Resisting Roots (Lotus House Book 1)

E
verything
in the Lotus House series has been gleaned from years of personal practice and the study of yoga. The yoga positions and chakra teachings were part of my official schooling with The Art of Yoga through Village Yoga Center in Northern California. Every chakra fact and position description has been personally written by me and comes from my perspective as a Registered Yoga Teacher, following the guidelines as set forth by the National Yoga Alliance and the Art of Yoga.

If you want to attempt any of the positions within this book or detailed in any of the Lotus House novels, please consult a Registered Yoga Teacher.

I suggest everyone take a yoga class. Through my yoga schooling and teaching the gift of yoga to my students, I have learned that yoga is for everybody and every body. Be kind to yours, for you only get one in this lifetime.

L
ove and light
,

A
udrey

“
W
ake up
, you sorry piece of shit!”

A growling sound accompanied by a searing pain in my leg had me blinking against the too-bright light. My mouth felt like dust bunnies had crawled into it and grown roots. Smacking my chops, I blinked a few times and gripped the top of my good leg for leverage. A knot that had wormed its way into my neck protested as I rose to a seated position.

“Ross?” I shook my head and looked at the gray-haired ticking time bomb who was my agent. His large form blocked some of the light streaming through from the windows behind him—windows I had closed tight in fear of this very moment when I’d have to open them, wake to another day of pain, therapy, and more goddamned therapy. “What are you doing here?” I asked around the furry friends in my mouth. Reaching for the first thing I could wrap my fingers around, I tipped the bottle of orange Gatorade back and almost spit the offending liquid across the room the second the rancid flavor hit my tongue. I regarded the inside of the bottle and gagged. The sight of the black flecks floating around made the previous night’s booze overload swirl and churn unpleasantly in my gut.

Food. That’s what I needed. Load up on some greasy shit to absorb the night’s activities. Patting the table, I searched for the stack of takeout menus.

Ross slapped my hand away along with everything on the coffee table, including the orange drink that, apparently, I’d been using last night to flick my cigar ash in. Would have been good to remember that
before
I’d I chugged back a huge swallow.

“So this is what it’s come to? Six weeks of recuperation, and what do you have to show for it?” He slapped his thighs as he looked around. “You’re living in filth. Drinking? Smoking?”

“Only cigars, Ross.”

He took his cap off, smoothed back his hair, and put it back on. Not a good sign. He was beyond frustrated and about to blow his lid. After five years on the Oakland Ports, I knew when my agent was going to lose his shit.

“Fox, you’re the best hitter on the team. Hell, you rank in the top three hitters in the American
and
the National Leagues. So you got hurt. Big frickin’ deal! Get over yourself, and get your head back in the game.” Ross paced the room.

I sat up straighter. Sitting up was a bad idea. The pounding in my head matched the sound of a bat cracking in half upon contact with the ball. I gripped my temples and squeezed, my hammy aching as I readjusted my leg to rest on top of the table.

“Have you even been to therapy?”

Snide son of a bitch. I gritted my teeth and clenched my hands into fists. “Of course I have, Ross. Three times a week. Three other days, I hit the gym and lift weights with Clay.”

He widened his eyes. “Are you supposed to be lifting?”

Shrugging, I peered out the window. “I’m also using the treadmill.” Even I could hear the childlike, defensive tone as I spoke. Ross could bring me right back to the time when I was a lowly rookie again itching for the big time.

He scoffed, “And what about the strengthening, flexibility, stretching? Who are you working with on that? The last report I got from your sports doc recommended you take a daily yoga class.” He sat down in the chair across from where I’d made a bed on the couch.

Once again, Ross took off his cap. This time, he held it loosely by the brim between his knees. Once he relaxed, I took a load off, allowing the tension to seep out my pores. Not even my own father had the power to control my emotions like Ross did. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he’d served in the military. The way he got all of his athletes in line proved how much he cared. Agents didn’t have to make house calls to check in on their clients, but hidden beneath the rough and tumble act was a bit of a softie. Only I hadn’t been in line with my team in over six weeks—since the day it had all gone to hell in a handbasket.

