Chapter Eight Totally Professional #2
It was not a question. I could lie. That would violate the entire conversation we had at her table. Accurate information. Direct answers.
“Yes.”
Amy’s cheeks changed color.
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“I’m being honest.”
“I appreciate that.”
She touched her watch.
“Are you attracted to me?” I asked.
Her eyes lifted.
“This conversation was not scheduled.”
“Does attraction need a calendar invite?”
“Potentially.”
“Price.”
“What?”
“Be honest.”
She inhaled.
“Yes.”
Her yes sent a starting-gun jolt through me. She continued before I could react.
“That does not change the agreement.”
“No.”
“Or Miguel’s authority.”
“No.”
“Unless there is another Level Three event.”
I smiled.
“You make kissing sound like a security breach.”
“It was.”
“Felt secure to me.”
Her mouth tightened. She was trying not to smile. The timer beeped. Our walk interval had ended two minutes ago. Amy looked at her watch.
“We are behind.”
“Tragic.”
“We need to finish the session.”
I moved beside her. The correct distance this time.
“Easy pace,” I said.
She started running. I matched her. For the next interval, neither of us spoke. Our arms moved close enough that the backs of our hands touched once. Neither moved away.
We signed the amendment at the first challenge check-in. Rose refused to witness because “levels do not create a regulatory process.” Tessa signed electronically with a heart; Amy deleted it.
At five thirty, twelve couples gathered beneath sponsor banners for Perfectly in Sync: medicine-ball squats, synchronized step-ups, alternating rowing, and a partner sled push. Performance, communication, audience response, and community participation all counted toward the week-four cut.
“Style remains subjective,” Amy said, standing beside me in our matching Iron I follow.”
“You haven’t.”
“I will.”
Amy studied me for another beat, then nodded. We reset.
“One,” she said.
I breathed with the number.
“Two.”
We lowered together.
“Up.”
We rose. The ball stayed. Again. One. Two.
Down. Up. Amy’s pace became a rhythm. I followed.
We completed six clean repetitions before the whistle.
Not enough to win the station. Enough to change the charge between us.
The second station was step-ups. I suggested alternating feet.
Amy had prepared a sequence. We argued for ten seconds.
Then I said, “You call it.”
She did. Our timing improved. At the rowing station, the roles reversed.
Amy wanted fixed intervals. The rower resistance was higher on her machine, so I adjusted our switch timing to compensate.
She trusted me. We moved in rhythm. By the sled station, the competition had become genuinely fun.
We pushed together, shoulders close, laughing when the sled veered toward a sponsor sign.
At the switch point, Amy tried to change sides too quickly and collided with me.
I caught her at the waist. Level One. Routine contact. Allowed. Her hands landed on my shoulders. The crowd cheered. For a second, neither of us moved.
“Public affection,” I said.
“Maintenance.”
She was smiling. Not the controlled version. Full, bright, unguarded. I forgot about the clock. Blake blew the whistle.
“Move!”
We finished the push six seconds late.
We placed seventh in the event. Amy regarded the scoreboard as though it had breached fiduciary duty.
“We improved at every station,” I said.
“We lost because of the first and because Blake awarded style points to coordinated headbands.”
“Style is subjective.”
“That remains a flaw.”
She almost smiled. Blake approached with the event photographer.
“You two were fantastic.”
“We placed seventh,” Amy said.
“You were the audience favorite.”
“That does not affect the official score.”
“It affects engagement points.”
The photographer turned the camera toward us. My arm around her shoulders. Level One. I put it there. Amy leaned into me without prompting. The camera clicked. Blake checked their tablet.
“Your sled-collision clip already has seven hundred views,” Blake said.
The video showed Amy stumbling into me, my hands at her waist, her laughing up at me beneath the caption:
WHEN YOUR PARTNER IS THE ONLY FINISH LINE YOU SEE.
“That caption is terrible,” Amy said.
“It is a cute video.”
“We almost hit a sponsor sign.”
“Adventure.”
Blake swiped to the leaderboard.
“Engagement points move you to fifth overall.”
Amy recalculated visibly.
“Fifth?”
“After week one.”
“We can recover from fifth.”
I laughed.
“You’re adorable.”
Adorable came out casually. Amy froze. The danger registered too late. Blake looked between us. The photographer lifted the camera. Amy recovered first.
“That is not our agreed public dynamic.”
“Our dynamic evolves.”
“Not without a revision.”
Blake laughed as though we were performing. I faced Amy.
“Sorry.”
She studied me.
“Accepted.”
The photographer took another picture. This one would probably cause trouble.
After the event, we cleared equipment in the thinning gym. Amy sat on a plyometric box with her water while I rolled the last rower into storage.
“You were right,” she said.
I stopped. “The acoustics are bad. Repeat that.”
“Do not ruin it. We were both trying to lead. My sequence without your adaptation failed; your instinct without a shared count failed.”
“Look at us. Growth.”
“I disliked losing.”
“Yes.”
“But I enjoyed the sled.”
“I know.”
“You say that too often.”
“I like knowing things about you.”
I said it quietly. Amy’s fingers tightened around the water bottle. I should have made a joke. Rose’s advice returned. When you’re afraid, don’t turn it into a joke she has to interpret. I let it remain. Amy held my gaze.
“I like knowing things about you too,” she said.
The space between us changed. No audience. No Evelyn. No challenge requirement. Nothing to make a kiss necessary. That made wanting one more dangerous. Amy’s gaze moved briefly to my mouth. I saw it. She saw me see it.
“We should review the next challenge,” she said.
“Definitely.”
She stood too quickly. I smiled. She glared.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You have a face.”
“One face.”
“Dani.”
I held up both hands.
“Professional.”
Amy picked up her binder.
“Totally.”
We walked toward the lobby. Blake waited at the front desk with the next event packets. They handed one to each of us. The cover showed two women balanced in an elaborate yoga pose.
WEEK TWO: TRUST FALLS — PARTNER YOGA
Amy stared at it.
“No.”
I checked the photograph, then her face.
“This will be great: close contact, communication, flexibility.”
“I have adequate flexibility.”
“Can’t wait to assess it.”
“That violates several boundaries.”
“Scientific inquiry?”
“Restricted.”
Blake watched us with satisfaction.
“Exactly the energy I wanted.”
Amy walked toward the doors. I followed. Outside, the evening air was cool and clean.
“We have to practice,” I said.
“In a controlled setting. Studio C after closing Thursday.”
“Scheduled yoga date.”
“Practice.”
“Close enough.”
The signal changed. Amy stepped into the crosswalk. I followed under her sidelong inspection.
“Dani?”
“Yeah?”
“The kiss will not happen again during yoga.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were thinking it.”
I smiled.
“I was thinking about balance.”
“You lie badly.”
“Only to you.”
I said it before caution could intervene.
Amy missed half a step. A car waited at the intersection while we kept walking.
I had meant it as a joke. Mostly. But truth moved beneath it.
Amy was becoming the person I found hardest to mislead.
I wanted to tell her everything. I also wanted more time, and wanting both was becoming its own kind of lie.