Chapter 13 We’re Just Warming Up, Lover Boy
WE'RE JUST WARMING UP, LOVER BOY
RYDER
Ryder
My dearest, darlingest wife-sicle. It snowed last night so I left early this morning to get in a run before training.
I would’ve woken you, I know you love fresh powder.
But I’m assuming you were serious when you told me not to cross the threshold of your bedroom, lest I be fed my own sliced-off testicles. So, I’ll see you later at the gym.
Btw, you snore. Loudly.
Mabel
I do not snore. YOU snore. You’re just hearing your own nose honks reverberating in your thick skull. I’m adding to the list of rules for this marriage.
One: don’t call me wife. It’s discustingified.
Two: Always wake me for fresh powder. I might just feed you your balls anyway for leaving me here.
Ryder
*heart eyes* Discustingified? Wife—I mean, Pretty Marshmallow, who I am legally bound to for the foreseeable future, are you talking Wicked to me? I am obsessulated. We should totally do a double feature for one of our date nights.
Mabel
Oh no. You can’t take Wicked from me. You’ve got the snowboarding and the red highlights in your hair and my ring on your finger. You can’t have Wicked, too.
Ryder
Our parents took us to the show in New York together, Marshmallow. You know I’m an Ozian, just like you.
Mabel
Absolutely not. Do not call yourself that. If anything, you’re a Shiz-head.
Ryder
Mabel. Come with me. Think of what we could do together…
Mabel
Loathing. Unadulterated loathing.
Ryder
Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.
Mabel
Balls. Down your throat. Kill.
Actually, worse. I’m going to tell Trina you were on the mountain. Let her kill you for risking injury so close to the games.
Ryder
My platonic life partner with the lumpiest couch on earth is evil.
Mabel
My “guy-I’m-stuck-with-because-tequila-is-a-bitch” is annoying.
Ryder
There’s a double chocolate muffin on the counter and a sugar cookie iced latte in the fridge for you.
Mabel
You’re pretty. The best husband I’ve ever had.
I chuckle at my phone, rereading the messages Mabel and I exchanged this morning.
It doesn’t take a genius to know that she’d be fiery when she woke up today, but a lifetime of observation has taught me that the way to Mabel’s good side is through sugar.
I’ve got a package of chocolate chip cookies and a Snickers bar in my bag in case things get dicey later.
By the time I pull up to the gym where Mabel and I will be working out today, I’ve already been up for four hours, having spent my morning doing run after run down Blue Mountain.
We’re not supposed to be snowboarding or doing any other kind of activities that could risk injury outside of training times this close to the Games, but what Trina and Team USA don’t know can’t hurt them.
Like Mabel, I can’t resist freshly fallen snow.
It’s like catnip to me. And after two nights of sleeping on Mabel’s hard-ass couch, I desperately needed the stretch and the bite of fresh air.
The temperature in the gym when I push through the door is hovering around freezing, but it's enough to feel like a warm reprieve from the wind chill outside. The Colorado mountains in January are not for the faint of heart. I take a long sip of my coffee, kept hot in one of Mabel’s reusable travel mugs.
She has an extensive collection of them, all with silly pictures and sayings on them.
Today, I chose a glittery pink twenty-ounce cup featuring a variety of different cartoon birds and the word ‘Tits’ across the front.
The space is fairly open, unlike a regular fitness center that’s stuffed to the brim with treadmills and weight racks.
We’re not here to burn a ton of calories or pump iron; we’re here to keep our muscles loose, our instincts sharp, and our cores tight before we head into competition.
Normally, I train alone or with the other men on Team USA, but since Mabel and I are to be attached at the hip, we’re here to work out with her trainer at her gym.
It’s weird not being with my people, but hey, you know what they say. Marriage is all about making sacrifices.
“You look a lot better.”
Mabel offers me a middle finger from where she’s spread out on the floor like a snow angel in her tight, white lycra shorts and matching sports bra.
She’s got this fuzzy top thing on that only covers her arms and her shoulders, and even though the weird shrug is the least revealing piece of clothing on her body, it is somehow the most indecent.
Probably because of this urge I have to push the material off her shoulder and kiss the skin underneath.
The last time I saw her was during our post-nuptial debrief when we returned from Vegas two days ago, as she spent yesterday nursing day two of her hangover alone in her room.
