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I step forward and examine the course in front of us. Three lanes wind their way from one end of the gym to the other. One side has a raised wooden platform I assume is the starting position, the other side offers a color-specific mat that must be the finish line. The lanes are color-coordinated and contain identical features. Balance beams about three feet high. Random milkcrates, painted their lane color, along with a few big black tires, are scattered on the waxed floor. Past the minefield of crates and tires is a kiddie pool with a second balance beam suspended over it, although this beam is wider and lower to the ground. Beyond that are big fake papier-mâché boulders.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” Nance starts, pure joy shining on her face.
I swear she gets off on this shit. She probably sits at home and fantasizes about all the team-building exercises she can torture college students with.
“One player will stand on the starting platform—this is the caller. The other player, the runner, will be blindfolded. He’ll navigate the course under the guidance of his caller, who must communicate the best path forward to his runner. Callers, make sure your runners follow your designated path. Runners, you will be dodging the obstacles as well as the other players on the course at the same time. Once your partner safely reaches your color mat, he’ll take off the blindfold, and the runner will become the new caller. Be warned—it is going to get loud in here. So, please, no cursing. Because I don’t like to hear it. I am a lady.”
“A sexy lady,” Sheldon says, beaming at her.
Beckett raises a brow. “Yikes,” he says, low enough they can’t hear.
“Communication is key in this exercise,” Nance explains to us. “As it is in nearly every aspect of our lives. Without communication, for example, our marriage would not thrive.”
Now they’re beaming at each other.
“Wait, what?” Patrick blurts out. “You’re not brother and sister?”
Sheldon frowns at him. “We’ve been happily married for twenty-two years.”
Patrick remains entirely unconvinced. “Come on. You’re just playing around now. You’re brother and sister,” he insists. He turns to the group for backup. “Am I the only one who thought that?”
Shane laughs silently into the crook of his arm, broad shoulders shaking.
“In fact, one of our side gigs is marriage counseling,” Sheldon tells us. “We work primarily with couples whose marriages suffer from communication hiccups. So, if any of you young men are married and need guidance…”
“I’d rather get divorced,” someone says.
Several guys snort with laughter.
Nance sighs and tries to direct our attention back to the course. “Before we get started, are there any questions?”
“Are you really not brother and sister?” Nazem asks.
“Any other questions?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
GIGI
National Dessert Day
THE COMMITTEE FOR THE ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT’S DECEMBER fundraiser meets in the Briar library on Monday afternoon, after my teammates and I wrap up practice.
It’s an interesting group. From the women’s team, it’s me, Camila, and Whitney. For the men, it’s Ryder, Shane, and Beckett representing the former Eastwood side, while Will Larsen and David Demaine represent Briar. Must have been strategic on Jensen’s part, who he assigned—or rather, forced into this. A loudmouth like Trager or that Rand guy would only derail all the plans. But I am surprised Case isn’t here. As the other captain, he probably should be.
That’s cleared up when Demaine takes his seat and says, “Colson got stuck in a meeting with his professor. He said to text him the details. He’ll be here next time, though.”
I try not to meet Ryder’s gaze. It’s been a full week since we had sex, and we haven’t spoken.
Not one single word. Not one single text message. I haven’t even passed him in the halls of the training facility, which makes me wonder if he’s actively avoiding me.
After the first few days of radio silence, I started to get pissed. Because, come on, I don’t even deserve a Hey, how are ya? after a literal sex marathon?
But then the relief started trickling in, because…the truth is, I didn’t know what to say to him either.
We had sex for hours that night. So many hours that I was sore for three days afterward. I even got my period four days early, as if my body was forcing a reboot after that wild night with Luke Ryder.
And the worst part is, I want him again. It scares me how badly I want him. So I’ve been keeping my distance.
Clearly, he and I are on the same page in that regard. He’s barely looked my way since we sat down.
At the head of the table, Whitney opens her notebook and uncaps her pen. “Let’s get this going,” she says. “I have dinner plans.”
Beside me, Camila is making eyes across the table at Beckett. He’s making eyes right back. Yeah, those two make sense. They ooze sensuality.
