Page 49 of Dating Goals
Looking at her now, with snowflakes catching in her hair and her eyes bright from the game, I realize I’d probably take her to the moon if she asked right now.
I put my arms around her. She does not put her arms around me, but she doesn’t punch me either, and I decide not to be so needy.
12
GRIFFIN
The fact that I’ve been in the team gym for over four hours, doing every single workout possible, proves that, apparently, I have decided that physical pain is preferable to thinking about…her.
Pretending with every grueling rep that Anika isn’t making plans with Thomas right now.
I heave the barbell up for what has to be my fiftieth rep, muscles quivering until I’m pretty sure my arms are about to fall off.
“Just ten more,” I mutter to myself, ignoring the burning sensation in my biceps that suggests I should’ve stopped twenty reps ago.
The thing about crushing on a woman while simultaneously helping her win over some other guy? It’s a special kind of self-inflicted torture that no amount of endorphins can fix. Yet here I am, bench pressing my feelings away like the world’s most pathetic loser who’s been friend-zoned.
With every painful set, all I can think is that she’s only using me to prepare for this Thomas guy. Meanwhile, she has me falling for her so hard that the physical strain of heavy lifting is actually a relief.
A few teammates grunt their encouragement and throw me what looks like concern from the corners of their eyes, so I step it up even more.
Thomas, you lucky jerk, are going to reap all the benefits of my handiwork, and it’s driving me mental.
I collapse back onto the bench after my final rep, staring at the ceiling. Every flirting lesson I gave her, every conversation tip I suggested, every single thing I taught Anika about the art of dating. It’s all just Thomas prep work.
Thomas. Even his name sounds smug. I bet he does CrossFit and drinks protein shakes made from endangered plants.
Thomas, with his stupid perfect hair and his stupid perfect job. Thomas, who gets to be on the receiving end of Anika’s actual interest, while I’m relegated to the role of dating coach.
Now all I can think about is his hands all over her.
I grab my towel and wipe the sweat from my face, wondering if I could somehow use it to also wipe away my feelings. No such luck.
On to the treadmill. Maybe if I run fast enough, I can outpace my own thoughts. I crank the speed to just shy ofdeath wishand start pounding away.
“She’s using you as a practice boyfriend,” I pant between strides. “Get. It. Through. Your. Thick. Skull.”
Each footfall hammers the point home. Anika sees me as safe. Convenient. The human equivalent of those plastic food displays in restaurant windows. All the appearance of the real thing with none of the substance.
And the worst part? I volunteered for this position. Practically begged for it.
The treadmill beeps angrily as my pace falters, and I realize I’ve been so lost in my Anika-centered spiral that I’ve drifted dangerously close to the back of the belt. I correct my position and push harder, sweat dripping onto the console.
I’m about to die for a woman who isn’t even mine.
After three hours of sweating more from my own frustrations than from the weights and cardio, I finally give it a rest and collapse into a heap.
A shadow falls over me, blocking out the blinding gym light.
“Hallo, McGregor.”
I look up to see Dieter, our facilities manager, hovering near the weight rack with the expression of someone who’s just found a dead fish in their mailbox.
“Yeah?” I gasp, still trying to recover my breath and dignity simultaneously. Neither is going well.
“There are two men here to see you.”
I blink sweat out of my eyes. “Did I order something?”
