don’t know, she looked pretty into him last night and… Well, the guy is a loser, but he’s also good-looking. Like John Travolta-in-his-heyday good-looking.”

  I smirk. “John Travolta?”

  “Yes, John Travolta,” Wallace says, his blue eyes narrowing. “He was a smoking hot dude when he was young, and this guy is like that. Big pouty lips and cheekbones for days and stubble on his chin and skinny, hipster-sized muscles popping out under his tiny T-shirts and shit.”

  “Sounds like you’ve studied your man-crush closely,” I tease, making Wallace scowl harder.

  “Dude, I’m just trying to communicate to you that the guy is lady kryptonite. Even smart ladies are helpless against him. Cami is a vet, and you have to be smart as fuck to be a vet. It’s even harder than being a doctor, because you have to heal a multitude of creatures, not just humans, and she still got used hard by this player.”

  “Okay, I hear you,” I say, sobering. “So you want me to warn Sabrina? Drop her a line and say I’ve heard some not-great stuff about her latest hookup?”

  Wallace’s scowl melts into relief. “Yeah, would you? Bree and I are friends, but I didn’t want to be the one to drop the douchebag bomb. She would probably think I was just jealous or something and not take me seriously. But if it comes from a guy who’s like her brother, she’ll know the warning is for real.”

  “What’s the douchebag’s name?” I ask, ignoring the pang that flashes through my chest as I wonder if Sabrina still considers me “like a brother” material. We’ve texted a few times since Hailey and I broke up, but we aren’t nearly as close as we were before. When I lost Hailey, I didn’t just lose my other half, I lost her family, too, and unlike a lot of my friends, I actually liked my potential in-laws.

  “Creedence,” Wallace says, laughing when I pull a face. “Right? Pretentious as fuck. And if that’s the name on his birth certificate, I will eat my own jock strap after the next game.”

  My wince deepens as we step out into the mid-morning sun. “Don’t make that bet. Just in case.”

  Wallace grins. “I will totally make that bet. You know I live on the edge, and there’s nothing I won’t eat, especially on a dare. Speaking of eating, are you starving? I’m always starving after yoga. Who knew stretching worked up such an appetite? Want to grab breakfast burritos? Extra cheese, extra beans, my treat?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve actually got somewhere to be.” I lift a hand as I head east and Wallace breaks west toward downtown. “See you Monday.”

  He points his rolled-up mat at my chest. “See you. And thanks, man.
I appreciate your help with the Sabrina thing.”

  “No problem,” I say as I start toward my truck, my thoughts tumbling.

  A douchebag intervention with Sabrina isn’t just a good excuse to touch base with a friend I haven’t talked to in a while. It might also be a way to gain some insight into Hailey’s views on marriage. I would never try to manipulate Sabrina into intervening on my behalf, but there’s nothing wrong with gathering information.

  Now I just have to figure out how to do that without looking like a sad sack who’s still obsessing over my failed proposal a year after Hailey and I called it quits. Tugging my phone out of my bag, I chew the inside of my lip for a moment and then decide it’s best not to overthink things. The right words will come to me in the moment. They always do.

  I shoot off a quick text to Bree. Hey, what’s up? Can you hop on the phone for a few minutes? I promised a friend I would give you a stern talking to about your date last night.

  Only a few seconds later, Bree responds. Which one? The guy with silly string for hair? Or my bad boy with the soft and gooey artistic center?

  With a grunt, I tap out: I’m guessing the bad boy, since option one doesn’t sound like he has much luck with the ladies. You got a few minutes?

  By the time I reach my truck, my phone buzzes and Bree’s contact info pops up on the screen. I answer with a smile. “Hey there, slugger. How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good until now,” Bree says. “Why do I need a stern talking to about Creedence? He’s so yummy, Will. And nice and funny and he paid for my donut instead of asking for separate checks. Do you know how rare that is in this day and age? I can’t remember the last time a guy offered to pay for something.”

  “Then you’re clearly dating the wrong guys.”

  Bree snorts. “Obviously. That’s why I’m still single after seven months of online dating like it’s my job. But Creedence is different than the other bozos. He has amazing fluffy, black, 80s rocker hair like Uncle Jesse on Full House.” She lets out a dreamy sigh that makes me laugh.