For the Win

by Kelly Jamieson

  “That’s true.”

  Our food arrives, and it looks delicious. The meatballs are beef with soft pitas and tzatziki, yum.

  “Were you a yoga instructor in Fargo?” Harrison asks a moment later, after devouring a meatball.

  “Well, I was, but it was a part-time thing. I started teaching in college to make a little extra money, and kept doing it on the side after I graduated. My full-time job was at Optimal Health in human resources.”

  It sounds so basic and boring, but I liked my job. The apartment I shared with my friend Leah. My other friends. I sigh.

  “What’s wrong?” He eyes me, concern etching a notch between his brows.

  “Oh, sometimes I miss home.” I pick up a piece of broccolini and make myself smile. “But I love it here. When I moved here, I decided to see if I could make a living teaching yoga. I’m not rich, but I’m doing okay.”

  He nods.

  “I went to college at UND in Grand Forks. A guy I went to school with plays in the NHL now—Grant Forrester.”

  “Oh hey. He got drafted in the same year as me. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Me too.” He shakes his head. “See? We’re just meant to be.”

  I freeze. I stare at him, my stomach contracting so hard it hurts. For a moment I’m not seeing Harrison, I’m seeing someone else. Terror grips me, making my skin cold and my mouth dry. Time stretches out. I can’t breathe.

  “I-I’m sorry. I have to go.” I push back my chair, grab my backpack, and bolt out of the restaurant.

  Chapter 7

  Harrison

  I gape as Arya vanishes. For a moment I’m too stunned to do anything. Then I stand too, tossing my napkin down on my chair. I catch the server’s eye. “Be right back” I mouth at her. She nods.

  I hasten outside and catch up to Arya, who’s crouched down trying to unlock her bike with shaking hands. My gaze lands on the small tattoo on the back of her neck, a delicate black symbol of some kind.

  “Hey.” I keep my tone soft and I don’t touch her, even though I want to. “Hold up, Arya. What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t. Don’t talk to me. Just…just leave me alone.”

  I frown, my stomach knotting with worry. How can I leave her alone like this? But I say, “Okay. I will. I just want to make sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I upset you. Or offended you. Would you at least tell me what it was?”

  Crouched beside her bike, she closes her eyes. “We’re not ‘meant to be.’ ”

  We sure as hell are. I’m convinced of it. “Okay. I’m sorry. I was joking. I didn’t know that would offend you.”

  “I’m not offended.” She stands and pushes stray strands of hair off her face. Her hair is still in a ponytail from class, and she’s still wearing leggings and a tank top with a loose blue sweater wrapped and tied around her narrow waist. “I’m…”

  I want to jump in, but hold myself back to let her finish.

  “I’m…triggered.”

  Okay, there’s a word that gives me anxiety. This means something terrible happened to her and I just reminded her of it. The fucking last thing I want to do. But also…something terrible happened to her.

  Or did it? I went out with a woman who used that word for everything. She was “triggered” when someone talked with food in their mouth. If I disagreed with her about something, she was “triggered.” When she didn’t like someone, she found them “triggering.” Once I asked her, “Found them triggering of what?” She didn’t know what to say. We didn’t go out together long.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I had no idea.”

  She sighs. “Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry too.”

  “Please come back in.” I like her a lot, and I was having fun getting to know her better, and I want her to be okay, and I know I shouldn’t push, but…

  You don’t get what you wish for, you get what you work for.

  I’m not giving up on her.

  She hesitates, studying me. “All right.” She takes a deep breath and follows me back inside. “Hopefully they don’t think we dined and dashed.”

  “I let the waitress know I’d be back.”

  She sits across from me again. Pink stains her cheeks and her eyes are bright. She sets her backpack down and stares at the table. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I want to reach across the table to touch her hand, but I stop myself. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  She lifts her eyes to meet mine. “No.”

  “Fair enough.” I smile, holding her gaze, hoping to ease her anxiety, whatever it’s about. I’m not going to push her. Someday she’ll tell me.

  “Tell me about your tattoo,” I invite, picking up my beer to take a big swallow. “I noticed it outside.”

  “Oh.” She lifts a hand behind her head to touch her neck. “It’s an unalome.”

  “Say what now?”

  She smiles. “Unalome. It’s the symbol for the journey to enlightenment.”

  I blink.

  “I like it because it shows us that the journey isn’t always a straight path. We make mistakes and learn lessons along the way. Sometimes we go sideways or backward.”

  I nod. “Can I see it again?”

  She turns in her chair and lifts her golden ponytail. I study the swirling lines and understand what she means.

  “I get it,” I say. “My journey is like that too. I mean, I don’t think I’m heading toward enlightenment.” My lips quirk.

  “Maybe you are.”

  “Maybe. But I have a goal and that’s how it feels…sometimes things go sideways. Sometimes I feel like I’m going backward instead of forward.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes are steady on mine. “What’s your goal?”

  “I want to play in the NHL.”

  Her eyes crinkle up and her forehead creases. “You do play in the NHL.”

