The question catches me off guard. It’s the most words he’s ever said to me.
“Fine,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just stands there like he’s waiting for a different answer.
I turn to face him fully, irritation flaring. “I said I’m fine. Why are you still here? You don’t even do yoga. Dana told me you don’t do group sessions.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
A flash of heat barrels through me. “And? Did you enjoy the show?” The bitterness in my voice surprises me.
His jaw tightens. “Not particularly.”
We stare at each other for a beat too long. I don’t know what I expect him to say—an apology, an explanation, something. But he just nods once, sharp and final, and walks out.
The door swings shut behind him.
I wait until his footsteps fade. Then I walk very calmly to the equipment closet, close the door behind me, and sink down against the wall.
My hands are shaking. My eyes are burning. I press the heels of my palms against them and take a breath that comes out way too shaky.
This is fine. I’m fine. It’s just a job. It’s just some comments. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.
Except this was supposed to be my fresh start. My new beginning. And I’m hiding in a closet trying not to cry. It’s not like I think they’re dangerous. They’re just… immature. But immature adds up. And it makes it impossible to be taken seriously.
My phone buzzes. It’s Tori, almost like she has a sixth sense.
Tori:How was session 2?
I stare at the screen for a long moment. Then my fingers start moving over the keys.
Me:Not great. I can’t do my job if they’re all staring at my ass, Tor.
Tori:That bad?
Me:Worse. Way more players showed up than signed up. They’re not here to stretch. They’re here to watch me. Like I’m the entertainment.
Tori:Shit. I’m sorry.
Me:There’s this ass named Grayson. He sat in the front row. Three feet away from me. Made comments the whole time.
Tori:I’m going to kill him.
Me:Get in line.
I lean my head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. A rack of resistance bands hangs above me, looking as tangled as I feel.
Tori:What did Dana say?
Me:I haven’t told her.
Tori:Winnie.
Me:I know. But what am I supposed to say? “Hi, the guys think I’m hot and it’s making my job hard”? She’ll think I’m being dramatic. Or worse, she’ll think I can’t handle it.
Tori:You shouldn’t HAVE to handle it.
Me:But I do. That’s the reality. I’m the “hot” yoga instructor and they’re professional athletes with the maturity of middle schoolers. If I complain, I’m the problem. If I don’t complain, nothing changes.
