Undefeated

by Melissa Cutler

  “The haunted apartment is bigger and nicer than yours.”

  Liam’s irritation ramped up. He gripped his glass hard and started planning his exit. “Stop pushing, Olivia.”

  Marlena kept her focus on Olivia, but set a hand on Liam’s forearm, right over his skull tattoo. He jumped at her touch—he wasn’t the kind of man who people went around casually touching—but she was undeterred by his reaction and held her hand steady, stroking his skin with her thumb in a way that was both soothing and maddening in its intimacy.

  “I don’t mind you asking, sweetie,” Marlena said to Olivia, “but I don’t need more space. Here’s a tip, though. Maybe you should stop calling it ‘the haunted apartment’ if you want to rent it out.”

  Olivia eyed Marlena’s hand, a split second of confusion playing in her expression, before she shifted her focus to Marlena’s face. “I only call it that around family and friends.”

  The ting of metal clanking against glass hushed the crowded bar. Duke stood on the bottom stair that led to the tavern’s upper-floor banquet room, banging a spoon against an empty pint glass. “Bomb Squad, upstairs. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Then he looked at Liam, Marlena, and Olivia, whatever that meant. The important part was that Liam had an easy out from another suffocating conversation with Olivia, this time without crushing her eggshell-fragile feelings.

  “That’s my cue,” he said. He pushed away from the bar and followed Brandon and the rest of the guys up the dark stairway. He hoped Marlena didn’t take it the wrong way that he didn’t say good-bye. The tedium of farewells was even more unimaginable for him than greetings.

  “Something’s got to change,” Duke, their coach, said to the room. “That’s nine games now, and before that, we hadn’t lost one in more than a year. After being the team with the best undefeated streak the Canal Town league had seen in more than fifteen years, this is pathetic. I know you’ve all been through a lot lately, but after the Wounded Veterans International exhibition game, it’s like you all laid down and died. Where’s your fire?”

  Brandon stepped forward. “We’ve got the fire, Coach, but it’s not translating.”

  Gabe groaned. “I can’t believe we lost to Ultimate Nachos again. I’m sorry, guys. I don’t know how the pucks keep slipping past me.”

  Duke’s fists went to his hips. “Like I said, something’s got to change or we’ll be playing on Monday nights before you know it.”

  Monday nights at the Iceplex were reserved for the beer-league recreational teams, the white-collar chumps who didn’t give a rat’s ass if they won or lost because they were using the games as an alternative to the treadmill. As long as they burned calories and got a night away from the wife and kids, they were happy.

  “Tomorrow night, we start rebuilding ourselves back into winners,” Duke said.

  The mood in the room shifted as grumbles of annoyance erupted. Tomorrow night was Friday, and Liam bet the rest of them had plans with their girlfriends or wives. Liam had a hot date with his yoga mat, P.E.T., and some woodworking, but he could squeeze all that in around a hockey practice, no problem.

  “Shut up, you pansies,” Duke roared. He smacked his clipboard against a table.

  Liam’s insides clutched and a vision of the kid flashed through his mind as he fought hard to keep his face neutral.

  Brandon walked to the front, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Duke like a good little team captain. “You heard him. We’ve got to get Bomb Squad back on track. So we’re practicing tomorrow night and every night Duke tells us we are.”

  “Thank you, Brandon, but tomorrow night, there’s a new plan. Not practicing on the ice, but . . .” He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes wide and his smile broad and goofy. “Yoga.”

  Duke swept his arm toward the top of the stairs where Marlena stood on the threshold, a confident smile on her lips.

  Chapter Three

  Liam choked on his sip of beer. What the hell was Duke talking about?

  “Come again?” Brandon said, giving voice to the confusion that had fallen over the room.

  Duke waved Marlena over. “Don’t be shy, now. Get over here and let me introduce you.”

  As she walked, she flicked an anxious glance in Liam’s direction, which was at odds with her confident stride and posture.