  “Yeah, right now. I got called up from the farm team a couple of weeks ago because they have a bunch of injuries. When everybody’s healthy again, I’ll probably get sent back down.”

  “Sent back where?” she asks quietly, then sips her drink.

  “Pasadena. Not far. But yet, so far.” I smile. “It’s just frustrating being called up and sent back down, when younger guys are making the team and staying there. I’m getting so old, they won’t want me anymore.” I pause. “That sounds pathetic. I don’t really feel that sorry for myself. But I have a pretty high-achieving family and I always assumed I’d play in the NHL.”

  “Ah. I understand.”

  “Right now, I’m trying to do everything I can to make them want to keep me. Even going to yoga classes.” I give her a half-smile.

  “That’s why the yoga interest?” Her eyelashes flutter.

  “Well, you’re part of the yoga interest.” I hold up a hand. “I mean that sincerely and I think you already knew that. But if doing yoga will make me better, give my game an edge…I’m all in.”

  “I see.” She nods thoughtfully. “Well, I admire that.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been working out hard, practicing hard.”

  “Yoga’s not something you go hard at.”

  I grin. “I know. But I want to be as flexible as Bergie.”

  Her eyebrows lift.

  “He’s our goaltender. You told him he was really flexible and doing great.”

  “Oh. Right.” She tips her head. “Yoga’s not a competitive sport.”

  “Ha ha. Life is a competitive sport in my family.” I roll my eyes. “I know it isn’t, but I want to do my best. I appreciated it when you corrected me during that class. I could feel the difference, even when it’s just a subtle thing.”

  “You’re very strong. And actually pretty flexible, for a guy.”r />
  My shoulders go back. “Thanks. Those balancing poses are tricky.”

  She smiles, her features loosening into relaxed lines again. Goddamn, she’s pretty. Her blue eyes are big and expressive. Her mouth has a sweet curve to it, even when she’s not smiling, her lips just the right amount of full and soft. And when she smiles, her face lights up and her eyes glow. “They can be. But balance is something you can train.”

  “Yeah. Even when you told me to focus on a spot on the floor, that helped. You make it look easy.”

  “When I’m not being dumped into the water.”

  “Aaah. You had to bring that up.”

  She’s laughing, and I have to laugh too. “It’s okay. I’ve let it go.” She places her palms together in front of her chest. “Inhale the future. Exhale the past.”

  I’m still smiling, but her words hit me in the chest. “Yeah. Words to live by.”

  “I try.”

  I’m curious about her past but I won’t ask more questions. She said she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “I need to remember that,” I say. The meatballs are gone and I offer her the last piece of broccolini. She shakes her head, so I take it. “Just because I’ve been sent back to Pasadena every other time doesn’t mean it will happen this time.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the guy I’m replacing is out for the rest of the season, and we’re in the playoffs, so I should be playing for a while. Assuming we can go deep.”

  She lifts her eyebrows.

  “I mean, make it through a few rounds of the playoffs.”

  “Ah.”

  “This team hasn’t made the playoffs in years. This is a big deal. We really want to do well.” I shrug. “Some would say it’s impossible, but we want to win the Cup.”

  “Nothing’s impossible.” She studies me with warm eyes. I love how her interest seems so real. I mean, it is real. I think. She seems like a very honest person. And she makes me feel like I’m fascinating. Like I’m not just one of the famous Wynns—I’m me, I’m Harrison, and I matter. “Is it hard to stay motivated when you know the games don’t matter?”

  “Well, they do matter in that we want to get home-ice advantage.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I ponder this. I know what it means, but in my life, so does everyone else. “Well, each round of the playoffs is seven games. If you have home-ice advantage, you play four of the seven games at home, assuming you play all seven. You travel less, you don’t have to stay in hotels, and you get to play in front of your fans.”

  “Ah.”

  “Also, the home team gets last change.”

  She looks at me blankly.

  Right, this is another thing I assume everyone knows. “So, when there’s a stoppage of play, the visiting team has to put their lineup on the ice first, and they can’t change it until play is resumed. That gives the home-team coach a chance to see who’s out there and put the players on he wants to match up against them.”

  “Oh, okay. So, if there’s a player who’s a good goal scorer, the coach would want to put someone out who could stop him.”

  “Yeah.” I beam at her. “Basically that. So, we need to have more points than the team we play against to get home-ice advantage. But also, we play for our pride.”

  “You know, don’t dismiss the mental edge that yoga could give you.”

  I scrunch up my face. I don’t want to be dismissive of something that’s important to her, but I’m skeptical about stuff like that.

  “Really. I once took a class with a yoga teacher who’s also a psychotherapist, and it was very educational. Yoga teaches us about how our emotions affect our behavior and our minds.” She must read my expression because she grins. “I’m not all that much into spirituality and a higher consciousness. I’m a basic bitch from North Dakota.”

  I laugh.

  “I do focus more on the physical aspects of yoga, and I think my classes are popular with a lot of people who like that, who don’t want a lot of meditation and talk about seeking to become aware of the spirit within.”

