“Three games--three games in a fucking row.” Elsa hadn’t lost three consecutive hockey games since middle school. Elsa played on state and national championship teams that almost never lost, she never had to deal with this shit. “A small skid is normal,” she told herself. “This happens. This is the pros. It’s not the comfy little college team you’ve been on for the last four years. The pros work differently.” Elsa tried all of her normal calming techniques: candles, yoga, reading, running, eating... none of it worked. So instead, she found herself all the way across town on a Saturday morning, reviving a part of her cross-training workout from college.
The gym was bright and sunny, smelling of lemon pledge and lavender, rather than sweat and rubber like every other gym she’d ever worked out in. It was a feat that was certainly not lost on her-- “Can I hire these people to clean my apartment?” The main room consisted of 20-something powerlifters and zumba-ers in colorful tops and leggings, going about their regular workouts, smiling and happy and carefree. And then there was brooding Elsa, standing in the corner in a sports bra and running shorts with a punching bag, angrily going to town with one of the kickboxing workouts her trainers taught the team in college. Frustrated beyond belief and realizing she was more than a little rusty, she became increasingly distracted by a pair of eyes watching her from 10 feet away. Trying to ignore it, she continued punching, pretending the bag was the person who had decided to make her their only focus at a gym with 200 other people. Soon, it all became too much, and she couldn’t help but turn and stare back, irritated. “Can I help you with something?”
@sethcasillas