  “We all know Marlena,” Theo said. “But what I don’t get is what she or yoga has to do with us getting out of this slump.”

  Duke clapped one hand on Marlena’s back, then tapped his temple. “Because the slump’s all in your heads, and Marlena, here, is an expert at helping people with mental problems.”

  “Hey, now . . . mental problems? That’s harsh,” Will said.

  “You know what I mean. What you men need is weekly group yoga and maybe some of that guided-meditation mumbo jumbo stuff she does that’s helped my wife so much. It was Marlena’s idea to add pregame massages, and I’m all for that.”

  Ah, so that’s where all this was coming from. Didn’t make it any easier a pill to swallow that Duke wanted them to do yoga together.

  “Who’s paying for this?” Gabe said.

  “The finances are between me and Duke,” Marlena said.

  Someone snickered. Liam whipped his head around, his defenses on alert. This was bad in so many ways. The losing streak had messed with Duke’s mind, because there was no way the team was going to go for this. And even if they did, they weren’t going to respect Marlena the way she deserved. They weren’t going to take yoga seriously. Yoga was one of Liam’s private loves. He didn’t want to see it sullied by the group.

  Theo crossed his arms over his chest, looking speculative. “Are the classes optional?

  “Mandatory. She’s giving up her Friday nights to offer you all private, group lessons, and that’s what you’re going to do. To help with team unity.”

  “Unity isn’t the issue,” Theo said. “We’re losers as a unit.”

  “Then you’ll only start winning again as a unit.”

  “All due respect, sir, but we should be using our time to practice. We don’t need to waste potential practice time on yoga,” Liam said. Not exactly true because Liam needed yoga. He needed it every day, twice a day—but in the privacy of his own apartment. Yoga as a group? With the guys—or worse, with Marlena? No way.

  “Yoga would help,” Marlena said. “You wouldn’t be the first sports team to practice yoga together, believe me.” She was all business the way she looked through him, like they hadn’t almost slept together.

  That was fine with him, because he was all business now, too. “I’m not doing it, Duke.”

  Duke sucked his teeth, his eyes narrowing. “Then you’re not playing in the next game, son.”

  Liam wasn’t great about having his back put up against the wall like he was a child or back in the army, especially not in front of a pretty girl. And especially not when it involved one of the sacred parts of his private life.

  “What about the guys missing limbs?” Liam said. “It isn’t like Will or Gabe are going to ace downward facing dog.”

  “But I’ve got the bird mastered,” Will said, presenting Liam the middle finger of his left and only hand.

  “Everyone can do yoga. There’s always a way. I’m certified in adaptive yoga techniques, and I’m looking forward to working with each of you to find the best way to meet your needs.”

  There was another snicker at her unintentional double entendre. Liam opened his mouth, ready to issue an order for everyone to grow the hell up and show some respect when Marlena caught on to her misspeak and smiled, rolling her eyes. “I was talking about yoga needs, you pervs.”

  Gabe stepped forward, holding his half-full beer pint in the robotic-looking fingers of his right arm prosthetic. “I’m all for it, ’cause, guess what? I took yoga while I was at Walter Reed and I’m looking forward to schooling all you pussies, double-amputee style.”

  “That’s the positive attitude I’m looking for. You could all learn a thing or two fr
om Gabe. We start tomorrow night, seven o’clock sharp. And clear your schedules because we’ll be in Marlena’s studio every Friday night for the foreseeable future.”

  Dante shook his head. “Damn, Duke. That’s harsh. I’ve got plans on the weekends.”

  “Tough shit. This is your top priority now.”

  “What about Marlena?” Brandon said. “Are you sure this is how you want to spend your Friday nights from now on? Because you’re young and single, and I think that sucks that you’d have to spend it with all of us.”

  Marlena patted Brandon’s shoulder. “That’s sweet of you to be concerned, but you don’t need to worry. Friday nights are like any other night for me. I don’t have the patience for civilian dating bullshit.”

