After my session, I shoved my feet into my sneakers and followed an arrow into the basement, untied laces flapping. I wandered through the bowels of the Ice Chalet until I reached the gym.

It was a rectangular cinder-brick room painted purple with harsh overhead lighting. At least the equipment looked newish, including two Pilates Reformer machines.

Henry was in the stretching area of thick mats in the corner working on his left quad. I kicked off my shoes and plopped down, spreading my legs into a wide side split. Leaning forward on my elbows, I scrolled Instagram.

I swear I could feel the weight of Henry’s disapproval, and sure enough, when I glanced up, he was staring at me. His brown eyes were intense. His lashes were really thick, and he had this way of glaring while otherwise seeming impassive, his face like a mask of placid tension.

I gave him a cheery smile because it would probably annoy him. Which I admit was immature, but if I was going to be stuck with him all season, I was compelled to push Henry’s buttons. It would be boring as hell otherwise.

Ignoring me, he shifted into a single-leg hamstring stretch, leaning low over his knee. Grimacing, he grunted, his hair flopping over, his hands gripping his flexed foot.

“Don’t pull so hard. Just let the stretch happen.”

“We’re not all naturally flexible.” His tone was stony.

I think if he did one of those aura photographs, his would be solid gray. I’d done it at a disastrous new-age yoga retreat in Mexico one summer, and my aura was a mix of red, orange, and purple. Joyful, creative, relaxed.

My ex, who was the one into crystals, boring-ass meditation, and endless yoga classes, had come up almost all white for spiritual. We still followed each other on Insta, and last I saw, he was living his best ommmm life in Thailand.

“I guess I’m hashtag-blessed.” I smiled again. I was naturally flexible, so I supposed I was lucky. I hadn’t thought much about it. “By the way, thanks for agreeing to me training here this season.”

He opened and closed his mouth, his lips a full reddish pink. Usual blank mask in place, he switched legs and lowered his head to his knee. This near, I could see a nerve in his jaw jump where he was clenching. I seemed to make him furious with my presence alone.

It was stupidly immature, but I wanted to poke him and get a reaction. Break through that mask and get him pissed off. Henry had clearly hated me for years, and it did bother me a bit—my inner kid wondering: Why don’t you like me?

I was friendly with everyone, but I didn’t really have close friends. My mom had made it hard getting to know other kids when I was growing up. I wasn’t allowed to go to anyone else’s house in case I ate junk food, and she’d homeschooled me once I won the novice US championship.