Page 22 of Beautifully Devoted

“This next exercise is a modified deadlift that will hit the glutes instead of the quads,” I begin when he gives me the signal. “Step onto the ball, legs spread for balance, and a slight bend in the knee. Hold your core tight as you bend forward and squeeze those glutes as you rise back to standing.” I demonstrate as I talk. “But don’t just bend over, push that ass out behind you to keep your center of gravity stable on the Bosu or your weight will pitch forward. Really show that thing off like you’re twerking in a music video, or you want someone to give it a nice, firm smack.”

My words register right as I catch sight of Cam’s tight, round ass in my peripheral, and I realize I’m pushing my own butt out like I want someone to take a crack at it. I straighten a little too quickly, throwing off my balance.

“And that’s what happens when you don’t keep your core tight,” I ad lib, engaging my abs to keep from wobbling off the Bosu. “Take it slow and controlled and add weights to hit the arms when you’re ready. That’ll help you hit all the major muscle groups with this one exercise. See you next time.”

Cam stops the recording with an amused grin when I sign off. “Twerking? A nice, firm smack?”

“You got a better way to help viewers understand the posture they need to get the most benefit out of those exercises?”

I swear his dark gaze falls below the waist, but it’s back on my eyes so fast I almost wonder if I imagined it.

“No, twerking is the perfect mental image. Your next video should be of you twerking on the Bosu. You know, to demonstrate balance.” His smile is downright wicked.

“I’m teaching people how to exercise, not get a job as Magic Mike.”

“If football doesn’t pan out, dancing could be a good backup,” he continues without missing a beat, chocolate eyes twinkling with mirth as he pockets his phone and folds up the tripod. “You’ve got the ass for it.”

This time I know he sneaks a peek. “Were you checking out my ass?”

“I had a camera pointed at it, so…just saying you’d make some good money shaking it.”

“Dick.” I shove him in the arm.

“You’d probably make money off that too.” He dodges me before I can shove him again, running toward the bags we dropped against the wall so he can put the filming equipment away.

“What do you want to work on today?” I ask when he’s ready to work out.

“Isn’t it chest and back today?”

I’m not sure what it is, but I’ll take anything over legs. Something tells me I wouldn’t have the concentration for that. “Sounds good.”

We head to the bench press and load the bar, and I lie down while Cam stands over me to spot my reps. I always go first so Cam gets a reminder of good form—he has a bad habit of lifting his hips so he isn’t isolating his chest when he lifts—although watching me never seems to curb that pattern.

As expected, when it’s his turn, I step to the side of the bench to rest my palm on his hip bone, a subtle reminder not to move it. It has the desired effect in the sense he stills beneath my hand, but something else happens too. Something I’ve never realized before.

I can feel the slight flex of his abs underneath my fingers as they coil with the effort of holding still. Motionless. Even though it’s understated, it’s powerful, hinting at the strength beneath the surface. And if I look closely, I can see the faint movement. The delicate ripple that travels along the skin poking between the hem of his shirt and his waistband.

It’s kind of mesmerizing to watch.

One of the reasons I decided to go into athletic training is because I like the look of muscle. I appreciate the subtle curve of skin pulled taut over the bulges you earn by lifting weights, and I wanted to learn how to hone my body to achieve that look. Not the giant, bulky frame of weightlifters—I’m a wide receiver so I need speed—but the lean, cut physique that allows me to be both nimble and quick.

Given my major, I’ve got a better idea than most of how hard it is to mold your body to your ideal image. From time to time, I’ll see someone in great shape and feel admiration for them. I know the work they must put into themselves, and I can appreciate that about people. But I can’t recall ever being mesmerized by seeing or feeling muscles move. Yet, I’m so enthralled, Cam has to shout at me to help him rack the bar when he’s done with his set.

“What the hell, man?” he asks.

“Abs.” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry, I was thinking of ab exercises.” It’s close enough to the truth.

I force myself to focus after that, and as the weight room fills and the metallic clank of weights echoes around us, my thoughts never stray from the task at hand. Until Cam gets a text as we’re toweling off, and I see Aiden on the screen.

My reaction is visceral.

A restless energy simmers underneath my skin, making my exhausted muscles feel stiff from the effort of trying to hide my agitation. I actually feel the scowl overtake my face; jaw hardening, eyes narrowing, lips pursing, and I’m helpless to stop it. Helpless to keep my mind from ranting about the wrongness of Cameron laughing and having a good time with a guy that isn’t me. Without me.

Cam texts back, a thoughtful look on his slightly flushed face, and I force my knees into a crouch so I can pretend to root around in my gym bag and avoid looking at him. When he drops his phone in his bag I rise and force myself to speak as evenly as possible, “Ready to head back?”

“Do you mind stopping by the engineering building on the way? Aiden said he’d show me the lab he works in.”

“Since when are you interested in computer labs?” I swing my bag over my shoulder and head for the exit, Cam trotting to keep up.

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