Even though I was right there on the couch whenever she snuck out for snacks or bathroom breaks, I pretended to be enamored with my phone or asleep and gave her the space she needed.
But all of that is over today. Today is Day One of Operation ‘Make Mabel Realize I’m Hopelessly Obsessed With Her and See That Maybe Being Married To Me Isn’t The Death Sentence She Thinks It Is. ’
Though I might have to think of a new plan name. That one doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. “Are you feeling better?” I ask, ignoring her rude gesture and dropping my bag to the ground before sitting with my legs crossed beside her.
“I think Las Vegas has been completely purged from my system,” she mutters, eyes still closed as she lies back. I spot a tiny chocolate crumb at the corner of her lips and swipe at it with my thumb, giddy that she ate the breakfast offering I left for her this morning.
She doesn’t push me away, and for a second I think she might already be getting used to my touch before I remember there are trainers in the building and we’re supposed to be married. A real wife wouldn’t smack her husband’s hand away when he touches her face.
But then she snores, and I realize she didn’t notice my thumb near her lip.
“You did not actually just fall asleep, did you?”
Her lashes flutter and both her feet twitch, making her look like a puppy dreaming about running through an open field. It’s unbearably adorable.
I reach into my bag and pull out two protein bars and a cherry-flavored energy drink. When I pull the tab on the can, Mabel’s eyes snap open in a Pavlovian response.
“C’mon, wifey. Let’s get this workout over with.”
Her mouth opens as she snags the can from my hand, and I can see the words on the tip of her tongue.
Don’t call me wifey.
But I arch a brow, my eyes flitting down to the gold band on her finger and then to the team of trainers waiting for us across the room, and Mabel snaps her lips shut.
She glares at me and accidentally-on-purpose bumps my shoulder as she rises to her feet.
I shiver from the contact and the heat of her annoyance burning right through my red anorak.
There’s more than that, though. There’s a new familiarity in the way she plays with me. A camaraderie, a common goal.
Dare I say, a bit of affection?
I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face even if I tried.
Oh, man. This is going to be fun.
“Holy shit, I’m already out of breath,” I pant, taking wide, crab-like side steps down the length of the gym.
There’s a resistance band wrapped around my legs right above my knees, and I’m cursing myself for picking one with a heavier load.
I didn’t think the tiny rubber band would do much, but walking in this thing feels like lunge-jumping around a track with two hundred pound weights.
I had no idea that our training regimens were so different, considering we compete in the same sporting event, but I’m working all these tiny little muscles I didn’t even know I had before now.
“We’re just warming up, lover boy. Quick feet!
” One of Mabel’s trainers, Sandy, pats my shoulder with one hand and pushes the resistance band down to my ankles with the other.
Mirroring Mabel, I spread my legs until the band is pulled taut and jump back and forth while Sandy shouts out the slowest countdown from twenty in history.
I’m used to a similar move where I have to run with high knees through tires, but keeping balanced and not tripping over my feet while doing these small jumps is damn near impossible.
“How are you doing this?” I grumble at Mabel, who looks as graceful as a ballerina as she bounces back and forth. Taking my eyes off my own feet was a mistake, because once I catch sight of the light blue polish on Mabel’s toenails, I lose my footing and fall sideways onto my ass.
“Aww come on, Rye Bread, get up. You’re not going to let your wifey show you up, are you?
” Mabel teases, having already moved on from the band to stretching out the arches of her delicate feet with a textured lacrosse ball.
It’s a move I’ve seen other people do a thousand times—hell, it’s a move I do myself on the daily—but damn.
Watching Mabel roll her foot over the ball, stretching and flexing all those tiny tendons, I can’t help but stare.
Do I have a foot fetish? Can one develop a foot fetish in their late twenties? Or is the way my dick is perking up behind the unforgiving nylon of my track pants part of my Mabel-specific obsession?
“I’m not worried about you showing me up, Mabel.”
She taps the lacrosse ball over to me with her toes, and from my position on the ground, I start to roll out my right foot.
She’s got her hand propped on her cocked hip, her red hair pulled back in a ponytail that is already coming loose, little wisps settling on her forehead.
Her mouth is twisted up in impatience that she is trying and failing to hide, and it’s goddamn adorable.
From this angle, she looks a thousand feet tall, every bit the unattainable goddess I’ve made her out to be in my fantasies.