19. Jace
Jace
Summer’s blue eyes don’t leave mine.
The group stirs behind me: bags hitting the ground, flip-flops kicked off, a kid asking if we start with the ropes. I hear it, but from far away.
Summer turns away and lies down on a weight bench, a barbell on the floor beside her. She’s tan, lean, with defined arms—solid without being bulky. Six years, and she’s even more…
I clear my throat.
This girl looks like she stepped out of an ad for something I can’t afford.
And she left a dead crab on my seat, legs in the air. I can still smell the rotting seaweed.
She abandoned me.
The VW bus, the seaweed, the crab—I’ll get over all of it. But not that.
“Coach? We starting?”
Dylan watches me—nineteen, perfect tan, brain optional.
“Warm-up, five minutes. Ropes, then squats with just the bar.”
I turn my back on Summer and hand Dylan a battle rope. The kids get into position—six of them, spread out across the patio. I make the rounds, correct a stance, adjust a grip. I’m present, focused.
Or not.
On the pull-up bar, Evan rips through his sets. He spots me, grins between reps. I nod back.
Farther off, Noah wipes down the pulldown station. Captain sleeps at his feet, sprawled across one of his Crocs.
I head over.
“Hey.”
Noah grunts without looking up. A word, a sound—impossible to tell.
I feel Summer’s eyes on my back—a red dot between my shoulder blades, like a sniper’s laser.
Six years ago, back when we surfed together, I was the one pretending not to look for her.
I tug at the hem of my boardshorts. The fabric slides a little over my thigh, covers what it needs to cover. I do it again thirty seconds later.
“Back straight,” I call to a kid rounding his shoulders. “Engage your core.”
I step into the squat rack and get under the bar. My eyes drift on their own. Summer’s watching me.
Lying on the bench, a bar across her hips, feet planted on the floor, she drives her hips up. She catches my eye, realizes she’s been caught. Her face hardens. She stares at the sheet-metal ceiling and powers the bar up with an energy that has nothing to do with the exercise anymore.
I fight back a smile. She was checking me out.
I know it’s dumb, that it doesn’t mean anything. This girl came back to sell the house and leave with the money, not to watch me do squats on a rubber-matted patio.
But still.
I finish my set, wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, adjust my shorts.
“Coach?”
Dylan, again. His eyes move from my face to my boardshorts.
“What?”
“Nothing. You look… tense.”
“Fewer questions, more reps.”
He raises his hands in surrender and goes back to his bar. I tug at my shorts. Again.
Across the patio, Noah sits on the bench at the pulldown station, rag in hand. He’s not pulling anything. He looks at Summer, looks at me, then rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He knows me too well.
I ignore him.
The session goes on. Squats. Pull-ups. Planks. I correct, I encourage, I count sets, I knock out a few myself.
Summer launches into her third set of hip thrusts. Her cheeks are flushed. A strand has slipped loose from her hair tie and sticks to her temple. She breathes hard with every rep. She’s not looking at me anymore.
Or she’s just hiding it better.
I pass the rack of Olympic bars. The chalk bucket sits right next to it, open, half full. The powder you rub on your palms before you lift iron.
Summer’s lying on her back, feet flat, knees bent, the bar balanced across her hips.
No. I wouldn’t.
Oh, I would.
I grab the bucket, dig my hand in, and toss a good handful of chalk at her head.
The white powder rains down over her face, into her hair, down her neck. Summer coughs, sneezes, coughs again.
Behind me, Dylan’s the first to crack up. The others follow, unable to hold it in.
“Shit, look at her face,” Dylan gets out between gasps.
I set the bucket back down, pretty pleased with myself. Evan, leaning against one of the patio posts, pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t say anything.
Summer shoves the bar away, pulls free, and springs off the bench. Her hair’s white, her face and tank top too. She looks like a furious ghost straight out of an attic.
She spits out powder, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and shoots me a glare. Her eyes are red and watery. The chalk, probably.
She blows into her palms and sends a cloud of powder straight into my face, stinging my eyes. I blink, take a step back.
“Mature as ever, Walker,” she says.
I don’t answer.
“Was this another fucking bet?”
What bet? I have no idea what she’s talking about. I shrug.
I go back to my students like nothing happened.
“Come on. Last set.”
Still cracking up, the kids do as they’re told. Dylan looks at me like he just watched a master class.
Behind me, I hear the click of a lighter.
Noah’s on his feet, cigarette between his lips, leaning against the post across from Evan. He takes a drag, blows out the smoke.
“You’re both five,” he says.
Neither of us answers.
I send a student to the pull-up bar and start counting reps out loud. My voice is calm, professional.
Chalk dust still hangs in the air. With an angry swipe, Summer wipes her face with the hem of her tank top and grabs a book lying at the foot of the bench. She doesn’t look at me as she leaves.
I do.