Page 124 of Gym Bros
He says, “At this point in my life, this is what I want to do. It’s what I’m good at, and I’m passionate about it.”
“But it’s not like you’re stupid. It’s not like you can’t put your brain and your body to work doing something else.”
He sighs, his expression going grim. “What bothers you about it?”
“Everything,” I tell him.
“Everything like what?”
“Like funky ears and concussions, and what if you lose a tooth?”
“I wear a mouth guard.”
“You’re telling me you can’t lose a tooth with a mouth guard?”
“I’m telling you there are such a thing as dental implants. What? Are you afraid I won’t look good enough for you anymore?”
I glare at him. “I do like how you look, but no—that’s not it.”
“What’s the problem, then?”
The problem isI like him. Despite the fact that he wants to knock other men out for a living, I like the way his brain works, and what if he gets one too many bad concussions, and it stops working how it’s supposed to? And what if one good hit to the head knocks loose whatever part of him is attracted to me? What if he gets amnesia, and he forgets about me? What if he gets hit so hard he winds up in a coma? Or worse?
What if I lose him?
Because I don’t want to. I’m not ready to say for sure what Samuel means to me, but he meanssomething.
But I can’t say that, can I? I can’t say that to someone I’ve been sort of casually fucking for a few weeks even if he is taking me out to a very nice dinner and indulging my moody line ofquestioning while having murderous thoughts about any other man who looks at me.
“I just don’t get it,” I say weakly.
“If it helps, I don’t expect you to. I’m used to people not getting it.”
“Well, what’s that like?” I ask.
He frowns like he needs more information before he can answer.
“I mean do you not feel supported?”
He grimaces. “I’m fine. I’m not asking anyone to come and cheer me on if it’s not something they’re interested in.”
I genuinely can’t imagine standing in a crowd of cheering assholes watching Samuel—this perfect fucking person—get attacked by another man with his bare hands. But it’s just as hard to imagineno onebeing there for him.
“Sorry,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
“You should have someone there for you.”
I look over at him in time to see him work through a rough swallow. His voice is raspy when he says. “It’s okay.”
We lapse into silence, and I finally look down at the menu. The waitress comes by, and I order a lot of oysters, though I’m not sure I’ll be in the mood to eat them when they arrive if I can’t turn this conversation around. Samuel orders clam chowder and sea bass.
“I didn’t mean to give you a hard time about it,” I say.
“Is there a particular reason why you’re so concerned?”
At least seventy-five percent of the things he says to me make me blush, and this one is no exception. I decide to take a page from his book. “Guess.”
