Page 52 of Beautifully Conflicted

Bennet purses his lips and shakes his head. “Yeah, I guess I’d rather help you back than get an earful from Coach.”

“That’s not why you’d help me.” I lift a nonchalant shoulder as we follow a curve in the trail, jogging over snow that’s more brown than white now that a few dozen of our teammates have trampled through it.

“If you think I’d do it because you helped me, you’d be mistaken. I don’t feel any obligation toward you.”

“Sure, let’s go with that, but you do have a soft spot for me. And that’s the real reason why you’d never take off if I was struggling.”

“Okay, A, I’m not struggling, I’m just regaining my stamina. And B, you’re confusing soft spot with tolerance.”

The splotchy pink patches of his cheeks that are almost chalky compared to his normally olive complexion say otherwise, but I don’t point that out. Not directly.

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Bennet barks curtly.

“For you, toleranceisa soft spot. At least when it comes to me.”

He opens his mouth, I presume to object, but snaps it shut just as quickly. I bite back a smirk and singsong, “Told ya.”

“I’m not agreeing with you, I’m just don’t want to waste my energy arguing.”

“If you say so. Just so you know, I’m consideringthis a win.”

“You can’t win at something I’m not playing.” His brows draw together, the breath coming out of his mouth white as we go up a short incline.

“Pretty sure I just did.”

“Pretty sureyou’re just making shit up as you go.”

“I have been known to do that, but not this time. You forfeited, so I win.”

“I didn’t forfeit, I said this was a stupid waste of energy.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” I shrug again.

“Why is that your answer for everything?”

“It’s only my answer when you’re too stubborn to admit I have a point.”

“I’m not afraid to admit when you’re right.”

Normally, I’d push back on that, but I’m growing. I have so many examples I could throw at him, most involving how hisstraightdick keeps making its way into my body, but I’m trying to be mindful of his triggers.

I throw my hands up in a weak surrender.

“I’m serious,” he insists.

“I said okay.”

“Yeah, but you’re just saying that. You don’t believe it.”

“I believeyoubelieve it.”

“I do,” he huffs, his breathing still a little stilted compared to how it is when he’s healthy. “You told me about my tell on the field and you were right. I can acknowledge that.”

“That’s a start, I guess.”

“What do you mean a start?” There’s a bite to his tone that suggests he disagrees.

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