Which isn’t much, but I’ll take what I can get.
“Then you need to slide out your knees a little bit, like a frog.”
I settle into the awkward AF pose. “I look like a dork.”
“Yes, but who cares?” she asks, with an easy shrug, a sexy jut of her shoulder. I swear, everything this woman does is sexy to me.
But I also like talking to her.
Chatting with Katie is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. Always has been, ever since the first night at that wedding. We just clicked. She’s a kindred spirit.
“Doesn’t matter if you look dorky. Or silly. Just . . . laugh,” she suggests.
“Aren’t you supposed to say . . . I dunno . . . omm or namaste?” I tease.
She settles onto her mat next to me, getting into the same pose, first on her hands and knees, then sliding her knees out to the side. Looking like a frog, obvs. “I take the poses seriously, but I don’t take myself too seriously,” she says, then her lips curve into a sly smirk. “Ribbit.”
I chuckle. “I’ve got some animal noises for you right here.” As I hold the weird pose, I give her my best roar. “Rawr!”
She cracks up, falling face-first to the mat as she slaps the floor.
“What? Was I not fearsome as a lion?” I arch a brow.
She turns to me. “You’re as fearsome as the king of the lion frogs, Harlan!”
“See if I ever entertain you with animal sounds again,” I say, but I’m laughing too.
Especially since we’re definitely not in the naughty zone anymore. That has to be good for our brand-new working relationship.
“Moo,” she says, quickly zipping out of the frog pose, and into a bovine one, bowing her back. Seconds later, she’s arching like a cat. “Meow.”
I whimper.
Katie is a very sexy yoga cat.
“Meow-zers,” I say.
Hopping out of the position, she moves behind me, dropping her hands to my hips and wiggling them. Her tone is teacherly again, the yoga instructor who believes in what she does. “If you can hold the frog pose for at least a few minutes every day, that’ll help release the groin and inner thigh. Those are locations for a lot of injuries. You want to keep the groin nice and soft.”
“No, I don’t want my groin soft,” I blurt. Because I can’t not go there.
She laughs, giving another slight adjustment. “There. Just hold.” But her soft voice and her gentle hands are having the opposite effect on me.
This one-on-one is not helping my dirty brain. I can’t stop thinking about the one-on-ones I crave with her.
Yup, hands-on is leading to hard-on. I cast about for neutral topics. “So, is it true yoga is cheaper than therapy?”
Her blue eyes twinkle. “Guess it depends on what I charge the Renegades,” she says with a wink.
“I like your capitalist side.”
“Nothing wrong with wanting to make a good living,” she says, lady boss and owning it. Damn, that’s hot too.
“I couldn’t agree more.” I cycle to another of her yoga sayings from her clothing line. “Is yoga your favorite way to pretend to work out?”
She’s quiet for a beat, then sits next to me, meeting my gaze. “Are you just quoting me back to me now?”
I flash a grin. “Seems I am. I researched more about your business before these sessions. Still love the cute sayings.”
Her smile is magnetic. “Thank you. I’m flattered you did that.”
“I like your style. I like what you’ve built.”
Her eyes shimmer with happiness. I love that I put that look there. “That means a lot to me. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I like watching you play. I’m having a big ol’ watch party this weekend with my girlfriends. We’re talking charcuterie boards, wine, nachos, and Jillian’s special guacamole mix. And we’ll be rooting for you.”
Pride suffuses my whole being.
There is something fulfilling about playing a game you’re good at for a woman you like.
Even if you can’t have her.
I wish this could work. I wish we could move forward, earning first down after first down. But it seems the universe’s defensive line is tougher than us right now, and we’re punting rather than picking up where we left off.
Not now, and not for the foreseeable future.
But maybe at the end of the season? Coach said we’d be doing yoga for that long, but when we’re done, maybe our timing will finally line up.
I tuck that thought away. I’ll hold on to it until the moment is right to bring it up.
On Thursday after our team workout, I do one of my favorite things—I pick Abby up from school.
She bounds down the front steps of the school building, alongside a curly-haired blonde, and barely gives me a chance to say hello.
“Hello—”
“Can we go to the playground around the corner? Audrey and I want to do the rock-climbing wall, and it’ll be so fun,” Abby says, then wraps an arm around her friend, who flashes me a gap-toothed smile.
“Please, Mister Taylor,” Audrey puts in. “My mom said it’s okay and you can drop me off in an hour,” Audrey adds quickly, gesturing to her mom who’s talking to another parent by the school entrance.
“And she only lives four blocks away,” Abby says at the speed of light.
Laughing, I finally get a word in edgewise. “Well, it seems you two have already plotted this whole playground playdate.”
“We did,” Abby says. “So, it’s a yes?”
“I’ll just check with Audrey’s mom.” I make my way to the school entrance and once I confirm Audrey’s mom is cool with the plan, I return to the girls. “Rock-climbing time,” I say, grateful my life and my job allow me this sort of flexibility in the middle of the week.
But there’s only so much flexibility I have.
The next day is also technically my day with Abby, but I won’t be able to spend it with her. I don’t spend any weekend with her during football season. I’m either flying to another city or we’re in the team hotel, deliberately away from family. That’s just how it goes in the league.
In the morning, we grab the two most excellent apple pies we baked last night, then I take her to Danielle’s house around seven, since we have a nine a.m. flight to Seattle for our game this weekend.
Danielle lets us in, and I step into the foyer.
“Thanks again for taking her to school. And having her this weekend and all the other weekends,” I say with a smile, and a little bit of sadness too.
“Easy-peasy,” Danielle says, and that’s my reminder to sweep away the pang of longing for weekends. Truly, I’m damn lucky to share this kid with a mom who’s so chill about, well, everything.
“And we made you two pies,” Abby announces, thrusting the pink boxes at her mom. “One’s for us to take to the gymnastics showcase on Saturday, and one is for you and Jamie to take to the hospital.”
Danielle’s eyes light up with culinary delight. “The parents will love it at Gym Buddies. And I guarantee the nurses will love this one too.” She turns to me. “They seriously appreciate it when doctors bring them pies baked by their favorite player.”