The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

“When you’ve had a rough day at work…hang upside down.”

That’s what Kyla says to me when class ends that night. After I hightailed it out of the arena, I went straight to a pole class solo. I didn’t want to talk to my friends about what happened today. But that’s because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to move.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask.

“A little,” she says with a smile. “But then again, I can kind of recognize the feeling. It was a rough day at the day job too.” She glances around the studio as most of the students shuffle out. I’m grabbing my water bottle as she asks, a little nervously, “Hey, any chance you can stick around to shoot some videos?”

“Of course,” I say immediately, since I’ve done that in the past for her as part of her efforts to promote the classes she teaches here .RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

“Thank you,” she says, flashing a grateful smile. “Marketing is nonstop these days. The Upside Down owner told me the landlord is upping the rent, so she’s marketing it even harder. Translation: I’m marketing it even harder.”

“I’m at your service then,” I say, happy to help. I like having something to do. I like being useful.

“Give me five minutes to straighten up so I don’t have to kick myself if I find a stray towel in a video,” she says as the last student waves goodbye. “You can climb or play on your phone or whatever.”

“Thanks,” I say, and I have zero interest in getting on my phone. I turned it off when I left work. I don’t really want to turn it back on. There’s a part of me that likes being unreachable right now.

No—there’s a part of me that needs it.

I spend so much of my life plugged in. Maybe too much.

As Kyla tidies the room, I return to the pole, wanting to keep moving. I already burned off my frustration in class. I’m not upset anymore. My job is handling problems, and I did it today. I’m proud of how I handled a complicated situation. I’m proud of how I took an event that was spiraling out of control and yanked it back into the orbit the team wanted.

So I savor one more moment on this chrome pole that has meant more to me than I ever expected. Or maybe I should have expected this connection. This pole has given me so much. It’s been a reconnection with friends. But also with Marie. We were supposed to do this together, and that was why it was so hard for me to start this class. But I know— I really know —she’d be proud of me. She’d have cheered me on when I walked through the studio door more than a year ago. She’d have been telling me I could do it each time I came back. She always believed in me, more than anyone. Certainly more than my own parents. I was the same way with her, encouraging her to go to culinary school, to pursue her dreams to be a chef, to explore the world.

Grabbing the pole with my right hand—my stronger side—I do a one-armed spin. It’s a simple move—one of the first I learned. I fly right past the mirror, checking my form. Objectively, it’s good. But I can see the flaws. I’m not sure anyone else could. Because the flaws aren’t in the execution. They’re in my head. In my choices to only do certain tricks.

But is that a flaw? I remember Maeve’s words from the other day— do it at your own pace .

Maybe my workaround isn’t truly a cheat. Maybe it’s the life hack I’ve needed. But what if I didn’t need one?

That question echoes in my head as I shift to another trick, one I’ve been doing for a while—an outside leg hang. I do it at my own pace. Grabbing it with both hands, I kick up my legs into the air while dropping my head toward the floor. I hook my left leg around the pole, my ponytail spilling toward the mat while I hold on tight.

“Nice work!” Kyla shouts from the cubbies.

“Feels pretty good,” I say on a sharp breath, not breaking the hold. It feels great actually. It’s everything I needed tonight.

A reset.

Even though I keep wondering.

What if…?

“Do you want a pic?” she asks, waggling her phone as she walks toward me.

It’s not the first time that she’s asked. I normally decline. When a kernel of tension forms in my gut, I know I’ll do it now too. Maybe I’m not ready for my what-ifs.

I flip over and stand upright again, shaking my head. “I don’t have social media,” I say.

She gives me a look—a friendly one, but a look nonetheless that says she knows that’s an excuse. “I hate to break it to you but you can take a picture just to take a picture.” She pauses, her soft blue eyes thoughtful. “You’ve made a lot of progress in a year and a half. You can take a picture just for you. It doesn’t have to be for the world.”

Like I wear lovely lingerie—so I can take back my power, even if it’s just for me.

