Chapter Nine Cam #2
I guess Mason never really knew Cam Morelli outside of brief interactions, and maybe assumed the worst of him because of the “gets around” rumor I’ve allowed to be tied to him.
I don’t need to have an episode over the fact that he’s poking daggers into my stone walls.
They’re still perfectly solid and sturdy.
I decide the only thing I can do right now is move the subject. I just need to get through this session and pretend like I don’t care as much as I do. “Lunges,” I say, hoping I sound casual. I frame my hips and put one foot toward him, squatting down. “Try one.”
He gives me another dubious look, clearly seeing through my distraction attempt. Nonetheless, he does as commanded. But as he sinks down, he wobbles and topples over with a groan of misery. I snag him beneath his elbows, keeping him upright.
“You’re trying to humiliate me,” Mason says tightly, the hollows of his cheeks rosy as he wriggles out of my grip.
“They’re basic stretches,” I point out, grinning.
“Hmph.”
“You’re pouting.”
“Hmph.”
“Acting cute won’t get you out of warm-ups.”
Mason’s face deepens further in color, and he gives me a solid push, forcing me back to my yoga mat. “What’s next?” he asks sharply. “Stretching isn’t going to make me bigger. I’d rather jump right into the weight lifting and stuff.”
I remember sounding like that a few years ago.
Back when I thought curling an hour a day would make me an indestructible force of nature.
“If you don’t stretch before working out, you could injure yourself.
You’ll be more sore, achy, and you’ll tire out faster.
” I reach out, jabbing his forehead with my index finger.
“If you want to get stronger, do it the right way. I wouldn’t have been able to meet the weight requirement for that scout from Alpine University if all I’d focused on was lifting over the past year.
Besides, stretches do help you build strength. Squats are a staple of bulking.”
Mason scrutinizes me like he thinks I’m tricking him. Then he tries another lunge, and though he wobbles again, he manages to keep upright. “Annoying jock,” he murmurs. “Why can’t you be this competent with your schoolwork?”
I make a choked scoffing noise. “Rude?”
“It’s an innocent question,” Mason says, fluttering those long black lashes.
“Bullshit,” I snap. “You’re just mad that I’m making sense.”
“Hmph.”
“Your pouting isn’t as cute the second time around.”
“Hmph.”
Okay, maybe it is. I’m sure as hell not going to tell him.
We move through an assortment of stretches and warm-ups. He loathes them, but none so much as the sit-ups. I pin his feet with my weight, my arms hugging his propped knees as he struggles to lift his head off the yoga mat. “Come on,” I encourage. “I’ll let you up after five.”
He groans, arching his head back with annoyance. His skin is already gleaming with traces of sweat. It’s not a bad look on him.
Another trip and stumble, courtesy of my heart. I don’t know where it comes from or why it strikes now, but I brush the unfamiliar sensation away. First stomach flutters, and now my heart is literally skipping? How? Why? I can’t remember this ever happening.
Worse, I still can’t figure out what’s different.
“Two crunches,” I say, slapping his kneecaps. “Just get your shoulders off the ground.”
With a pained grimace, Mason hurls himself upward so fast he nearly bashes my forehead. “Fuck your crunches,” he snaps, his fiery eyes inches away.
“One more, then,” I say, smiling sweetly. Pointedly deciding not to count those lashes.
He flops onto the mat with a choked sob.
Eventually, we move on to cardio. He maintains a light jog on the treadmill for two minutes before petering out. He lasts half that time on the bike. He holds a wall squat for twenty seconds before ducking out. And the chest press machine…It’s not looking great.
“How about some curls?” I suggest, setting two ten-pound weights in his palms. The longer we test his limits and strengths, the more he appears to deflate. While he moaned and groaned through stretches, there was still an aura of determination around him. Now it’s withering away.
I instruct him how to properly curl, and he does it himself, silent, before I notice his wrists shaking with strain. “That’s enough,” I say, reaching for them, but he evades me.
“They’re only ten pounds,” Mason snaps, the rims of his eyes reddening. “If I can’t handle these, I’m a lost fucking cause, right?”
The ferocity in his words startles me backward.
Am I missing something? Where is his sudden desperation coming from?
“I said you’d have to build yourself up slowly, right?
