Page 32 of Playing Hard to Hate
It was brutally hot this morning. News reporters mentioned something about a heat wave, which was not common for Atlanta.
“You were grinning ear to fucking ear when you brought her over to the bar, and she was so drunk she didn’t even recognize us.” Hunter laughed.
“Fucking loser she was with tried pressuring her into sex when she was trying to leave.”
“The ass who wanted all our autographs?” Graham questioned.
“Yup, I took her home and slept over.”
“Slept over? You didn’t have sex with her, did you?” Hunter waggled his brows, knowing I’d had a hard-on for that girl for far too long.
“Finally get her out of your system?” Graham followed with.
“Fuck you. She’s a friend…nothing more. Both of you are being fucking ridiculous. She was drunk. I wouldn’t do that to anyone. Now drop it.”
“Look, Griffin, you can go lie to some idiot who doesn’t know you, but we both know the truth. You may be able to blind side her with your bullshit, but we’re your boys.”
I rolled my eyes. I hated them.
“Oh no, he’s pitching in her honor. This strikeout is for you, Tatum!” Graham pretended to swoon, fanning himself.
“Better not blow it. Imagine you make us lose the whole fucking championship.”
“Don’t fuck this up,” Graham demanded.
Pointing at them, I glared. “Keep talking, and I’m sending fastballs right at your ribs during batting practice.”
“Oh, he thinks he’s pitching again. Take a look at this guy. Talk about a big ego.” Hunter laughed, doubling over.
“Better watch out. Next, he’ll be too cool to sit with us,” Graham said to his twin.
“You’re both fucking idiots,” I mumbled under my breath. “We’ll see who has the last laugh.”
The next day,most of the workout machines needed servicing at my penthouse, so I decided to go to the gym in my hometown,thinking it would be much quieter than the one in my building and all the local ones here.
I figured a quick 45-minute session before dinner with my parents would help blow off some of the steam from yesterday’s practice and the whole kiss scenario with Tatum.
The hour-long drive back to Newsom Creek was annoying, but surprisingly, the time went by quickly after my mother called. She’d heard some rumors about Tate and me and wanted to know the truth.
I didn’t know how to tell her that the little girl she used to love was now a total ice queen who hated my guts, so instead I brushed her off, making up excuses as to why I wasn’t bringing her home for dinner tonight.
I wasn’t expecting to walk into the small 3000-square-foot-at-most gym to see Tate there, mid-squat with a kettlebell in her hands. Every single male in the room was staring. I think one guy was recording her, but he slid his phone into his pocket really fast when he caught my eye.
I headed over to where she had set her things in the corner and dropped my duffel bag to the ground. She had a pair of headphones on, her dark hair swept up into a messy bun, and just her eyes rimmed black instead of her usual makeup routine. I saw her phone set up in the corner on a tripod aimed directly at her and wondered what the hell she was doing.
She pretended I wasn’t there until she started her set of squats. “Don’t you have your own fancy gym?” she asked in between heavy breaths. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and I did my best not to ogle her body in the tight spandex shorts and black sports bra. She didn’t wear much to work out in, that was for sure. Probably why she didn’t have a problem wearing that strappy bikini.
“Machines are being serviced, and since I need everything tobe perfect,” I started, stretching as she picked up her kettlebell again and did another set of squats.
“You always wear so few clothes?” I asked when she stopped, sat on a small bench, and took her headphones off to analyze me.
“You are always so nosy? I mean seriously, why? First the photoshoot is a problem, and next you have a problem with my gym clothes? It’s my job. It didn’t seem like such a problem when you got your kiss the other night.” She rolled her eyes and crossed the room, putting the kettlebell back with the others. On her way back, she smiled and waved at another girl and then adjusted her phone to point at the bench she’d been sitting on. She grabbed a twenty-pound dumbbell and raised her one leg onto the bench to do Bulgarian squats. I fucking hated those.
She switched legs after eight reps, dropped the dumbbell, and headed straight for her phone, where she appeared to watchthe video she’d just taken.
“Why do you record yourself? Who’s the video for?” I asked nervously, grabbing a set of dumbbells to do bicep curls in the mirror. I watched my reflection as I alternated arms, doing a light warm-up before switching to a heavier set.
“It’s my job,” she said, watching me, her eyes narrowing on my biceps filling the sleeves of my hoodie.
