“She’s literally brown.”
“Life comes at you fast.” Cooper says with a sigh.
“Again, Coop.”
Cooper points at me. “When I eventually quit hockey and become deeply famous online for exposing this program, I need you to know this moment will be included.”
“Great. Make sure they get my good side.”
“I have people who care about me, you know.”
“No, you don’t.” I reply immediately.
“What the fuck, that was so fast.” Cooper presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I did, actually. Again Coop, stop distracting me, go.”
He mutters something under his breath but does it.
Rhys laughs from the next station. He's bent over with his hands on his knees, catching his breath between sets, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair onto the rubber floor. His shirt is dark at the collar and between his shoulder blades. His chest is heaving. “You heard the boss. Again.”
I should tell him not to call me that. I should shut that down immediately. Instead I look at him.
He’s grinning at me, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling faster than it should be. His eyes are bright in a way that feels too direct, like he’s looking at me on purpose to see what I do. He keeps watching me as if he’s waiting for me to crack first.
My stomach pulls tight.
I hate that nickname.
I hate the way he says it.
I hate that my body hears it differently than it should.
It reaches lower. Tighter. Like a pull under my skin.
“Less talking,” I bark.
His grin widens. “Yes, sir.” Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. The sensation moves through me so fast I almost drop the stopwatch. My fingers tighten around it instead.
Fuck.
No.
Absolutely not.
I turn away before he can see my face, before anyone can see my face, before my skin betrays me any more than it already has. Heat crawls up my neck and I hate myself for it. I hate that he can do that without even trying. Hate that he throws words out like nothing and I’m the one who has to deal with where they land. Or maybe he does know.
Maybe that’s worse.
We move into weights after conditioning. Fitch has us paired off. And somehow I end up near Rhys, like the space between us keeps closing and getting smaller and smaller whether I want it to or not. Rhys is benching with Ben spotting him, the bar loaded, and I'm supposed to be watching across the whole group, but my eyes keep finding him regardless of where I stand.
The bar comes down.
Slow. Controlled. His back arches slightly off the bench, shoulder blades pressing into the padding, chest opening up to receive the weight. His hands are wide on the bar. The veins in his forearms standing out with the grip.
Then he presses up.
The breath leaves him sharp on the exhale. His arms shake on the last rep — not failing, just at the edge of it, that tremor thatshows the real effort underneath all the ease. His eyes are on the ceiling. Totally inside it. Focused.