” I ask, leveling my voice. In the back of my head, I know that Cam Morelli should shrug this off and act like he hasn’t noticed Mason’s apprehension.
But…I don’t know. I can feel the anxiety radiating off him, and it reminds me of my old self, back when I first came to this school and only had the summer to reinvent myself. “It’ll come easier with time—”
“Maybe I don’t have time to grow slowly,” he whispers.
I scrunch my face at such an ominous claim. “What?”
He must’ve let something slip, because panic flickers across his expression, and he drops the weights so suddenly that I jump. “Thanks for letting me try your equipment. I should get home.”
Mason tries fleeing up the stairs, but I’m not going to let him escape so easily after what he just said.
I catch the crook of his arm, swinging him toward me.
“I feel like you’re expecting something out of this that isn’t going to happen,” I say sternly, the words coming in a jumbled rush.
I don’t want to upset him, but he needs to hear it.
“It might be months before you start noticing a difference. But you can’t skip the stage of warming your body. ”
Mason’s glaring at the floor now, like he might melt into it if I release his arm. “How long did it take you?” he mumbles.
“I’ve been working on my body for four years.
When I started, I was pretty twiggy.” I scratch my neck with a sigh, wishing I could read his mind so I could understand his intentions.
“I started bulking up because I felt people would take me more seriously. And maybe I wouldn’t get pushed around anymore. ”
Mason stiffens, peeking up at me. “You’ve been bullied?” he whispers.
Ah…fuck. Fuckedy fuck. I didn’t realize he might ask questions. Why the hell did I say that? I’m normally so good about watching whatever past-related words come out of my mouth, so how did I screw myself so thoroughly? My brain didn’t even warn me to hesitate before I yapped.
“I was a well-balanced and emotionally sound individual,” I say sharply.
He stares at me, unconvinced.
Shit. Okay, I can make this situation fine.
Maybe it doesn’t matter if he knows hints from my past—just telling him about a few incidents shouldn’t mean that my ruse is up.
Besides, it’s pretty clear he’s onto me, so if I give him something to latch on to—an excuse for this behavior he finds bizarre—it’s possible he’ll stop prying.
“There were some issues. We lived in an aggressively traditional small town in the middle of nowhere,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and indifferent.
“My mom was an out-and-proud bisexual woman. Had the bumper stickers and shirts and fridge magnets and everything. I was an easier target than her, so…”
Even mentioning the barest details of the conflict makes me feel like the walls of my chest are closing in. Mason examines me studiously, like he’s attempting to read past my purposefully vacant expression.
“Anyway!” I hack through the awkward silence and say, “I tried building muscle during the summer I moved, then in ninth grade. It took a while, but I bulked up, edited my life, and now I’m a fucking pleasure to be around.”
Mason’s thin lips furl upward. “An absolute pleasure,” he agrees, though he drawls the words enough that I know he’s being sarcastic.
“When I tried jumping into bulking, I made myself miserable. My body hurt all the time. I did more research and found out that the excessive training I was doing was more likely to stunt my growth than help it, so I had to slow down and start from square one. Trust the process or you’ll damage your body. ”
Mason fidgets, despising this truth I’m forcing him to acknowledge. “Okay,” he says softly.
I’m buried so deep in my own confusion that I hear myself blurt something genuinely uncalled for. “Is it your parents?”
Mason tips his head again. With his face lightly flushed and the scant amount of sweat shimmering on his forehead, he’s even nicer to look at than usual. It’s distracting. “What about my parents?” he asks suspiciously.
“I…uh…” Damn it, how do I back myself out of this corner?
It’s been nestled in the crook of my brain since that phone call at the restaurant, but I’d decided not to stick my greasy (though perfectly sculpted) nose into his business.
“You’ve been cagey about why you wanted to bulk up, and I wondered if it had to do with your living situation,” I decide to say.
Mason’s muscles seem to snap tight and strain in his limbs.
For a moment, I think he’s getting angry.
Despite this tense situation, my heart still thuds faster because I can’t help but want to see it.
He’s shown that he can be annoyed and prickly and exasperated and amused but only in faint, dull bursts.
It’s like he’s wrapped his emotions in a thick cloak, barely allowing them to poke through when they start rising.
I want to see them. His emotions.