Page 16 of Your Secret to Keep

“Piece of cake,” Brooks brags, clearly in my direction.

Brooks starts with his strong side, the knee that wasn’t surgically repaired, and he gets stuck trying to tap in and out of a rope shaped like an oval on the court. When he puts the other leg on the court, he smiles at the camera and goes back to the beginning.

“This is tougher than the ones we’ve done before, Brooks. Plus, you might be tired from the game last night. Try it again.” The coach claps hisshoulder and encourages him to keep going. My heart hangs in the space in my chest, wondering if this embarrasses him. Should I keep filming? I mean, even if it’s filmed, we don’t have to use it. I guess that’s the whole reason we’re doing this—it’s all about the ups and downs.

Brooks gets hung up at the same spot, but getting farther around the circle before falling back and putting both feet on the court. He takes a short walk, hands on his head, but the smile doesn’t leave his face.

I take a chance and decide to jump in. “I don’t want whatever cake you were talking about.” I pull the camera down so he can see my teasing smirk.

Brooks lets out a laugh, his strong shoulders moving, “It’s harder than it looks.”

“Okay, Mister ‘Piece of cake.’” I roll my eyes and turn them back to the screen, still recording.

“If it looks so easy, why don’t you try?” Brooks walks forward, his hands now resting on his hips, the sweat on his chest dampening his lilac Jags practice shirt.

I look at the coach to see if this is against the rules. I’m not sure I signed a physical waiver when it came to my Jags paperwork, but who cares.

“Can you record this for me? Want to make sure we document how the new hire outworks the professional athlete.” I offer a friendly wink before handing the point and shoot camera to a staff member.

I do a few quick stretches as I stand at the start of the drill, envisioning the path I’ll take to reach the end. “Ready to see how it’s done?” I call playfully.

Brooks laughs and tilts his chin to the ceiling as some of his teammates look over from their own practice circuit.

I look for the red light on the camera, making sure we’re recording. There are two ways this could go, and both are great content opportunities. The first is I don’t get through the drill, and Brooks gloats andlaughs with the staff and maybe some of the guys. The second, and what I think will happen, is I get through the entire drill and we get to watch Brooks’ reaction on camera.

“Whatever you say, Lia.” He rests his arms on his knees, bending down a little like he’s trying to get a better look.

Fuck, he can look at me like that any time.

I take a deep breath and start the drill. My core is strong and holds me up, thanks to the hours of yoga and standing behind the bar, while I move through the rope and lines on the court. I’m light on my feet and thankful for the shoes I picked out today—comfortable but cute sneakers.

When I hit the point at which Brooks struggled, I can feel his eyes on me. I thought he’d try to psych me out or startle me with cheering, but he keeps quiet as I pass the part he got stuck on.

The rest of the shapes and tapping in and outside of the tape on one leg fly by, and at least I got further than Brooks. It’s only by a few seconds and I tap onto the court. Before I can say a single thing, the specialists start clapping and cheering for me. I know they’re embellishing because of the camera, but it’s going to be absolutely perfect footage.

“She schooled you on the first try!” one of them cheers while Brooks walks to me, clapping his hands slowly.

Guys offer me high fives, which I take, and a sense of belonging is right within my grasp. I’m not just going to be the media girl; I’m turning intoLia. This is the sort of feeling which warms you from inside your chest to the top of your skin.

Brooks is the last one to offer a high five and he steps in closer than anyone else. “Impressive. I wonder if I should start doing yoga?” He pulls one lip into a lop-sided grin, and fuck, it could end me. That grin should be a crime.

I wonder if he practices that smirk. It’s like what we’ve all read about in romance books or watched Disney princes and princesses do our whole lives. Brooks Pittman has it down—and I meanallthe way down.

“You should.” The roof of my mouth is like sandpaper.

“Only if you’re teaching me.” Brooks drags out the ‘you’ from the middle of the sentence.

“Iama yoga teacher. That could be arranged.” I realize I’m only a few inches away from him, the space full of sparklers and zips of energy. “Think you can handle it?” I tease, pushing a finger into his chest and feeling his muscles.

Brooks leans closer until it’s only our shared breath separating us. This is too close for colleagues, but I can’t move. I try to say something but when I open my mouth, there’s nothing. He breathes out and his eyes jump from mine to my mouth and back again.

I’m the one who can’t handle it. He’s leaning in and I’m hopeful that if there is a god of knees, they’re looking down on me, willing my wobbly excuses to keep myself standing.

The squeak of basketball shoes on the court yanks us back to the present and each of us take a step back, putting more room between us.

I look around. Did anyone see that tiny moment? Am I going to get in trouble before I even get to do anything? Relief washes over me when I notice everyone doing their own thing, including the person with the camera, which hangs around his neck.

Close call. And from what I can tell, I fear that won’t be the only one.

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