Chapter Eight
Chapter
Eight
Owen had never liked that I go to the gym as often as I do.
Who are you working out for, anyway? he’d tease. I love the way you look.
Myself, I’d respond coolly.
His eyebrows would rise skeptically. Dressed like that?
What I’d never bothered to get into with him was that the only reason I’m able to keep even an ounce of my sanity is because of my strict gym routine.
Maybe if I’d gone before D I had only a couple drinks and ended up in my own bed before midnight even hit.
I usually save my workouts for the weekdays, but when I woke up this morning feeling surprisingly fresh, I figured it was a good way to get the weekend off to a running start.
Today I’m starting with bench press, and I ease myself through several warm-up sets to get my body moving. As soon as I’m ready to tackle my heaviest set—a weight I’ve never been able to manage before, though I’ve gotten close in the weeks leading up to this one—I look around.
I like to imagine what the other gym-goers have blasting through their headphones to motivate them through their workout—I’ve got the battle-march-iest bits of the Lord of the Rings soundtrack on deck today—but it’s quieter than usual, which is unfortunate.
I could really use a spotter for this set.
Having a safety net present just in case helps eliminate a pang of doubt, and if I’ve learned anything about weight lifting, it’s that cutting out doubt before your lifts is crucial.
Even the smallest twinge of uncertainty can be enough to throw you off your game.
I finish putting the last weight onto the bar and linger with my hand on the plates, looking for any friendly faces I can ask—but the first face I find isn’t what I’d categorize as friendly.
Well, shit.
I cannot escape him.
Wesley does a double take when he sees me, and his gaze bounces a quick triangle between the bench, the bar, and my face. Even as he crosses his arms over his chest, one corner of his lips curls up in an amused little smirk. I hate it.
“Need a spot?” He asks like he’s expecting I’ll deny it.
“What are you doing here?”
“Working out,” he says dryly, with an isn’t it obvious? tone. “Shay lets me use her guest pass sometimes.”
Fuck, of course. That’s where I remember her from—we’d exchanged nods once or twice, before I knew who she was. Time to go back to my regular weekday schedule to avoid run-ins like this again.
Even in the gym, Wesley manages to look put together, wearing a pair of slim-cut sweatpants and a thin hoodie with its sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Perspiration has darkened the light strands of hair at his temples, but that’s his only sign of effort. He looks pristine.
I restlessly flex my hands. This needs to happen now, or I’ll have to warm up all over again. “Yes,” I finally say. And then, grudgingly, “Please.”
Wesley nods and positions himself at the head of the bench.
I lie back, place my palms on the bar, and take a breath.
Deliciously sharp citrus and amber fills my nose, laced with the slightest undertone of sweat—which somehow, awfully, only makes it better.
God damn him for smelling this good at the gym. He’s clearly not working hard enough.
I scowl and shake it off, then drum my fingers in the same rhythm I always do right before I attempt a lift. Everyone has a ritual, and I’m not about to let Wesley distract me from mine.
I inhale sharply, lift the bar from its rack, and lower it to my chest.
The only time I ever brought Owen here, I asked him to spot me on this lift. But he’d grabbed the bar at my first sign of struggle, as soon as the bar’s ascent slowed. He barely gave me a chance to try to push through it. Jesus, Reagan, you’re going to hurt yourself doing this.
But now, as I begin to push the bar back toward the ceiling, even as it pauses at the midway point and wobbles slightly on its path upward, Wesley just stands calmly behind me, hands outstretched and ready but not sweeping in for a rescue.
Not because he’s waiting to watch me fail.
But because he recognizes that I’ve got this.
With a harsh exhale, I press the bar the rest of the way up and rack it into place.
“Nice job.” Wesley slaps a hand to the metal, and I wonder if I’m imagining the note of admiration in his voice. As he turns to leave, he says over his shoulder, “But I think you could go heavier.”
And then he just…goes, before I can catch my breath enough for a retort.
I sit there panting for a moment, letting the rush of hitting a personal best buzz under my skin, making my limbs feel light.
It’s the feeling I’m constantly chasing, whether in the gym or elsewhere: How can I go further, push myself harder?
Grudgingly, I admit that having Wesley here helped. Not just for the safety assurance, but…
Hell, I wasn’t about to fail with him watching me.
I catch my reflection in one of the gym’s many mirrors: my matching gray-and-black sports bra and leggings, hair bound in a loose knot, flushed cheeks, wide, surprised eyes, and hands still shaking with energy.
There it is again—flustered.
I rush to my next lift.
I don’t see Wesley again until after I’ve finished my workout. He and Shay linger near the front desk, and though I waffle for a good five minutes waiting for them to leave—I’m not eager to confront the awkwardness of our last session yet—they stay put.
Well. There aren’t any other exits, and I’m ready for lunch.
“Hey,” I say finally as I approach. “Good workout today?”
Shay nods, though her close-lipped smile is guarded. “Pretty good,” she says mildly. She glances expectantly at Wesley, a question in her eyes.
He doesn’t look at her; his focus is on me. “Can we chat?”
Shay nods a little to herself, and her satisfied expression immediately puts me on edge. “See you two around,” she says quickly, and disappears through the doors.
I watch as she makes her way to the parking lot, then I turn to him. “Why?” I ask.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he says.
His tall forehead creases, but he shakes his head quickly, and some of his hair falls across his brow.
He owes a lot to whoever convinced him to stop slicking it back; it looks much better now, even if it makes me want to reach up and brush it out of his eyes.
Stop, I snap internally.
“About the game,” he clarifies.
My stomach twists uncomfortably. Here it comes, the dismissal of the problem player. Maybe that’s what he and Shay talked about this morning. Maybe this was his plan all along, but he didn’t want to do it in front of everyone on Thursday. I get it.
But I don’t want to do this now, when I’m sweaty and hungry and just a tiny bit hurt. “Could we do this later?” I try—but fail—not to sound sulky.
“This afternoon? Tomorrow?” he offers. “My schedule is wide open.” There’s a hint of wry bitterness in his tone. Maybe a reference to his current unemployment.
“Later today.” I doubt he’ll let me put it off for long.
“Dinner?”
God, no. “Coffee,” I suggest instead. “We can go to a place near East Rock. I’ll send you the address.”
I don’t have his number, but I don’t need it. After the first session, Wesley put the whole D autumn’s mid-October peak has turned all of New England into a devastatingly picturesque postcard.
East Rock Park is one of the best parts of New Haven, letting you admire the view up close with its sprawling fields circled by trees in every shade of yellow, orange, and red, made especially vibrant as golden hour approaches.
People wander the park enjoying the last hours of sunlight, and I avoid looking at the couples nestled together at the bases of trees sharing poorly concealed bottles of wine.
“It’s beautiful here,” Wesley says, his tone tinged with suspicion.
He’s right to be surprised. I really should have picked a better place for this conversation, like behind a dumpster in some narrow alley, but I wanted the freedom to retreat home quickly when things go south.
“You’ve never been to this park before?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I only moved here a couple of months ago.”
“But even in college, you never visited New Haven?” Our college is farther north, but still, New Haven is popular enough to be worth the hour’s drive.