20. CHAPTER 20
Livia
The turf is dry for once. It’s the first thing I notice when I push through the exterior door of the facility onto the outdoor performance zone.
I hike my equipment bag higher onto my shoulder, grateful for the only mildly chilly day.
Portland weather can fluctuate drastically in December, but today the sky has decided to cooperate.
I drop my bag and set up the push sled. It will be the last station of five on this circuit workout I’d posted on the team event board, and I hope I have at least one player show up.
I intend to use the battle ropes anchored at the south wall, agility ladders unrolled along the east side, the push sleds already in position on their dedicated track, a pull-up rig at the far end, and a medicine ball station to finish.
The turf is the team’s forest green with the Cascade Mountains crest painted in the center.
The slate and graphite of the facility wall rises on one side, the rest open sky, and on a morning like this, it feels like the best office in the building.
I set up the last cone and straighten, letting myself have thirty seconds of not thinking about anything work related.
We’ve been back from LA for three days now and I’ve got men rotating in and out of my office.
That’s not as slutty as it sounds. Rather, I’ve got players signing up for and believing in what I can do for them.
I’m hoping these occasional circuit training sessions will get more guys to give me a chance because I’m feeling the absolute need to really prove myself in this role.
I know that has everything to do with my guilt for crossing the line with Locke.
I haven’t even seen him since we’ve been back, which you’d think would alleviate some of it, but it hasn’t.
He’s not avoiding me but between a home game against Atlanta and two evening commitments I’ve had, there hasn’t been any time to connect with him.
I am a professional with advanced degrees in human performance, and I keep telling myself that I can absolutely keep those things in separate boxes. I almost believe it.
Outside the moral dilemma I can’t seem to shake is the inherent problem of uncertainty. Yes, we slept together. Locke called it just having fun. But he stayed the night. Held me while we slept. Banged my brains out the next morning and then ran with me to keep me safe from Grant.
Those details repeatedly assail me because Locke is a man who has built his entire life around not attaching himself to temporary things, and yet he chose to stay in that hotel room with me.
Hell, he chose to walk me up to my room to ensure I was okay, and that didn’t have a damn thing to do with sex.
And then when we woke up the next morning, he reached for me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I don’t know what to do with that information and I can only hope it clarifies itself.
The door bangs open.
“Tell me this is outside because the weather is actually nice and not because you’re trying to kill us and avoid a bloody mess?” Arch asks, sauntering over with that easy and charming confidence of his.
“It’s both,” I say with a grin.
He laughs and drops his bag against the wall. “I respect the honesty.”
Boss Calloway comes through right behind him, Rome at his shoulder.
“Sleds,” Boss groans with apprehension.
“Don’t panic yet,” I assure him.
“Too late. I hate sleds.”
“Stop crying like a baby,” Arch says with a playful punch to his shoulder. Then his eyes light on the agility ladders. “Ah, shit. I hate those things.”
“Suck it up,” I quip.
Rome surveys the circuit with a quieter assessment, and we’re soon joined by Crosby.
I haven’t gotten to know him as well as I’d like to, especially since most of my information about him comes from Juno.
After our ladies’ wine night, I probably know things about this man that he’d prefer his colleagues didn’t know, but I manage that the way I’ve decided to manage Locke.
Compartmentalized.
I’m getting a lot of mileage out of that word lately.
And to my surprise, Locke comes through the door. He scans the area, eyes locking on me for a full five seconds before looking away.
I redirect my attention to my clipboard.
“All right,” I say, moving to the center of the turf. “Here’s how this works. Five stations, ninety seconds each, thirty seconds to rest and rotate. Full effort at every station. I will be watching and I will absolutely call you out.” I look around the group. “Any questions?”
“What’s the prize?” Boss asks.
“Not dying of cardiovascular failure in the third period,” I reply.
“So, nothing good,” he says.
“Go to your starting stations.”
They disperse and I move through the circuit calling time and corrections and watching the work. Arch starts on battle ropes and he’s got a decent rhythm. When he catches me watching, he gives me a charming grin.
“Good?” he calls over the noise of the ropes.
“Elbows,” I call back.
He adjusts and winks and I make a note on my clipboard.
Twenty feet away, I watch Locke on the push sled. His feet dig into the turf, muscles bulging, and I notice from the perspective of a woman who appreciates a beautiful man, not as a performance coach.
We run three full rotations and by the end of it everyone is breathing hard. Boss has started the low-level grousing that I’ve come to understand is his primary mode of communication during physical exertion.
“Hey, Rome,” he says, coming off the pull-up rig and rolling his shoulders. “You’re slow on the rotation.”
Rome smirks. “I finished before you, dude.”
“You finished wrong.”
“There’s no wrong on a pull-up.”
“There’s definitely wrong on a pull-up.”