  Then she shifted her gaze to Liam, flashing him a sly smile that he guessed was supposed to be apologetic. In actuality, all it did was showcase her double whammy of serenity and fire, which got Liam wondering how the two of them could be so frustratingly incompatible when, clearly, that was anything but the case.

  ***

  After the less than enthusiastic reception to Duke’s yoga mandate the night before, Marlena wasn’t expecting the guys to arrive at the studio early on Friday evening, excited and eager to get started on their yoga practice. She figured it’d take a few weeks before they fully realized the changes that regular yoga would usher into their bodies and minds.

  She’d trained extensively in adaptive yoga techniques—the art of helping practitioners of every age, body type, and medical condition adjust yoga poses for their individual needs and limitations—but never specifically for amputees. There were nine amputees on Bomb Squad, five missing legs, three missing one or two arms, and one missing one of each, but all of them were athletes who’d obviously decided not to let their missing limbs hold them back. Tonight, her goal was to introduce them to the benefits of yoga and prove that yoga was as physically challenging and rewarding as any sport, including hockey.

  She was stacking foam bricks in the corner devoted to adaptive equipment when she heard the door open. Smiling, she walked toward the door, ready to greet her first arrival. On the other side of the screen that separated the practice space from the front office area stood Liam, alone.

  A thrill lit through her at the sight of him, as always happened. Thrill and unease and desire—disquieting, foundation-rattling emotions that reminded her that before that first massage appointment, she hadn’t felt anything stronger than serenity in a long time. As if she were a car whose engine never got revved, never got run hard and fast, never pushed.

  She walked backward into the center of the room, giving in to her impulse to keep a buffer of space between them.

  He eyed the restroom as though expecting half the team to come pouring out. “Am I the first one here?”

  She hadn’t expected a greeting or small talk, and he hadn’t surprised her with any, but his abruptness still yanked her further off-balance. “Yes.”

  He clasped his hands in front of the navy-blue nylon basketball shorts he wore over tight black sports shorts. “Why are you doing this? The class, I mean.”

  She cleared her throat, finding her voice. “Because Duke asked me to and I believe everyone can benefit from yoga, including a motley bunch of hockey-playing ex-soldiers.”

  He spun away from her and paced to the altar on the far wall of the room where a cedarwood candle was burning. Squatting, he picked at the residual bits of wax in the carpet from the candle that had spilled during their disastrous appointment.

  Marlena watched him, wishing she knew what he was thinking.

  “You shouldn’t have been afraid of me. When you told me to stop, I stopped.”

  Each time they saw each other, at Locks and then tonight, it seemed that they were continuing an ongoing conversation that had begun two weeks before when he’d come for his massage.

  “Yes, you did. I know that now.”

  She traced his path to the altar until she stood several feet behind him, letting the cedarwood scent wrap around her. The wall dividing them like zoo animals was palpable tonight. She had half a mind to reach out, to see if she could touch him or if the glass was real. It made for the same confusing juxtaposition she felt the last time they were alone in the studio together—the urge to touch him battling with the urge to flee from him.

  “But you panicked anyway.”

  She studied the V-shaped taper from his shoulders to his lower back. “I know. You took me by surprise.”

  He stood and pivoted to face her. “That’s a bullshit reason, and I know that because you’re panicking right now. I can feel it.”

  “How?”

  His gaze raked her body. “You don’t think I can sense that? I’m a medic. We’re trained to gauge those kinds of anxiety responses. I can hear the strain in your voice and your uneven breathing. I should have sensed your panic on the night of my appointment, and that’s my bad because I confused the clues you were putting out with arousal. My mind was too full of all the things I wanted to do to you to think clearly. But tonight, my mind’s clear, and I know you’re lying, so try again.”

  Try again. She’d said that same thing to him that night, pressed and pressed until he’d been honest with her. “I don’t like to be taken by force. It doesn’t turn me on.”

  “Why not?”

  “I need a reason?”

  He took a step in her direction, then another. Holding her breath, she pressed her toes into the carpet lest she gave in to the temptation to step back and keep the buffer of space between them.

