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He continues lacing up his shoes, bending awkwardly over his knee as he does it, ignoring me entirely. Finally finishing, he sits upright, and his hard, direct eyes do that thing again. He looks me up and down as his brow arches.
“Are you required to dress like a homeless person while you work?”
I peer down at my baggy attire. Yes, my old, stained college sweatshirt isn’t flattering by any means, but Jesus, the first words out of his mouth include degrading my entire look? I swallow my sadness, thinking of a younger version of myself. A girl who wouldn’t imagine being able to afford a pair of fresh Nikes for herself, aside from the ones I’d worn out from my time in residency. I imagine a young, entitled Lake, whining to get new Jordans because his old ones had a small scuff. I imagine him prancing into school in them, showing off to his buddies. The thought angers me.
“How one dresses has nothing to do with their abilities,” I say, tipping my head to the side.
His icy stare finds me again. I feel shivers tingling down my spine at the coldness in his stormy gaze. He’s a machine with no emotion. A shell of a vessel lacking any humanity. This is going to be so much fun.
He goes to stand again, balancing on one leg. He wobbles a bit, and I instantly reach for his arm to brace him before he falls. His eyes jet to the area where my hand is holding him and he abruptly shakes me off like I burnt him, glaring before pulling away.
Prideful asshole.
The move makes me irate. I have to let out a deep breath to keep from kicking the man in the injured knee like I want to. That would not be professional.
“Where are your crutches?” I ask harshly, arms crossing over my chest.
He hobbles along the lockers, using them as support.
“I don’t need them.”
I rub the back of my neck, trying to keep my cool. “I don’t work with people who won’t follow my instructions.”
“And I don’t work with people who think they can tell me what to do, as if I don’t know my body best. Crutches will only give me something to rely on.”
I laugh. I actually laugh, and it surprises him. He turns his body to face me, eyes narrowing.
“Is this a joke? Like, is this an actual joke? Please tell me I’m being pranked.” I exclaim, my hands raised, looking around the gym, waiting for someone to jump out and tell me I’m on a TV show where famous assholes pretend to tell you how to do your job.
He crosses his arms over his chest. The chest I can clearly see beneath his tighter-than-tight, dri-fit, long-sleeve shirt. It suctions to his muscular frame, molding seamlessly over the curves of his pecs and the ripples of each abdominal muscle, hugging his shoulders tightly. I don’t think he has any body fat on his tight body. Anywhere.
I usually appraise athletes for their impeccable bodies, looking at them as works of science. Amazed by the abilities of the human body. But his body isn’t only science. It’s a work of fucking art. The lean, toned muscle highlighted by deep-edged cuts. Sculpted to perfection. The personality, however, is the black streak running through the middle, ruining the masterpiece entirely.
“Pretty sure I'm the furthest thing from a joke,Dylan...the girl.” He sneers. “Who would’ve thought?”
I narrow my eyes at his statement, the pompous aura oozing from his pores now making me nauseous. That he immediately assumed I was a guy based on my name alone is one thing, but to see I'm a woman and deduce that I can't do my job as well as a man? Worthy of a dick twist.
“I’m not doing this.” I throw my hands and turn, walking towards the office to tell Greg off as I call over my shoulder, “You can find someone else. Someone who will take your shit.”
“You will if you want that paycheck,” he comments smugly. “Besides, your boss lit up like a Christmas tree when I called. Doubt he'll let you drop his shiny new client.”
I turn to face him again, and there’s that sneer staining his full lips. It's like he knows my secrets and knows I need this more than I'd hoped. Knows Greg will do anything to keep him here. It's as if he's found how to get under my skin and has decided to camp there for his own personal amusement. His eyes scan me one more time, threatening me with defiance, before he hobbles over to the weight room.
Everything is about money to athletes like Lake. Entitlement and fame. Their contracts, endorsements, and popularity are all owned by a paycheck. The thing that angers me most is that it’s not about a paycheck to me. This is my passion. My livelihood. I, personally, wouldn’t give two shits about the money. I’d struggle to not have to work alongside someone like him. But it’s not about me.
It’s about Colin.
It’s always about Colin.
4
Lake
She'sasaucylittleshit. I'll give her that.
Women, especially in this industry, never talk to me the way she just did.
When Coach gave me the name, I assumed I'd be meeting some soft older man whose professionalism didn't include excessive use of the wordfuck. Someone who's been doing this for years and has actual experience under his belt.