“Okay,” I say, before Boss can suggest anything that involves me losing control of this session entirely. “One more thing. Sled push. Individual times—fastest wins. But to make it fair, everyone pushes seventy-five percent of their body weight.”
Boss is already doing the math in his head and looking pleased about it. Rome nods. Arch grins. Locke seems ambivalent.
“You figuring the weight?” Crosby asks.
“Yup.” I pull out my tablet, grab their last weigh-ins from the player database, and do some quick math. “I’ll call out your plate load when it’s your turn. Full track length and back. Any questions?”
“What does the winner get?” Boss asks.
“The satisfaction of being fastest.”
“That’s it?”
“And bragging rights,” I add.
He looks deeply unsatisfied with this answer, which means he’s going to run like his life depends on it.
I pull my stopwatch. “Arch, you’re up first.”
Arch rolls his shoulders and steps to the sled as the other guys load his weight. He drives well—powerful and low—and when he finishes, he turns around breathing hard and points at the group. “Beat that.”
Boss goes next and he does beat it, by four-tenths of a second, and the victory dance he does is disproportionate to the margin. Rome goes and splits the difference between them. Crosby does a hell of a run and edges Arch by a tenth.
Then Locke steps up.
The joking quiets and no one engages him in light bantering, I suspect because no one knows him well enough to do so. I’m hoping that will change soon.
Locke sets his hands on the bar, drops his hips, and takes a deep breath. I can’t help it but inside, I’m cheering him on to win.
“On your mark,” I say, holding up my stopwatch. “Get set. Go.”
Locke drives hard and whatever he’s channeling to push himself, it’s working. I can tell before looking at the results that he’s faster than all of them, and the margin isn’t even close.
Inside my head, I do a little victory dance for him because I know he never would.
He’s huffing and puffing and rolls his neck once before grabbing his water bottle.
“And Locke has you all beat,” I announce, holding out the stopwatch.
“Oh, come on,” Boss laments.
“Do it again,” Arch demands. “I want to see that again.”
“That’s not how it works,” Locke says, then takes another swig of water.
“Donovan.” Boss points at him. “You’ve been holding out on us.”
I see the barest suggestion of a smile before he shutters off again.
“All right,” I say, handing the stopwatch off to Crosby. “My turn.”
That gets their attention.
“You’re running it?” Arch asks, almost reverently.
“Seventy-five percent of my body weight, same as everyone else.”
I step up as Rome loads my weight, risking a glance at Locke. He gives me a nod, as if to say You’ve got this.
I know my load is considerably lighter than theirs in raw pounds, but it’s proportionally identical.
I step into position, wrapping my hands around the bar.
I’ve done sled work for years, long before this job, and I know my mechanics.
Hips down, drive from the legs, don’t let the upper body collapse forward.
Crosby counts me down and I’m off.
The guys cheer me on as I dig deep, whooping and hollering as I drive down the track length until I cross the finish line. I hunch over, breathing hard with my hands on my knees.
I twist my neck, call back to Crosby. “Time?”
Crosby looks at the watch and calls it out.
“Holy shit.” Arch cackles. “You beat Rome.”
“She did not,” he exclaims, looking over Crosby’s shoulder at the results. “Fuck.”
“The watch doesn’t lie,” Crosby says, and there’s amusement in it.
“She beat Rome,” Arch says, looking between me and Rome with the delighted expression of a man who has just been given a gift. “Rome. She beat Rome.”
“Okay,” Rome says, pointing at the sled. “I need a rematch. Someone get me a lighter sled.”
“That’s not how the math works.” I laugh.
“I don’t care about the math.”
“I know you don’t. Session’s over.” I take the stopwatch back from Crosby and make a note on my clipboard. “Good work today. All of you.”
They filter back toward the door, the competitive energy breaking down into the easy aftermath of people who enjoy each other. Boss is still arguing the times. Arch slings an arm around Crosby’s shoulders and says something that makes Crosby exhale in what might be a laugh.
Rome pauses beside me on his way past. “I enjoyed that,” he says simply. “Even if you did kick my ass at the sled.”
“Thanks, Rome. I hope you come to the next one.”
Then it’s just Locke, taking his time with his bag, and me, folding the last agility ladder. Twenty feet of turf between us and the door standing open.
He starts to walk past me and I’m surprised when he speaks.
“Tonight,” he says, quiet enough that it doesn’t carry. “Your place.”
I open my mouth. We haven’t spoken in three days. I’m not even sure if the other night was a one-off, and now he’s telling me—not asking—that he’s coming over?
The moral dilemma fires hot and I’m already constructing the professional, this-is-getting-complicated version of a response when he leans in close. “Don’t even think about backing out.” His blue eyes bore into mine with challenge.
I close my mouth. No way I’m backing out because I want him to come over.
Besides, I’m good at compartmentalizing.