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“I’m telling you. Thirty-five years old and I’ve been squatting for two decades, lifting weights all that time. And the past two years? I’ve felt better after games and needed less ice.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m giving you an extra second, second and a half to go in motion. Seriously.”
I shake my head. I’m living in the twilight zone.
Marshall sits on his mat, cross-legged like Livy was yesterday. And before my very eyes, he folds in on himself, touching his forehead to his feet.
Carlson says behind me on a choked whisper, “Did the foul-mouth, dad-joke-telling Roderick Marshall just do what I think he did?”
I nod, hoping my jaw isn’t on the floor like those old cartoons.
“Challenge accepted.” Carlson flips his mat to the floor on the other side of our center and begins stretching. Of course, our kicker can put his right ankle past his ear, but that’s his job.
“Remember when I played smash-mouth football with men who didn’t do ballet?” It’s a rhetorical question, which works since neither answers me.
Slowly, twenty or so players and some of the athletic training staff filter in. Some stand and stretch. Others sit with their eyes closed or lie down and stare at the ceiling.
The sound of flowing water and Chinese stringed instruments floats around me, and the muted lights dim even further.
Livy Morgan enters in yet another top that’s open in the back, held on by strings of some sort and yoga pants that highlight her perfect tight ass. It’s small, maybe a handful for me, and—
“Mr. Ranger, are you staying to join us?”
It’s a needle scratching across a record as she busts me staring. Oh well, she put it out there on display.
I smirk. I can’t help it. “Just watching today.”
“Oh, I took you for a man of action, not someone who likes to watch from the bench.”
My groan is drowned out by theOh, no, she didn’tsand the taunts of the men around me laughing at my expense.
“You’re right, Pix. I’m definitely one who wants to play. Let’s go.”
She lifts her chin and smirks right back. The glint in her eyes tells me I took her bait, and she thinks she’s won this game.
She has no clue. I don’t play; I win. I always win.
“Take your position, then.” She darts her eyes to my mat, walking away without looking back to see if I did as she instructed.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
* * *
I was wrong.
It isn’t fun.
It sucks, and I’m insane.
I might be able to run, but that fold-over shit Marshall did isn’t easy. I didn’t squeal when I tried, but my stupid hamstring screamed at me and reminded me I’m a runner, not a folder.
When Livy says, “Namaste,” and bows toward us, the relief I feel is in equal measure to something I struggle to put my finger on. I’m almost… reenergized, not that I’ll admit to it.
My teammates and I wander out to the cafeteria for some grub. I manage to resist looking back for the pixie to get another glance at her. No doubt she’d be a good fuck—I mean, she’s flexible and lithe, and that sass… But I don’t shit where I eat, so she’s off-limits.
Doesn’t mean I can’t flirt, though. I can at least picture her when I’m in bed.
