Chapter 11 #2
Mile eight. My lungs are shredded. I can feel my heartbeat in my teeth.
Sasha’s breathing has finally caught up — ragged, hard — and the sound of it is doing something to me that I can’t deal with right now.
We’re both drenched. Both flushed. Both pushing harder than we should because neither of us will quit first.
The lacrosse guys are gone. We’re alone.
Mile nine. My vision is starting to tunnel. My quads are screaming and my calves are seizing and I am not going to lose to him. Not today. Not after an entire summer of hauling flagstone and running crews in the August heat while he was in Siberia getting chased by tall blondes.
Sasha pushes to 10.5. His jaw is clenched. The tendons in his neck are standing out. Sweat drips from his jawline onto his chest.
I push to 10.5. My body is screaming at me. Every muscle from my hips to my ankles is on fire and I can hear myself making sounds — not words, just effort, the kind of noises you make when you’re past the wall and running on spite.
His treadmill beeps first.
Ten miles. He slams the emergency stop and grabs the rails, chest heaving, head hanging, sweat dripping onto the belt in dark spots. His shoulders are shaking. His arms are trembling. He looks wrecked.
My treadmill beeps twelve seconds later. I hit stop and nearly collapse over the rails, gasping, spots dancing at the edges of my sight. My legs feel like they’re full of cement.
I reach for my water bottle and my hand closes on air. It’s on the bench across the room where I left it before the run.
Sasha holds his out. Just his hand, his bottle, held toward me like it’s nothing.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You just ran ten miles. Drink.”
“I’ll get mine.”
“Your legs don’t work. I can see them shaking from here.” He pushes the bottle closer. “Drink, Aaron Kelly.”
I take it. The plastic is warm from his hand. I unscrew the cap and drink. The water is lukewarm and tastes like Sasha’s mouth and I keep drinking longer than I need to because I can’t look at him right now.
I hand it back. Our fingers brush on the bottle.
“Thank you,” I say. Quiet.
He nods. Screws the cap on. Doesn’t wipe the rim.
“I win,” he says between breaths. His face is scarlet. His hair is destroyed — soaked, hanging in his face, dripping. He pushes it back with a shaking hand and grins at me. That grin. Flushed and breathless and triumphant and gorgeous. “You owe me coffee.”
“Twelve seconds.” I’m bent over, hands on my knees. “That’s nothing.”
“Twelve seconds is twelve seconds. I’m faster.”
“You’re two inches taller. You have longer legs.”
“I have better legs. There’s a difference.” He steps off the treadmill. His shorts are hanging even lower now, the waistband dark with sweat, and his tank might as well not exist. “And I just ran ten miles like it was a relaxing stroll, so. I win.”
I laugh. Bent over, hands on my knees, lungs wrecked — and I’m laughing. I haven’t laughed like this in three months. My whole body hurts and I’m soaked in sweat and Sasha is standing there looking like a disaster and I am so stupidly happy he’s back that I can’t keep it off my face.
“Are you seriously bragging right now?”
“I’m stating facts. I beat you.” He stretches his arms overhead and his tank rides up his stomach and I look at the floor. “I barely worked out this summer. You had every advantage and I still won.”
“By twelve seconds.”
He steps closer. We’re both still gasping. Both soaked. The gym is empty now and I can feel the heat coming off his body from two feet away. “Admit I’m better.”
“You’re not better. You’re taller.”
“Admit it.”
“No.”
He steps closer. My back is against the treadmill rail.
He leans in, one hand braced on the rail behind me, and his mouth is next to my ear.
I can feel his breath, fast and hot from the run, on my neck.
His chest is almost touching mine. We’re both heaving and slick with sweat and my whole body goes still.
“About those Russian girls,” he murmurs.
His lips brush my ear and my hand locks on the rail behind me.
“I think my tastes have changed. Because for some reason I’ve developed this thing for charming, green-eyed academic nerds who look good in a hockey jersey.
” His voice drops lower. “It’s a real problem… gave me a very sore wrist this summer.”
My face is on fire. My hands are shaking — from the run, from him, I can’t tell anymore. I’m gripping the treadmill rail so hard the metal is biting into my palms and I can’t breathe and I can feel him smiling against my ear.
“You’re blushing,” he says. “I can feel the heat from here.”
“I just ran ten miles.”
“You’re blushing because of what I said. Not the miles.”
“You can’t — we’re in a —”
“I missed you.” Simple. Quiet. His mouth still close enough that I feel the words on my skin. “All summer, Aaron Kelly. Every day.”
He holds there for a second. Close enough that if I turned my head our mouths would be an inch apart. I can feel his heartbeat through his chest — still pounding, fast and hard — and mine is matching it.
Then he steps back. Three feet of distance. Easy, casual, like he was just stretching against the rail. Like he didn’t just detonate my entire nervous system.
He picks up his gym bag. Slings it over his shoulder.
“You owe me a coffee,” he says. Normal volume. Teammate voice. “Tomorrow. Same time. I’ll take a large black with one sugar.”
I nod. I don’t trust my mouth.
He heads for the door. Stops. Turns.
“For the record,” he says, “the landscaping thing really works on you. Keep hauling rocks.”
The door swings shut behind him.
I stand there. My legs are shaking, my shirt is soaked through, and I can still feel his breath on my neck.
All summer. Every day.
So did I.