T
he crowd roared
. Standing next to home plate, waiting for the pitch was nothing short of a religious experience. Every. Damn. Time. My spine tingled and the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention as if God himself stood over my shoulder, waiting for the play. The pitcher pulled back his arm, and everything went dead silent. The crowd, the announcer, my team, everything stopped. It was me and the ball. I swore I could see the pitcher’s fingers tighten around the ball, knuckles turning white…and then it would rush forward like a high-speed train. The ball rocketed through the air, subtly swaying in its path as it arched slightly before its descent.
Right down the middle. I didn’t see that coming. Usually a pitcher avoided the middle with me at all cost. With good reason. It was my sweet spot.

I pulled back both my arms, and a tiny pinch at my shoulder blades told me I was in perfect position. As the ball came closer, its path edged toward the strike zone. With my feet planted, I twisted my entire upper half, used every ounce of strength I possessed, and smashed that ball with my bat. The crack as the ball met solid oak echoed around me. Instantly, the ball changed direction and flew into the air. For half a second, I watched that ball fly, pride filling my pores with power and energy. Then I let the bat fall, twisted my leg, and jolted into a run.

All hell broke loose. Pain seared through my hamstring like a hot knife through butter. I clutched at the ravaged limb, a few steps into running toward first base, and I went down, down, down. Crashing onto the red clay below, my uniform streaked with dirt as if I were a warrior downed in battle.

The only silver lining was that I’d hit a home run. Even though my hammy had snapped like a broken rubber band, that single hit allowed the guys on second and third to run home, and the San Francisco Stingers went home the losers. I left in an ambulance and ended up in surgery for a torn hamstring.

“
S
nap out of it
, kid!” Ross gripped my shoulder and shook me hard. He stood and rummaged through all the pill and liquor bottles on the side table next to the couch. “This is what you’re doing with your time.” His mouth was twisted into a disgusted frown. “Surprised there isn’t a groupie here warming your bed right now.”

While seated, effectively preventing the couch from levitating, I thought back to last night. Huh? Where was that chick anyway? Tiffany, Kristy, Stephanie… What was her name? She’d ridden my cock for a while, but then I blacked out right in the middle. I snorted. Maybe she left when I wasn’t able to get her off. Usually, I prided myself on being a generous lover, but I could barely string together enough words to make a sentence last night, let alone make a groupie sing my praises.

Ross spun around, groaned, raked his fingers through his hair, and put the cap back on. “Christ. Pills, liquor, women? What else?”

“Look, I don’t owe you any explanations. I’m on medical leave—”

“The hell you don’t!” He came over to me fast, much faster than a man with two blown out knees and a heart condition should have been able to, and pushed his finger into my chest. “You’ve got two choices. Get your shit together, or lose your contract. Don’t you realize you’re up for renewal? You may not have blown through that thirty mil in the last three years, but you’re risking your five-year contract. The numbers are staggering, kid. With the way you’ve been hitting, you’re looking at an offer for upwards of a hundred mil for five years. All that”—his eyes blazed—“gone!” He snapped his fingers. “In the blink of an eye.”

I closed my eyes and swallowed. My agent hadn’t put the prospective numbers into any real terms. We’d been hoping for the same deal of at least thirty million for three more years. If what Ross said was true, I was worth twenty million a year.

“Jesus,” I whispered, my heart pumping hard. My mouth went dry as the foothills during a California drought.

Ross set his hands on the back of the chair, hunched his shoulders over, and shook his head. “You have to get back into the game. The team needs you. They’ve already lost the playoffs and the pennant this year. Coach wants you there for spring training. That means you’ve got until the third week of February to recuperate and show the suits what you’re made of. You need to be ready to train in three months.”

His tone held a hint of uncertainty. “Are you telling me if I can’t play at full capacity by spring training, I could get cut from the team?”

