Page 65 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, trying to walk it off. But my body still feels wired—skin too tight, heart punching against my ribs like it’s trying to break out.
Max Calder. Grumpy, green-eyed Max Calder. My trainer, my not-a-thing-but-kinda-is, the guy who kissed me in the snow as though he forgot the world was watching. Then proceeded to spend the whole weekend with me.
I should pull back. I really should.
I already know myself—I’m not built for secrets. I’m built for sunlight and noise and throwing glitter at the dark. And the more I try to hide him, the more my body wants to shoutmine.To scream to the world that we are together. That I love him.
My steps slow, and I swallow. Fuck. I love him. Likelovelove him.
By the time I reach the building for my mid-day class, my chest’s a riot of everything I can’t say out loud. Yeah, maybe I’ll screw it up. Maybe people will figure it out. But right now, I just wanthim.It isn’t rational. Probably not even a tiny bit smart, but I can’t stop myself.
I fish my phone out of my pocket, thumb hovering over his name. Because if I’m going to crash and burn, I want to do it with Max Calder’s hands on me, not at a distance. Still, I don’t text him yet, even though every single part of me wants to.
As I slide into my seat, my brain’s still somewhere between Max’s hands and the panic attack that realization almost caused.
Love.
I actually said it—in my head, at least—and now it’s just echoing. Over and over. Louder than the professor, louder than the scratching of pens, louder than the stupid clicking of the guy’s pen two seats over.
I’m supposed to be taking notes on sports physiology, but the only anatomy I can picture is Max’s. His shoulders, his forearms, the way his jaw flexes when he’s trying not to smile. The way his voice drops when he says my name.
I doodle instead. Not hearts, because that’s too obvious, even for me. Just little spirals and lines that somehow start to look like the tattoo on his wrist. Subconscious, my ass.
Someone asks a question about muscle fatigue, and my brain goes straight to how my legs felt shaking around him last time we were together. I drop my pen. Smooth. Real subtle.
The professor keeps talking, something about endurance training, and I snort quietly to myself because yeah, endurance—definitely something I’ve been thinking about.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I know it’s not him—Max never texts during the day. He’s responsible, professional, all the things I’m not. But my hand still itches to check, just in case. Because now that I’ve admitted it—to myself, at least—every part of me wants to tell him.
To say it out loud. To see what he’d do. Would he flinch? Or would he pull me close and say it back, quiet and sure, like he already knew?
The thought hits hard and I sink lower in my chair, biting my lip to hide the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Yeah, I’m screwed. Totally, hopelessly, ridiculously in love with Max Calder. And not even an entire lecture on ATP synthesis can save me from that.
TWENTY-FOUR
MAX
The training roomsmells like antiseptic and sweat. I’ve got gloves on, fingers pressed against the slope of Peter’s shoulder as I test for tightness, listening to him talk about some tension during practice. It’s all muscle memory at this point—ask, press, adjust—but my head isn’t in it. Not fully.
Because every time I blink, I see Eli at the diner, grinning at me as if I was his whole damn joke and the punchline all at once.
I finish with Peter, give him the standard, “Stretch, ice if it gets worse,” and he heads out. I peel off my gloves, flexing my hands as if the tightness running throughmecould shake free that easily.
My phone buzzes against the counter. I tell myself to ignore it. One more player is waiting, and then two more after that. Focus. Stay professional.
But then I glance down.
Eli: Appointment available? Heard there’s this trainer who gives very thorough check-ups.
My chest tightens. Fuck.
I sit back on the stool, phone warm in my palm. It’s been over an hour since I left him at the diner. I thought maybe—maybe he’d let me fade into routine. Pretend we weren’t sneaking touches under the table, like a couple of kids begging to get caught.
And yet here he is, lighting me up with a handful of words.
Another buzz?—
