Page 2 of Ice Cold Chemistry
Me:That’s the goal. Sneak attack flexibility.
Tori:Text me after your first session. I want to hear EVERYTHING.
Tori: Also, Zayden says good luck and don’t let the idiots get to you.
I smile. Zayden Bishop—Tori’s fiancé, the team’s star right winger, and genuinely one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. I’ve only interacted with him a handful of times, but he treats Tori like she hungthe moon, and that’s enough for me.
I check my reflection in the mirror along the wall. Honey colored hair down and wavy around my shoulders, high-waisted black leggings, a fitted tank, and curves doing what they always do—existing whether anyone likes it or not. I spent two years in oversized hoodies and T-shirts, convinced that covering up meant men would see my brain first. Spoiler: they didn’t. So now I dress for me.
I spend the next thirty minutes arranging foam rollers, testing the sound system, and giving myself no fewer than four pep talks in the mirror. By 9:45, I feel almost ready.
Then the players start arriving.
And—okay. Nobody warned me they’d be this big.
I knew hockey players were large. Intellectually. But there’s a difference between knowing something and having a six-foot-four wall of muscle walk through your door, followed by another one, and another, each bigger than the last.
I feel like a corgi at a Great Dane convention.
“You must be the new yoga instructor.” A guy with floppy brown hair and an easy grin makes a beeline for me. “Logan Palmer. And I gotta say, I’m suddenly very interested in flexibility.”
I maintain my professional smile. “That’s great. Flexibility is key for injury prevention.”
“Injury prevention. Right. That’s definitely why I’m here.” He winks.
Lord, give me strength.
“Why don’t you grab a mat?” I gesture toward the rows I’ve set up. “We’ll get started in a fewminutes.”
He winks again—this guy really needs to work on his material—and saunters off to claim a spot in the front row.
Harmless.Annoying, but harmless. I’ve dealt with worse.
More players filter in. The room fills with the low hum of conversation and the energy of men who are used to being the center of attention. I scan the group, mentally matching faces to the roster I studied last night.
Archer Lockwood, the goalie, claims a spot in the back corner and immediately lies down like he’s preparing for a nap. Zayden catches my eye and gives me a small nod of encouragement. A few others I don’t recognize fill in the gaps.
No sign of Banks Callahan—the intense defensemen known for his temper. Dana mentioned that he doesn’t do group sessions. “He’s particular,” she’d said, in the same tone you might use to describe a cat who only drinks from the faucet.
Fine by me. One less intimidating presence to worry about.
By ten, the room is full. Twenty-something professional hockey players are arranged on yoga mats, looking at me like I’m about to make them do something embarrassing.
Which, to be fair, I am.
“Good morning, everyone.” I project confidence I don’t entirely feel. “I’m Winnie Garrett, your new yoga instructor. I know some of you might think yoga is—”
“Sexy,” someone mutters, and there’s a ripple oflaughter.
I push on. “—not relevant to your sport. But flexibility work prevents injuries, improves recovery time, and can actually increase your power output. So.” I clap my hands together. “Let’s start with some basic hip openers.”
I move through the first few stretches, walking the room, making corrections. Most of the guys are trying, even if they’re comically inflexible. Logan keeps “accidentally” needing help with his form. I handle it.
Then I get to the middle of the room.
There’s a guy lounging on his mat like it’s a throne, making zero effort to follow along. Dark hair, smug smile, the face of a guy who’s never once been told no and has built a whole personality around it. I mentally flip through the roster I studied last night. Grayson Reed. Rookie forward. The one with the Instagram following and the reputation for partying.
“Everything okay?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
