KICK IT | JENLISA

86

Lisa

Off the field, it was her. A look at my empty kitchen while I ate tasteless food revealed that I wanted her here. I'd gotten used to her presence, the flutter of her lashes onto her cheeks and the upward curl of her mouth pursed around a fork or spoon. I missed our conversations, even the shallow ones because seeing Jennie relaxed and smiling felt like an honour and accomplishment.

How much time she needed to process what had happened filled my stomach with guilt. Two days passed, and I wasn't sorry for what happened. Not on my end. There was only remorse that it upset her. She hadn't budged on her secrets. Were they darker than a simple ex breaking her heart?

Damn those thick walls.

With a dip into my shallow pool of patience, I closed my eyes and drew a breath from my last row spot. I almost tasted Jennie's presence in the air. Musky perspiration dotted her natural scent, both a whole lot more pleasant than mine. It coated my skin along with the smooth, warm feeling of her skin, a buttery contrast to the callouses I never got rid of.

My first coach told me they were symbols of strength, evidence of football toughening me up. Bullshit now, but back then I believed it.

In an era where players shared their daily dietary restrictions, chest beating war chants and celebration dances, and groin cup size, fans and reporters assumed they knew every detail of our lives. They overlooked the bleeding knees, bruised shins and ribs, and the sweat-soaked smell that never left my uniform and jock strap because they were the uninteresting side. They ignored the hours of pain and recovery. Hard work wasn't glamorous, but it was necessary.

Where football owned its own religion, I wasn't a God. My body had as many miles as the bus that drove our high school team all over the state. An off-season freak accident jarred me into the reality that I wasn't untouchable or unbreakable. But, with smarter workouts, I moulded myself to be better and stronger. With yoga, I increased my flexibility and longevity of my joints and muscles. I was all in, but I needed Jennie to continue my progress.

Unfortunately, she disappeared into non-existence.

With Jennie not teaching at the studio and the media shitstorm about my foundation scam, the female attention on me tripled. Bold girls tucked phone numbers under my windshield wipers or in my curled-up mat. Open flirtations soaked the air thicker than Simi's incense. She taught Jennie's Tuesday and Thursday classes. I approached her after meditation, where my brain swam with more Jennie-related thoughts than a school of minions.

She offered a flash of white teeth. "Ms. Manoban."

"Is Jennie alright?" I rubbed my hand over the throbbing between my eyes.

Her round eyes contrasted with the nod of her head. "She's feeling under the weather, but I expect she'll be back next week. She'll be thrilled with your progress. I see such an improvement in your practice."

She was right. Smaller muscle groups, like my calves and ankles, no longer vibrated in static balance positions. Both shoulders rolled in fluid, wavelike motions through Simi's vinyasas, a polar opposite sensation from Jennie's first class. Balance developed steadier and my distracted thoughts were easier to ground... until they circled around Jennie.

And, for the first time since I walked into this studio, my shoulder recovery wasn't my priority. The sincerity in Simi's voice didn't convince me that Jennie would return. "Thanks."

Brainless motions were all I accomplished for the next three days. I was useless, distracted by the addictive details I attempted to forget but didn't want to. She was so wet, slicked with arousal, pulsing and clenching around me. My mind went where my body couldn't. The softness of her warm skin. The heat burning in her eyes. The echoes of her breathless, desperate voice humming in my ears.

Fuck, and I'm hard again.