Page 32 of Raise Hell

“I’m in the right place,” I assure him.

He looks uneasy, but seems to realize he doesn’t have a good reason to kick me out of class. It isn’t as if the course description says Men Only, even if that appears to be the general assumption.

“Okay, most of you already know the drill. I need each of you to complete your highest weight bench press so we can track your progress over the semester and correct any problems in your form.

Perfect.

I stride forward as if I’m not the slightest bit intimidated. “I’ll go first.”

Coach Cameron seems more than a little surprised at my eagerness, but doesn’t comment on it. “Good, okay. I need someone else to come up here and spot.”

Crickets would be an appropriate description of the response to his request. I don’t need to look to see the sea of stony faces behind me. None of them are going to volunteer if it means helping me.

Coach Cameron just shrugs and points at someone. I can’t see who it is without turning to look, which I absolutely refuse to do. “Come spot, Van Koch.”

Of course, he chooses Drake.

Karma and fate have been conspiring since I first stepped on campus to make all this as difficult as possible. It’s my own fault for picking overlapping classes with him, but that doesn’t mean I deserve to have a weight set dropped on my head.

When the coach glances down at his clipboard, Drake shoves past me with a shoulder check that would have sent me to the floor if I hadn’t been ready for it.

I’m used to people throwing their weight around as an intimidation tactic. He’s going to need to do better than that.

I load up the weight on the bar, ignoring the derisive noises of the guys around me. They can treat me like a leper all they want to, but the coddled boys of St. Bart’s College don’t have any idea who they’re dealing with. I’m not the trust fund baby who spends more money on her hair and nails than the average family of four does on food for the month. I’ve slept on benches at the bus station and fended off homeless men in the middle of the night with nothing but a boxcutter and a bad attitude.

I might play the part of the pampered princess, but that isn’t who I am.

When Drake steps up behind me, his murmur is only loud enough for me to hear. “Better not go too heavy on the weight. My fingers might slip, and I’d hate to see the bar crush that fragile little neck.”

Laying back on the bench while he stands over me is uncomfortable in the extreme. My gaze fills with hateful green eyes and the heavy bulge in his workout shorts hanging just above my forehead. “I know you’re used to having a guy’s mouth within inches of your dick while you spot, but try to contain your disappointment. This’ll only take a minute.”

Fury narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t reply as Coach Cameron moves up next to us.

The truth is that I’m having trouble tearing my gaze away from Drake’s crotch, even though I tell myself it’s only because his junk literally fills my vision. This close up, I can smell the masculine tang of sweat on his skin with a hint of whatever cologne he probably sprays directly on his dick every morning.

Got to do something special for whatever girl is dumb enough to blow him that day.

I’ve heard enough about what goes on at Havoc House to know there are always girls desperate to get inside. Drake probably hasn’t slept alone since he was a freshman.

That thought shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.

Coach Cameron expectantly holds up his clipboard. “I just need ten reps. You can start whenever you’re ready.”

The point of a spotter is to keep their hands under the bar, holding it lightly enough that the lifter is still doing all the work but the spotter can catch it quickly if the lifter’s strength suddenly fails.

Drake doesn’t bother to even pretend to be a good spot. His hands stay several inches below the bar, so it will get perilously close to my neck and chest if I drop it.

It’s a dick move that also works in my favor.

The boys are still laughing when I complete the first rep, but the laughter abruptly ceases when I do the second. By the fifth, the room is so silent that all I can hear is my deep breathing as I push.

“You have got be kidding me.”

“Holy shit!”

“Someone check the weight — that can’t be right.”

When I finish the final rep, Coach Cameron tucks his clipboard under his arm to loudly clap. More than a few of the guys join him, although all the Havoc Boys keep their hands at their sides.

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