Page 41 of My Lucky Charm

And there, running on the treadmill—shirtless—is Gray.

He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black shorts, running shoes, and a baseball cap, and he’s staring out the large wall of windows at the incredible view of the park across the street, set against a beautiful Chicago skyline. I take it in—my view, not his—for a long moment. Gray’s job requires peak physical shape, but I wonder if his teammates take their fitness as seriously as he does.

While Gray hasn’t set up anything in the living spaces of his house, he seems to have taken great care with this room. In addition to the treadmill, he has a rowing machine, a stationary bike, a set of dumbbells, and a weight machine with barbells positioned over a bench. Weights lined up by size, bands attached to the wall, exercise balls, yoga mats, a large, see-through cooler stocked with water and electrolyte drinks, everything in its place and all laid out perfectly.

I know he has access to the team’s gym but apparently, this is important enough to have in his living space too.

He’s got AirPods in, and obviously didn’t hear me call out.

In the rhythmic padding of his feet, for a brief second, I forget that he’s usually unpleasant to be around. A bit of admiration seeps in at the back of my mind because Gray’s commitment is evident—and impressive. I start to daydream about what it might be like to come in and out of this space freely, as something other than his assistant.

But then the rhythmic pounding of his feet stops, pulling me back to reality, and my skin shocks hot and my whole body freezes in place. He steps off the machine and sees me, and it’s too late for me to run and hide.

And I really want to run and hide.

He pulls the AirPods from his ears and looks at me. “How long have you been standing there?”

I stutter something that doesn’t even remotely resemble a coherent thought, and then look at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but at his glistening chest. Why is he tan? It’s the middle of winter!

“Sorry. I just, uh, just got here, actually. I wasn’t sure what time you needed me. Not that you need me, but what time you wanted me, uh, for work. Things. You know, assistant things. Groceries and things.”

How many times can a person use the word “things” in the span of thirty seconds?

He picks up his T-shirt, which I only now see was hanging on the railing of the treadmill, but instead of putting it on, he uses it to wipe the sweat from his face, which means I’m still standing here speaking gibberish because I’m still fully entranced by his six-pack. Again, I look away.

“Okay, well, I should shower and pack,” he says. “You can look around or . . . do whatever you need to do.”

When I look back, I see that he’s taken a few steps toward me, and those few steps have taken me out of the safe zone.

“Do you have a list of things I should tackle while you’re gone or . . . ?” Is he flexing his abs or do they just naturally look like that? I know, in theory, what it takes to have this kind of muscle definition, and I’m starting to understand why Gray doesn’t date during the season. He’s serious about his regimen, his sport, his fitness—so serious that he doesn’t have time for anything else.

It’s why he’s the best.

But it’s also why he’s alone.

“Look, I don’t want to be rude—”

A nervous laugh escapes me, interrupting whatever it was he was going to say.

He raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry, I just—” I look away. “It’s just that you’ve been rude since the day we met.”

Not counting the kiss. That was very much the opposite of rude, but since I’m resigned to pretend that never happened, this is accurate.

He watches me, and my nerves feel like they’re dancing around outside my body. Why is he staring at me like that?

“I don’t want to be rude,” he repeats. “I’m focused. That’s all.” He walks past me, and I follow him into the hallway, aware that even though he’s just run a marathon on his treadmill, he still somehow smells like a Colorado forest.

I’m not a gym person. I don’t make myself sweat on purpose. But the times I’ve been forced, I smelled more like compost.

“Eloise.”

“Huh?” Oh, no. He asked me a question, and I missed it because I was thinking about evergreens and mountain air.

“I said I tried to write out a grocery list, but that’s about as far as I got,” he says. “There’s a store down the block, or you can have them delivered or whatever.”

We’re standing in the kitchen now, and he opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of water. When he closes the door and meets my eyes, it’s almost like it was an accident, and he’s not sure what to do next.

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