Page 29 of Level Up for Love

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&D crew into a Discord server to share notes and updates. My eyes still roll into the back of my head every time I get a message from Warlocke.

“Thanks, Reagan,” he says, actually sounding sincere. “I’ll see you there.”

I nod and shoulder my way through the gym’s front door, grateful for the way the crisp autumn breeze, thick with the sweet earthy scent of fallen leaves, replaces the citrus-and-amber smell of him.

Wesley and I sit at opposite ends of a park bench.

He’s relaxed—lounging, even—and turned toward me, with his arm draped across the back of the bench and one leg tucked comfortably underneath him.

I sit stiffly, facing out toward the park itself, my knees pressed close together beneath my black denim skirt. It had been too busy at the coffee shop to sit down, so we wandered out here instead. Wesley’s coffee sits like a pathetic barrier between us, but I hold my maple latte in my hands and let its warmth seep into my palms.

I’ve seen this park view a hundred times—I live only a few blocks away, though I haven’t mentioned that to Wesley—but the familiarity and the peace of it always calm me down. Leaves drift lazily on the wind with each passing breeze; 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.