Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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One glance around the studio confirmed my suspicions. Yoga was for girls. And my agent and trainer were insane. What the fuck were they thinking? Both knew my sentiments by how clear I made them, but I texted both before class.
Me: You're insane. Both of you.
Me: Giant waste of my fucking time.
Neither responded, probably laughing at my expense. Yoga was nowhere on my radar when I agreed to this morning's fitness retest. I assumed Jer called Michael to tout all the grueling work I sweated through the past five weeks. Instead, they offered the stupidest suggestion I'd ever heard: try yoga. Of course, I put up some resistance.
"Yoga!? Stop fucking with me." I snorted. "Yoga is for girls. Not NFL quarterbacks."
The conversation derailed, ending with them manipulating me into it. Which I realized once I arrived at the studio.
"Many professional athletes use yoga. Seattle employs an instructor." Static buzzed in my ear, Michael sighing. "And don't say sexist shit you don't mean, Sam."
"It's true." My palm rubbed the shoulder in question. "Walk into any studio."
No doubt I needed post-surgery rehab. Foregoing painkillers, I adhered to my physical therapy routine. No questions asked, I iced, heated, and rested my shoulder as instructed. I needed to work with Jeremiah, not some twiggy yoga instructor. They disagreed.
"Have you been to a studio?" Mike chuckled.
"No, but..." I scrunched my eyebrows together. "Why are you fucking boarding this crazy yoga train?"
"I fully support any alternative that gets you back to full health. Jer says research on yoga has shown–"
Always the pacifist. Conveniently, Jer mentioned none of this shit during my assessment.
"Stretching, napping, and sniffing wheatgrass incense won't get me back to where I belong." As expected, Michael's end sat silent. "Which is satisfying my sponsors, inspiring millions through my foundation, and leading my team to a third consecutive NFL Super Bowl championship."
Squeezing my right fist and grounding my elbow in my ribs, my bicep swelled into definition. Unlike last week, no pain or stiffness pulled the shoulder muscles above it. Progress.
"And it's my job to support you in those goals, Sam."
The jab, 'Then fucking secure my long-term contract', died on my tongue. I heaved a sigh. "You're fucking serious about this yoga shit. Both you and Jer."
"We are." Michael's tone softened. "Consider it a holistic rehab approach–"
"Holistic rehab." The words died on my tongue. "What the fuck is wrong with you!? I need sweat, workouts, and recovery exercises. Manly shit. Sitting or sleeping on a rug won't get me in pro shape."
