Love of the Game by Lori Wilde

sound of her voice lulled him, and before long, he wasn’t thinking about anything except for breathing the way she taught him to breathe and holding the poses.
    Even the hot sexual thoughts banked to a low simmer.
    Okay, maybe this yoga thing wasn’t so nutty after all. In those few minutes he felt more calmed and controlled than he’d felt since . . . well, since he couldn’t remember when.
    They were doing side arm stretches and he was swinging along at a steady clip, when she cautioned, “Easy does it. Explore the edge, but don’t go over it.”
    â€œExplore the edge? What does that even mean?”
    â€œFeel the power of the stretch. But if there’s the least bit of actual pain, back off.”
    He grunted, and stopped extending as far as he could.
    â€œGood job,” she encouraged him.
    â€œI feel like I’m revving my engine with the transmission in park.”
    â€œThen back off more.”
    â€œIf I do that, I’ll barely be moving.”
    â€œThen barely move.” She slowed her own pace to demonstrate.
    â€œAt this rate my shoulder won’t heal until I’m eighty.”
    Her smile was enigmatic, slight and light.
    â€œWhat?” he asked, mimicking her movements, rotating his body from side to side with painstaking motions that were actually starting to feel really good in his shoulder.
    â€œI was thinking of what you’ll be like at eighty.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œYou’ll be winning wheelchair races down thehallway of the nursing home and goosing the nurses not smart or fast enough to get out of your way.”
    â€œI don’t know whether I should feel flattered or insulted.”
    â€œYour choice,” she said. “Arms straight out at your sides, shoulder height, palms up.”
    â€œThis isn’t hard,” he said.
    â€œNot yet.” There was that knowing smile again, as if she held the keys to heaven and she wasn’t going to let him in until he proved himself worthy. “Make tiny little circles with your fingertips as if they were paintbrushes, and you were painting the walls.”
    â€œThat I can get into.”
    â€œSlow down.”
    â€œYou’re starting to sound like an echo.” He snorted.
    â€œI’ll stop repeating myself when you hear me.”
    â€œI don’t see how this is helping much. It’s just stretching, and not very strenuous stretching at that,” he grumbled.
    â€œLast time I checked, I was the therapist and you were the patient. Why don’t you just let me do my job?”
    â€œGreat, fine, okay.” He chuffed out a breath and slowed his movements. “Ow, this is getting harder.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œAre you always such a tough taskmaster?”
    â€œClose your eyes,” she said. “Focus on what you’re doing, nothing else in the world matters but painting those walls. Nothing else exists.”
    â€œUm . . .” He cleared his throat. “Your voice exists.”
    â€œWiden the circles,” she instructed, ignoring that.
    â€œRight. Focus. I’m focusing.” Except that he wasn’t. His shoulders were burning, and her lavender-sage smell was tangling up in his nose, and her voice was heating up his blood. He dropped his arms.
    â€œArms up,” she said, perky but insistent.
    â€œThey’re tired.”
    â€œI know. Mine are too. Arms up.”
    Grunting, he raised his arms. “Is this painting almost finished?”
    â€œThe longer you complain, the longer it takes.”
    â€œYou’re punishing me?”
    â€œDon’t have to. You’re already punishing yourself by focusing on your discomfort. Just focus on what you’re doing, ignore everything else.”
    â€œLike when I’m pitching?”
    â€œExactly like when you’re pitching.”
    They exercised together for a while longer, Axel obeying her commands, keeping his eyes closed, and