KICK IT | JENLISA

12

Lisa

One glance around the studio confirmed my suspicions. Yoga was for pussies. 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 Bambam called Jackson to tout all the gruelling 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 pussies. Not NFL quarterbacks."

The conversation derailed, ending with them manipulating me into it. Which I realised once I arrived at the studio.

"Many professional athletes use yoga. Seattle employs an instructor." Static buzzed in my ear, Jackson sighing. "And don't say sexist shit that you don't mean, Lisa."

"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 Bambam, not some twiggy yoga instructor. They disagreed.

"Have you been to a studio?" Jackson 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. Bam says research on yoga has shown..."

Always the pacifist. Conveniently, Bambam 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, Jackson'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, Lisa."

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 Bam."

"We are." Jackson'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. Rigorous shit. Sitting or sleeping on a rug won't get me in pro shape."

"Lisa." The lightness in Jackson's tone disappeared. "Since you're a bit misinformed, let me give a personal recommendation. Khadra's Yoga Health and Wellness. Small studio, off the grid. Ask for Jennie. Mina has secured the NDAs."

Changing tactics, Jackson aimed for the ego jugular, "Being unsure of new approaches is natural."

"Unsure of what, falling asleep?"

"Bam's betting that you can't even last through a whole class."

A bet should've triggered my red flag warnings, but I shrugged it off.

"What did you bet?"

"I bet you can't even show up, Lisa."

Jackson played dirty, offering the two words I responded to most. My ego filled in the rest.