“You were serious?” I ask, allowing myself to turn to face him. He’s wearing a black ball cap turned backward and a gray T-shirt that’s tight enough to curve with every peck and ab muscle on his torso. He’s also wearing black sweats with a white stripe down the side of each leg, and I realize I’ve never actually seen his bare legs. He even wore his sweatpants to sleep last night.
“I know my body’s hot, baby, but if you wanna touch it all you have to do is ask,” he smirks, and I flush red now that I realize exactly how long I’ve been staring at him.
“Didn’t we have a conversation about this whole you calling me baby thing?” I change the subject.
“That’s right. You hate babies,” he says, and I laugh on instinct. I hate that he makes me laugh so easily. And I love it.
“I’m just going to get in a quick workout. Really, I won’t be here long,” I say, caught somewhere between wanting him to take my hint and let me go—and wanting him to challenge it, to challenge me.
“Chicken,” he says, and my tummy fires up with giddiness that he’s chosen door number two.
“I’m so not chicken. And oh my god, could you be more of a third-grader?” I ask. He’s followed me to the cubbies by the weight room. I push my small gym bag into one of the shelves, not even bothering to get out my iPod, because I’m totally transparent; I want Ty to stay and talk to me.
“I’m an awesome third-grader. That was my favorite grade. First kiss, class clown, record number of detentions. Yeah, I was king in third grade. So, are we conditioning or what?” he says, getting right back to his point without pause. He stares into me, his eyes taking a brief second or two to roam down to my waist before coming back to my face. I can feel my lips tug at the corner wanting to mimic the smirk he’s giving me. We’re flirting, and it feels good. But Ty’s also messing with my biggest weakness by dangling the soccer carrot out there in front of me like that. And I may not be strong enough to refuse his challenge—no matter the shit storm it will cause with my parents.
“What did you have in mind?” I relent, and his smirk grows into a full-blown smile.
Ty pulls a folded paper from his pocket and flattens it against his chest before handing it to me. I can’t help but gawk at his chest muscles for a split second before bringing my attention back to the paper. It’s a workout plan, a good one, completely customized to me. My heart melts that he’s serious about turning me back into a competitor—so serious he spent time and energy devising a plan. My muscles actually jolt with a tiny charge, the familiar desire of wanting to push myself settling deep inside me. But there’s also a faint stabbing sensation in my side, the one that comes from responsibility.
“I want to do this,” I say, sucking in my bottom lip, and holding my breath, trying to stave off the sting of tears in my eyes because I miss soccer so goddamned badly. “But I just can’t.”
I fold the paper along the same creases and toss it back to him, but he only stares at it in his lap, snickering once.
“Seriously, Ty. That time…my time. That part of my life is over. I can’t work at that level any more,” I say. I don’t even realize I’ve started to chew on my thumbnail until Ty reaches up and pulls my hand away from my face, tucking the workout plan back inside my fist.
“Yes, you can,” he says, squeezing my hand closed around the paper and looking at me, determined to get me on his side. My heart started kicking the instant he touched me, and the longer he holds my hand in his palm, the faster my pulse races. I haven’t begun my workout yet, but I feel a single drip of sweat form at my neck and race down my spine. My conscience is screaming at me: you can’t do this! I can’t do this because I’ll be breaking a promise I made to my mother, and because I told the doctors I would quit pushing myself so hard, and because Paige promised my parents she wouldn’t let me go overboard.
“Yes you can,” Ty repeats, squeezing my hand a little tighter, almost as if he can hear my inner battle. But he doesn’t understand. I have limits. I have responsibilities. And my body…it can’t handle any more pushing. It gets tired.
“I have MS.”
I say it so fast, I don’t hear the words leave my lips. But my breath is stripped away—it’s panic, the kind you get when you’re terrified, or when someone rips a painful bandage away.
“I have MS.”
I say it again, just to be sure I hear it this time. I won’t look at him because I don’t want to see the sympathy on his face. I don’t want to see that moment he gives up on me. I don’t want to see it, because I like the way he looked at me before—the flirting, the wanting, the desire, the kiss. Goddamn it, why did I tell him?