Ross ran his hand under his chin a few times. I could almost hear the sound of his palm grating along the scruff there. “I don’t know. Depends on how well you heal up. In the meantime, what’s the plan?”

With the potential loss of my contract on the table, including losing more money than I’d spend in my lifetime, I exhaled long and slow until all the air was gone and only a burning sensation remained. “I’ll lay off the booze and late nights.”

“And do the therapy and yoga?” He tipped his head to the side.

I shook my head and wrung my hands, loosening the tension. What I needed right now was my boxing bag. “Yoga? Really? Look, I can’t touch my toes to save my life, and all that bending and twisting sounds downright boring. Nuh-uh, I’ll leave the granola crunching to the vegans I date and figure something out.”

Ross was next to me in a flash. He whacked me upside the head just like my old man used to. My old man did it in jest. Ross meant to rattle my brain. Irritation filled me, burning white-hot. I ground my teeth and held onto my anger by a thread. If I struck him, I’d sever a tie. He could be an asshole, but he meant well and cared about me. Kind of. Okay, probably. Either that, or he liked the fat wad of cash he scored for representing one of the best players in Major League Baseball.

“Don’t be a blowhard, kid. You go to that class, or I swear on all things holy I will drag you there like a sack of potatoes and throw you at the feet of those Gumby tree huggers, pour honey all over you, and let the Stingers do their worst!”

Damn. He was referring to the San Francisco Stingers. The rival’s coach had already made several house calls, trying to get my attention. They were after my hide because, even if I wasn’t at my best right now, I would heal. A typical hamstring tear healed six weeks after surgery, followed by another couple months of physical therapy and rehab. I’d been blowing off a lot of my therapy and not doing the extra work, thinking I could heal it with walking, weights, and the treadmill. Unfortunately, all that had done was land me in the hot tub working out the kinks.

“Fine, I’ll go.”

“When?”

Taking a breath, I looked around my place. A sour, funky odor emanated from a spot in the corner. A greasy pizza box sat there, surrounded by other various food cartons. I couldn’t even remember when I’d last had pizza. Maybe a few days ago? When was the cleaning lady due, anyway? I shook my head and rubbed my chin. Ross waited for me, hands on hips.

“Tomorrow!” I waved a hand in the air. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

“You promise?” He took a few steps toward the door.

“I’m a man of my word.”

“Yeah, you always were.” His shoulders slumped, and he looked down. “Prove it.” He slammed the door hard enough that the Big Gulp cup perched precariously close to the edge on a nearby table toppled over in a deluge of cherry-colored liquid.

I closed my eyes and rubbed my aching forehead. “What next?”

“
N
ot happening
, Row. I said no, and I meant it.” My voice had taken on a scary timbre that eerily reminded me of Mom. If she were here, she’d know what to do.

Rowan backed up, crossed his arms over his widening chest, and gave me the stink eye. “Seriously? I’m sixteen, not five.” He glanced at our baby sister, Mary, who was happily munching on her Cheerios.

Sighing, I slapped peanut butter on two pieces of bread. “I’m sorry. I don’t know these kids, and besides, I need you Friday night to take Mary to dance class and pick her up. I have two clients coming over for a color and cut.”

Rowan’s voice rose almost to a yell. “You always have clients coming over. Every flippin’ weekend!”

The butter knife clanged as I slammed it on the kitchen counter. “Yeah, and how do you think I came up with the money for your baseball uniform? You think money grows on trees? Because if it did, don’t think I wouldn’t be planting an orchard full of them in the backyard!” I winced. Now that definitely sounded like Mom. “The uniform alone took me two months to save up for!”

Rowan curved his shoulders in and down as he let out a long breath. He shook his head. “Fine! I’ll just be the laughingstock of all the juniors!”

He pushed at the chair defiantly and grabbed the sack lunch I’d made him. I cuffed his wrist and waited until he lifted his gaze to mine.