The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(21)

Elaine gasps in delight. “Hazel, you didn’t tell us you had a boyfriend.”

“She’s overwhelmed by her feelings for me.” Amusement dances up and down my spine as Hartley slowly turns to the camera, staring daggers at me. “It’s been a while since she’s fallen so hard for someone.”

Hartley stares at her camera, and I can just feel her attention on me, moving over my face.

Elaine raises her hand. “I have a thousand questions.”

“You were supposed to mute yourself,” Hartley says to me, arching a brow.

I click the mute button and throw my hands up with a grin, signaling that I’ll be quiet.

“Let’s begin,” she says, and I adjust the meeting settings so her video takes up my entire screen. “Take a seat however’s comfortable for you.”

I move to the floor, tilting my laptop screen so I can see her, watching as she moves into a cross-legged position on her mat.

“Take a few deep, slow breaths through your nose. Expand into your lungs, expand into your stomach, feel the floor or the prop beneath you. If you want, close your eyes.”

I suck a few breaths in and out, keeping my eyes on her.

“Find your breathing.”

Her voice melts into something smooth and calm. My heart rate slows as I count my breaths, in for five, out for five. Her eyes are closed, her dark hair up in a ponytail with a few pieces loose in the front. She’s wearing a t-shirt that says Don’t Touch Me and navy yoga leggings with constellations all over them.

The deplorable, horny part of me thinks about her telling me she doesn’t wear panties under her leggings.

“You get to do this class the way you want,” she adds. “You’re the boss of your body. Be a good boss and listen to it.”

The authoritative yet gentle way she speaks makes me smile.

I scan the background of Hazel’s screen. Behind her, a mini fridge sits on top of a counter beside a narrow oven and stove. Her laptop is on the floor so I can’t see much except for a pink kettle on the counter. On the left side of the screen, a dark mahogany coffee table has been pushed beside a couch, and on the right, it looks like the edge of her bed.

Jesus. Hartley’s place is tiny.

“Set an intention,” she goes on, eyes still closed. “My intention is to feel good in my body, to quiet my mind, and to get a good stretch in before bed.”

In a game, my intention would be to score more goals than everyone else. Impress the coaches. Work until my muscles burn, until my lungs are on fire.

Hartley leads us through the yin poses, and when we move into reclined butterfly, a low groan slips out of me. Thank god I’m muted. The stretch pulls across my tight shoulders and up my inner thighs. The warm, sluggish haze of relaxation flows through me, making my limbs heavy and my thoughts slow.

“Find your breath,” she murmurs, and I count in for five, out for five. “Relax your jaw.”

I unclamp my molars. She’s sprawled out on her back, belly rising and falling with her breathing.

You can relax when you’re dead, I hear my dad say. His brutal approach to sports is nothing like this.

“It’s okay if your mind wanders,” she says, and it feels like she’s whispering directly in my ear. A shiver rolls down my spine. “Invite it back. Find your breath.”

Finally, we end on our backs, palms facing the ceiling. My body is relaxed, and my mind hums with content stillness as I listen to her soft voice.

“To close today’s practice, I want you to think about what makes you feel worthy.”

Confusion rises inside me. Worthy. I repeat the word in my head. Worthy of what?

“For me,” she says, smiling to herself, “I love hanging out with my sister. Pippa brings out all the best parts of me and I always go home feeling so happy and grateful.”

I’m mesmerized. She’s so beautiful. I wish I could record this so I could listen to it again and again.

“I love running,” she goes on. “Even when I’m huffing and puffing, there’s sweat in my eyes, and my face is red like a tomato, I love feeling strong in my body. I love what my body can do for me.

“And lastly, my work makes me feel worthy. I love seeing what the human body can do. We’re all capable of incredible things, no matter what type of body we’re moving in. I love playing a part in that.” She pauses. “Now, your turn. Where do you find your purpose? What makes you smile? What makes you feel loved?”

Worthy. The word flings itself around in my head, searching for a place to land. My purpose is to be the best hockey player possible, and anything less is failure.

What makes you feel loved?

A memory flits into my head. I was eleven, and it was the summer before my mom left. We were walking through the trails near our home in North Vancouver. We stopped at a creek, and she bent down to flick a few droplets of water at me, grinning. Her deep blue eyes, the same as mine, glowed in the forest light. I laughed and flicked the water right back at her.

“I love you. I hope you know that.”

A longing ache fills my chest. I haven’t heard those words since I was a kid, since she lived with us.

And I was the one who didn’t want to live with her. I was the one who wanted to stay with Dad full time because I’m always chasing his approval.

When class is over, there’s a chorus of farewells as people sign out.