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“Mm-hmm. Want a fry?” She offers our shared carton of fries to the grandkids, who both help themselves. “You know they’re good when they’re tasty even after they’ve cooled off. But anyway, yes, angry yoga. It’s yoga that makes space for complex, often negatively connotated emotions, with the goal of using mindful movement to process them constructively with an ultimate goal of healing.”
“Cool,” the other grandkid says.
Ziggy smiles. “I’m doing it to tap into my anger and let myself feel the tough emotions I tell myself I shouldn’t. Seb’s going because he’s realized he needs a healthier conduit for all his existential angst.” She slaps a hand on my thigh, and I barely hide a glare. She’s taking this a bit too far.
“Well.” Mr. Köhler folds his arms across his chest, staring me down. “I’m very glad to hear this. That sounds…”
“Almost unbelievably healthy of me?” I offer.
Mr. Köhler chuckles, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “I hope it’s a change that sticks. Take care, Gauthier. And, Ziggy, say hi to my favorite player.”
“Will do!” She waves and smiles as they start to turn toward the diner.
As soon as the door of the diner shuts behind them, I round on her. “Angry yoga?”
She flashes a smile my way. “Look at me, thinking on my feet! Being conversational! I was amazing.”
I roll my eyes. “Angry yoga, Sigrid. Of all the things.”
“What? It’ll be fun.” She opens up her phone and shows me an Instagram account with videos featuring lots of people who look like me—pissed, tattooed, flicking off some unseen higher power. “There’s a studio nearby that offers classes, and I’ve wanted to try it for ages, but I never felt like I’d fit in. Now, with you, I totally will. I gotta reserve us a spot ASAP so we have evidence to corroborate what I just said.”
“You mean the lie you just told?”
She hushes me, slapping my thigh gently. “It’s not a lie, it’s just—”
“Not a truth yet, I know, I know.” Scowling, I reach for the milkshake but realize it’s in Ziggy’s hands, her loud slurp heralding the end of it.
“Ooh, they have a morning class tomorrow,” she says happily.
“Ziggy dear, I can’t just go to a yoga studio tomorrow morning. It’ll be mayhem.”
She rolls her eyes. “Your ego.”
“I’m serious. I can’t just go places. If we do angry yoga, angry yoga has to come to us.”
She frowns. “Really?”
I press my tongue into my cheek, a little annoyed by how unbelievable this seems to her. “You don’t know how people react to me in public? My widely known sexual appeal and erotic exploits? What kind of rock do you live under?”
“The rock where I don’t give a flying fart about your alleged sexual appeal and erotic exploits?”
“Well, time to start giving that flying fart because it’s going to impact you, friend.”
She lets out a frustrated growl. “How are we going to be seen together as ‘friends’ if an alleged mob of horny people are tripping over themselves for you all the time?”
“It’s not everywhere. I mean Betty’s Diner was a safe place to come. Then again, you saw Stevie walk into a table when I smiled at him. Stick this handsome, twenty-seven-year-old pansexual specimen of sensual glory in a yoga studio with a bunch of people in their prime, and what do you think’s going to happen?”
She snorts as she types something on her phone. “To have even a fragment of your ego. Fine. I left a message with the studio, but I doubt I can get an instructor to come to us at such short notice, seeing as it’s eight at night—”
“Mention my name, and you’d have a damn good chance.”
That earns me a flat, annoyed look. “You’re a hot hockey player, Gauthier, not Justin Bieber.”
“First, nice to know you think I’m hot.”
She sighs wearily. “Sebastian.”
“Second, I deeply resent the implication that I am not on par with Justin Bieber.”
