Page 72 of Blindside Me
“You gonna kiss it and make it better? Because if that’s the case, I had one lower on my?—”
“Ha-ha. I told you I was rushed and panicked. I’m a lot better, I promise.”
Drew’s eyes darken as he reaches for the weights again. “On that note, I need to finish this last set.”
“Are you supposed to be working out with the injury?”
“I’m taking it easy on that side.”
“Sure you are.”
“I am.”
I shake my head and lean against the rack. “I’ll just stand here and count your reps. Make sure you don’t cheat.”
“I don’t cheat.”
“Everyone cheats, Drew. Some people just don’t admit it.”
“Not me.” He grits his teeth and starts his set. I count under my breath, making sure he hears me. One … two … three … His biceps flex with each lift, the muscles in his forearms standing out in harsh relief. He’s beautiful when he’s concentrating.
Drew makes it to eight before his form starts to slip. By the count of ten, he’s clearly struggling. I stay silent, watching him push through twelve, thirteen, fourteen?—
“Fifteen,” I say as he finishes. “Wow. You’re really showing that barbell who’s boss. I bet it’s terrified.”
He drops the bar back onto the holder and grabs his towel. “Getting awfully sassy there, Trouble.”
“Isn’t that why you like me?”
“Didn’t say I liked you.” His mouth curves with the lie. He wipes his face and tosses the towel over his shoulder. “You want something?”
I want to call him out, say everything I’m not supposed to say. Instead, I say, “Thought maybe you’d want to apologize. For you know, the part where you ran away like a cartoon ghost after kissing me.”
The smirk freezes. He looks out over the gym, all the way to the closed door that could open any minute and expose us. “I didn’t run.”
“Mmhmm. Sure. Because you’re a big, brave hockey man. My mistake.”
He exhales hard, shoulders rising and falling. “You don’t get it.”
“Try me.”
He pauses before pushing to his feet and grabbing his water bottle. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
I lean in. “Like what?”
“Distracting.”
I let it sit. “So don’t be distracted.”
His knuckles go white around the water bottle. He looks at me, and for a split second, I see straight through him. The fear. The want. The messy, beating heart underneath all that armor. He looks away first.
“You’re not scared of Coach,” I say. My voice is quiet, but it cuts through.
His jaw tightens.
“You’re scared of me.”
He laughs, but there’s nothing funny in it. “You’re a lot of things, Howell, but scary isn’t one of them.”
