Page 7 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“Me too,” says a guy I don’t recognize. Tall, dark hair, looks like he’s never touched his toes in his life. “Huge flexibility guy.”
“Same,” says another. “Can’t get enough of this… stretching stuff.”
They’re not even trying to be subtle, grinning and elbowing each other like this is all some big joke—likeI’ma joke.
I take a breath and remind myself that I am a professional. I have a degree. I have certifications. I have handled difficult clients before. But I have never handled twenty-three professional athletes who are clearly just here to watch me bend over.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands together withmore confidence than I feel. “We’re going to need more mats. If you don’t have one, check the equipment closet.”
A few guys head to the back, jostling each other like teenagers. Someone makes a joke I don’t catch, and there’s a burst of laughter that feels pointed.
I keep my expression neutral. Friendly. Unbothered.
Inside, my stomach is churning.
I’m arranging people into rows, trying to create some semblance of order, when I notice him.
Banks Callahan.
He’s in the far corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Not on a mat. Not stretching. Just… standing there. Watching.
Even from across the room, he’s impossible to miss. The man is massive—easily six-four, dark hair, a sharp jaw covered in a few days’ worth of stubble, and a face that looks like it was carved specifically to intimidate. Everything about him screamsstay away, from the hard set of his mouth to the way he holds himself apart from everyone else, like he’s observing the room rather than participating in it.
And yet.
There’s something about the intensity of his stare that catches me off guard, sends a little jolt of awareness straight through my chest. His eyes are dark, almost black in this lighting, and they’re fixed on me with an unsettling focus.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t do anything except hold my gaze for a beat too long beforelooking away.
I look away too, annoyed at myself for noticing. Forfeelinganything.
The one time I met him, he acted odd. Cold. Couldn’t even manage basic human conversation.
I don’t have time to analyze whatever that’s about because Grayson Reed is pushing his way to the front of the room, and my whole body tenses.
“Saved you a spot,” Logan says to him, patting the mat beside his.
“Nah.” Grayson drops his mat directly in front of me. Like, three feet in front of me. Close enough that I could reach out and touch him. “I want the best view.”
My jaw tightens. “The view is the same from every mat.”
“I disagree.” He grins up at me, sprawling back on his elbows like he’s settling in for a show. “Some angles are better than others.”
Ignore him. Just ignore him.
“Alright, everyone find a mat and settle in.” I wait for the shuffling to stop, the conversations to die down. It takes longer than it should. “Welcome to session two. Let’s start with cat-cow…”
I demonstrate the pose, arching my back slowly, then rounding it. Basic stuff. Beginner level. Something I’ve taught a thousand times without incident.
Grayson lets out a low whistle.
Someone behind him snickers.
I’m suddenly aware that I’m on my hands and knees, in a bent over position, but I pretend I don’t hear it. Keep moving. Keep teaching. Don’t let them see you flinch.
“Good. Now move into downward dog. Hips up, heels reaching toward the floor.”
I walk through the rows, making corrections, keeping my voice steady. Most of the guys are actually trying—awkwardly, with the flexibility of concrete, but trying. A few are hopeless, but they’re making an effort.