  I nod.

  “Some say that without those aspects, it’s only a superficial yoga practice. Without the spiritual side, you could just go to the gym or stretch. And I get that. But I do believe that yoga can help us get to know ourselves and build self-trust.”

  “So, what are the mental benefits?”

  She smiles again. “I could talk for an hour about that. I’m sure you don’t want to hear it all.”

  “Maybe some other time you can tell me more.”

  She doesn’t respond right away, then shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Do you have any superstitions?”

  She blinks. “Uh…maybe.”

  I grin. “Tell me. Don’t worry—I have lots of stupid ones.”

  “Well, I always make a wish when I see a falling star.”

  I nod gravely. “Of course.”

  “And when I was a kid, I wouldn’t kill spiders because that causes rain.”

  “Only daddy longlegs spiders.”

  “Yes. Those other kinds that look like tarantulas…” She shudders. “I kill those mothers.”

  I bark out a laugh. “What else?”

  “My grandma always made us throw a pinch of salt over our left shoulder if we spilled some.” She wrinkles her nose. “I still do it. Just in case. I also have a piece of rose quartz that I hold when I’m feeling…negative.”

  “Rose quartz?”

  “Yes. It removes negative energy and replaces it with loving vibrations. It helps you learn to love yourself, accept yourself, and forgive yourself.”

  “That sounds like that spirituality stuff you said you don’t practice.” I say it teasingly.

  “You’re right.” She smiles. “I know it’s silly, but…” She lifts one shoulder. “It helps.”

  “I get it.”

  “What are your superstitions?”

  “We have little rituals we go through before every game. A secret handshake, a hug, that kind of thing. I also have to wear hockey socks to the arena for every game.”

  “Hockey socks?”

  “Not the ones we play in. Ha, that would look hilarious with a suit. I mean, I have a collection of socks that have hockey themes on them. Some are Condors socks, others just have a hockey stick and a puck, or a face-off circle.”

  She grins. “I like that.”

  “And I’m a superstitious dresser. I always dress right to left, so I put on my right shin pad then my left, my right sock then my left, and so on.”

  I like that she doesn’t laugh at my superstitions or mock them. I like that she has her own. It’s like a connection we have.

  “Do you go to any Condors games?”

  She shakes her head. “I haven’t. Although I used to like going to hockey games in college.”

  “Right, right. UND. They have a good hockey program.” Something strikes me. “Not only were we probably in Winnipeg at the same time, I bet you watched me play hockey.”

  She laughs. “Oh my God.”

  “No, really. If we’re the same age and you went to games that Grant played in, they must have played against us at some point. You were probably there!” This idea gets me revved up again. I need to chill, though, because I scared her last time I got excited about us being fated mates. Ha ha, okay, we’re not living in a Kresley Cole novel.

  She taps her lips. “You could be right, actually.”

  “See? It’s practically like we already know each other.” I grin to make sure she knows I’m joking.

  She shakes her head, smiling. “Sure. Okay.”

  “Would you like another drink?”

  “I better not. Cycling while drunk is not a good idea.”

  “True.”

  We talk more
, until the server brings the bill. I take care of it, waving off Arya’s attempts to contribute, and then we leave. It’s dark outside now.

  “Are you okay to ride in the dark?” I ask, not liking the idea of her biking home at this hour.

  “Of course. I have lights and reflectors, and a helmet. I do it all the time. And it’s not far.”

  “I could put your bike in the back of my car and drive you.”

  “No need. But thanks.”

  “Okay.” I hesitate. “I’d like to see you again. I mean, outside of yoga class.”

  “I don’t know.” She sets her hands on her handlebars. “I’m not really into dating, or relationships. That’s not fair to you.”

  “It can just be casual. Hang out at the beach. Go for a bike ride.”

  I can see the conflict on her face. She wants to see me again, which is good. I just don’t understand what the problem is. Other than I triggered her, somehow.

  Fuck.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Would you give me your number?”

  “No.” She answers without hesitation, deflating me. “But I’ll take yours.”

  “Okay. Sure.” I give it to her, she enters it into her phone, then pushes off and pedals away with a wave.

  Well. I’ll see her tomorrow, because tomorrow is our second team yoga class. So I don’t feel totally blown off.

  I stroll to my car, parked just around the corner. I pull out my phone to check for any messages as I walk. There’s one from my sister, Everly. It’s a chat group she created for us, with the whole younger Wynn family.

  Mom and Dad went to the doctor today.

  I stop short. My gut tightens. I tap back, And???

  I don’t know any more than that yet, but at least they went.

  Okay, true.

  I get in my car and head home. By the time I’m there, the chat has expanded with everyone asking questions and weighing in.

  I’ll try to talk to Mom tomorrow, Everly replies to all.

  Ash is home and also got the message.

  “Hey, where were you?” he asks. “Thought you’d be home from practice ages ago.”

  “I went to yoga class.”

  He stops in the act of stirring something on the stove. “What?”