  He took her hand and set it on his forearm, over his skull tattoo. He left his hand covering hers and squeezed it ever so slightly. His skin was warm, his touch sure but gentle.

  “Breathe,” he said.

  She released a long, slow exhale through her nose, then an inhale, as she searched the hard planes of his face. Why was the universe pushing her so hard? Everything was so in-her-face with Liam, relentless and uncomfortable. Why was she being put through her paces like this, at such a random point in time while her life was stable and peaceful, her business thriving, her life contented?

  “I got this tattoo as a memorial to the soldiers I couldn’t save, the ones I watched die as I tried to keep them alive. What happened to them and the looks on their faces as they died—they haunted me until I stopped ignoring them. They’re still there in my mind, all the time, every day, but they don’t haunt me anymore.” His thumb brushed the side of her hand. “I can tell there’s a reason you flipped out, so try again.”

  When was the last time she’d consciously thought about what had happened to her? It had to be months. And the last time she spoke of it? Years. “I was assaulted.”

  He nodded. His face was expressionless, but the hand that held hers twitched. “Raped?”

  “No. It wasn’t a sexual assault.”

  “How old were you?”

  No pity, no emotion on his features, just questions and answers, terse and to the point. With his hand still covering hers, she slid her hand to his wrist and tightened her grip, taking comfort in the hard, fast beat of his pulse that told her what his emotionless features didn’t. “I was ten.”

  “Stranger or family?”

  She wrenched her gaze away. That was a whole new level of difficult, discussing that part of the story.

  The sound of the front door opening had them both looking in that direction. Liam dropped his hand, and she, in turn, dropped hers. Their gazes flickered to each other once, briefly, then away. There was no suppressing the relief she felt at having their conversation cut short.

  “Excuse me,” she said, walking toward the door.

  She felt him watching her, but he didn’t say anything else.

  Brandon, Gabe, Will, and Elijah milled about the front office space, a little too loud and jocular, and hyper-observant of the displayed trinkets, art, and literature in a way that was probably supposed to mask their insecurities, but actually did the opposite.

  Brandon
and Gabe swaggered to the display on the wall of class schedules, leafing through brochures. Keeping with the maxim that men in situations that threaten their masculinity revert to teenage boys, they homed in on the brochure for the sexual healing and tantric sex classes she taught.

  “Maybe we should all be taking these instead,” Brandon said.

  Gabe unfolded the brochure, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Your brochure has a typo.”

  Marlena stood on her tiptoes and peered around his shoulder. “What? No way.”

  “Yeah, because you forgot to add ‘clothing optional’ in the course descriptions.”

  The room filled with laughter. Marlena plucked the brochure from his hands. “You’re all welcome to sign up for the sexual healing course, but I’d have to pair you up together because it’s for couples only.”

  Brandon draped an arm across her shoulders. “How about you be my partner, Marlena?”

  Unlike the sizzle of nerves and awareness she felt every time Liam touched her, Brandon’s flirtatiousness did nothing but bring out the inner diva in her. She gave him a playful shove away. “Honey, I’m not interested in men who need to take my class to learn how to satisfy me.”

  Brandon clutched his chest, faking that she’d wounded him. “Damn, that’s harsh.”

  She’d developed that flippant insult as her rote response to the crass question, one she’d had to repeat on numerous occasions, but she was keenly aware of Liam’s presence in the room. Though he busied himself setting up a mat in the back of the practice space, she could feel him listening. If anyone would question her qualifications to teach a class on sex, it would be the man whose perfectly normal, consensual advances had sent her into a kicking, screaming panic spiral.

  She slid the brochure back in its holder. “Come on, gang. I’ll help you get your spaces set up.”

  Ten minutes later, she faced a room of eighteen Bomb Squad players. She’d never instructed a room full of such singularly masculine energy, and she liked the tough strength and aura of athleticism vibrating in the air. She could take them and their bodies places that a relaxation-focused yoga class couldn’t dream of going.