Page 17 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I step into the center of the room, bare feet gripping the mat. “You wish.”
She’s wearing fitted joggers and a cropped Storm tee, which should make her look casual but just makes her seem even more lovely.
The shirt rides up at the edge and I see the deep bracket of her abs, tight as a goalie’s glove.
She sets the board in front of me, points with the pen. “Start there. One minute, eyes closed. If you wobble, you start over.”
I plant my heel dead center, test the give. “That all?”
“For now.”
I let my body tip forward, arms slicing out to balance.
I can feel her gaze tracking my every twitch, like she’s waiting for me to screw up.
The first thirty seconds is nothing.
The last thirty is all in the calves, and my left one still trembles from that hit I took last month.
But I hold.
Eyes closed, I let the rest of my senses map the room: the lemon in the wipes, the vanilla ghost from the massage lotion, the tap-tap-tap of her pen. My body wants to break, but I don’t give it permission.
When the minute is up, I open my eyes.
She’s moved closer, almost within reach.
Her pen hovers, ready to score me down for any weakness.
I step off smooth, nod at her. “Next?”
She points to the plyo mat. “Single-leg hops, side-to-side, twenty reps per leg. Show me you can land without rolling out.”
I do.
My knee tracks straight, my arms pumping in rhythm.
The board behind me clatters, but I keep my focus.
At ten reps, she steps right up to the edge of the mat, crouched low, eyes at shin-level, watching for a buckle or a cheat. I finish without a hitch.
She looks up, straight into my face. “You’re not bad.”
I flex my hands, try not to show the smile that wants to break through. “I’m the best.”
She stands, closes the gap, so close I have to tilt my head down to keep eye contact. “Let’s see the shoulder.”
That’s the tell—she’s been building to this the whole time.
She wants to see if I trust her, or if I’ll bail.
I could walk, but I don’t.
I turn so my left side is facing her, strip the shirt off, and let her see the full map of scars and tape residue.
The room is cold on my skin, and the old injury flares with embarrassment as much as pain.
She doesn’t wince or joke.