I glance at her racy red sports bra, then down at my beige fitted tee that covers so much skin—skin I need to show to do the moves I crave. We’ve never discussed why I wear short-sleeve shirts to class. Kyla’s never asked, nor has she butted in to suggest I wear a sports bra like she does. She accepts her students for who they are, where they are, and however they feel comfortable in their skin.

But I came here tonight for a reset, not to document it, so I shove those nagging little wishes far away. I stayed to help, not to make this moment about me. “Let me get your videos.”

She pauses, but then acquiesces. “Sure,” she says, handing me her phone.

She grabs the pole and whips through several advanced tricks like a dance ninja, moving from a Superman to the Titanic, a shoulder mount to a brass monkey, till she executes an Ayesha—an upside-down V where she’s holding on with only her hands. It’s so good I don’t dare breathe as I shoot the video. I don’t want to be the one to mess up this moment. When she flips off the pole, I clap loudly. “You look like a goddess.”

She catches her breath, then says in a warm, encouraging voice, “So do you, Everly.”

I peer around the studio for good measure. It’s just us. No other students, and none are coming.

It’s been a year and a half of me wearing T-shirts.

A year and a half of holding back.

A year and a half of longing to let go.

Maybe it’s time to stop hiding.

Pole isn’t just for my friends and me. It’s also for only me.

After today, and how I handled the event, maybe I am ready. Or maybe I’m not but I think I’m doing it anyway. Courage isn’t always something you’re ready for. Sometimes you have to choose it. I hand her the phone. “Will you take a picture…for me?”

Her smile is proud. “I will.”

Then I do something incredibly hard. I take off my shirt, leaving on only my sports bra with my short shorts. I roll my lips together, bracing myself.

But Kyla doesn’t cringe at all the scars on display, the zigzags down my back, the jagged cuts on my arm, the raised one across my shoulder. She looks at me…the same. Before and after, scars and all. I walk to the pole, feeling horribly vulnerable that the parts I like least are visible at last.

But then…fuck it. I grab the pole and kick up into my outside leg hang, dropping my head toward the floor. I’m still holding on like I’ve done every single time, in every single class. My life hack. My workaround.

Except… what if ?

I let go, and press the outside of my now bare arms against the pole—skin to metal for the first time ever.

She snaps a shot and cheers. “You nailed it,” she says, even brighter than before.

I stay upside down for a beat, savoring the way my arms tingle, how I feel the slightest bit lightheaded but in a good way. Mostly, how I’m strong and powerful.

When I step off the pole my throat is tight. Quickly, I pull the shirt back on. “I don’t know if I’ll do that in class,” I say quietly.

She gives a one-shoulder shrug and a smile. “We’re all ready for things at different times in our life. Wear what you want. Try what you want. Just keep coming.”

“I will,” I say, then I leave, feeling like I’ve reset my mind in the most necessary way—through my body. Pole dancing has always done that for me since I started it. It’s a reclaiming of my body. Of myself. Of being alive.

I head home, hop into the shower, and wash off the chaos of the day and the hard work of the class. When I’m done, I tug on sweats and a tank top, then head to the kitchen as the door buzzer sounds from my phone. Worry races through me. It’s evening. I’m not expecting a delivery. And I certainly don’t answer the door to strangers.

Like it’s a gun I need for protection, I grab my phone from my sweatpants pocket.

Oh.

The camera app tells me it’s not a stranger with a delivery. It’s Max with a delivery. An annoying burst of excitement rushes through me, along with nerves too. No idea why he’s here. I wish I weren’t excited at all to see him. I wish I felt nothing.

But I don’t. I feel too much for a man I can’t have. That’s the problem .

I grab a hoodie and zip it up halfway since I might be ready for my teacher to see my scars but I’m not ready for Max to see all of me.

I buzz him into the building, and it feels like it takes an eternity and no time at all for him to bound up the stairs. When I open the door he’s holding two paper cups, like he’s weighing them as his eyes lock with mine. “I didn’t just get an extra London fog that day in Seattle by chance. I got it for you.”