Becca shoots me a stupid, grateful smile at the same time that the smirk drops from his face. His brows furrow in anger, probably having never been called out for his lazy work habits that everybody knows about but is too polite to address.
I turn and continue toward the stairs, not wanting to hang around this place for another second. "Have a good night," I call behind me.
By the time I reach the gym in the basement, I've walked enough steps and taken enough deep breaths that I've worked through the majority of my enraged anti-work thoughts. I'm so over my own coworkers and the amount of work that's piled up on my plate—none of which I enjoy doing—that I know spending any more time thinking about it will only make the situation worse. I'll put everything work-related out of my mind, run a few miles, and then maybe I'll try to get a little more work done at the house.
I change into my running gear and start on the treadmill at a jog. It doesn't take long for my thoughts to go from angry, to forcibly meditative, to now puzzled and reflective.
Except now my frazzled thoughts aren't about work—they’re about my night with Tristan.
I increase the speed of the treadmill to try to further distract myself from the confusing replay of our questions game. In just two hours last night, Tristan managed to completely change my view of him. And in just a few minutes this morning, my own subconscious reaction to him changed it even more.
I meant what I said to him about never thinking he was a dumb brute. But I also never really thought of him as more than a fighting-obsessed womanizer who only cared about himself.
Although, I admit the womanizing skills have been deliciously appreciated lately.
But to find out that he has intellectual interests, that he understands what a person's favorite book says about them, and that he's had a life plan outside of fighting since before he began, is not something I expected to learn about him. I also never thought about how fighting explains a lot of his apparent self-centeredness. I've seen how much time and energy goes into being a professional athlete, but I never really considered how selfish they have to be at that level. To be the best they can be, athletes need to center their whole world around the sport and devote every second, every resource, every last ounce of their energy.
It's no wonder he doesn't date seriously. He probably knows he wouldn't be able to give a girlfriend the time or attention she needs. In a way his player attitude actually makes sense now—something I never thought I'd say. I always assumed he just thought of women as interchangeable and didn't care to see them as more than an hour of pleasure. But maybe he's actually being considerate of their feelings by being honest with them that he can't offer a real relationship.
As I increase the speed on the treadmill, I can’t stop thinking about my new feelings toward Tristan. I obviously don't hate him as much as I did a few weeks ago if I bent over for him—three times. Something about being in close confines with him has allowed us to see more of each other than we ever have in the past few years. We’ve never spent time together with just the two of us, and I’ll admit that getting to know each other beyond a surface level understanding when there’s always a horde of other fighters around us isn’t exactly an easy task. It’s no wonder we didn’t really know each other.
I was also correct in my thinking last weekend when I realized our verbal sparring is actually proof of the sexual tension between us. It always has been, even though we never realized it. And fuck if the years of "foreplay" didn’t set us up for a few seriously explosive encounters.
But where do we go from here?
By Tristan's own admission, he's not looking for a girlfriend. And I'm definitely not looking to be one. He's too focused on fighting and I'm… just not interested in being a couple. I like being independent. I like not having to consult someone else about my plans or worry that they won't like that I spend so much time around guys in the gym. God knows I've dealt with enough of that jealousy in past relationships. But I mostly just enjoy being by myself right now.
That's not to say I don't enjoy sex. I don't do sex with strangers, but I've had a few friends with benefits over the years. I'm not sure I consider Tristan a friend yet, even if I don't hate him anymore, but the benefits with him are definitely a thousand times better than with anyone else. Maybe hate sex—or barely-just-stopped-hating-you sex—really is the best kind.
I decrease the speed on the treadmill as I start to cool down from my 5-mile run. I feel appropriately winded, and my legs are screaming from the exertion and fast pace. My head feels ten times clearer than it did an hour ago, and I happily jog the last mile. Exercise endorphins are a wonderful thing.
I wonder if I'll see Tristan tonight. He's usually at the gym until late, so I don't know if I'll run into him again before I go to bed. I wonder if last night is making him consider the same things I just spent the last hour thinking about.
I snort.Fat chance.
He's probably surprised he allowed himself to be engaged in a series of personal questions. Maybe he actually enjoyed himself. Maybe I should actually consider us friends.
Well, maybe non-enemies with benefits is more accurate.
I slow my pace to a walk as I let myself come to terms with the fact that I wouldn't mind having Tristan on me again. Memories of his hands gripping my hips, of my tongue tangling with his, of the overwhelming feeling of him moving inside me, flash through my mind. A blush flames my cheeks and a light sweat breaks out across my skin—separate from the one I worked up with my hard run.
I shake my head to clear the distracting thoughts. Just because I wouldn't say no if Tristan came on to me again doesn't mean I'm going to throw myself at him the next time I see him. For one, neither of us wants to get involved, and too many encounters just increase the chances of something going wrong. So, it’s probably smarter to not make this into a reoccurring thing. But for another, I don’t want Tristan to think I’m just another desperate plaything. The last thing I need is him thinking he holds any power over me.
I exhale a heavy breath as I press the Stop button on the treadmill. Now that I'm calmer and have a clear head, I really do have work I need to finish. But I'm definitely not doing it at the office, since I’m actually more productive in a casual setting where I can be sprawled out on a bed wearing sweats with my hair in a messy bun.
The house is empty when I get home, for which I’m grateful. I’ll get more work done if I don’t have Tristan distracting me—both physically and mentally. I reheat the chicken alfredo I made earlier this week and head upstairs to shower and get settled for the night.
I smile happily when I finally flop down on Jax's bed, clean and full and comfortable. I force myself to resist the urge to snuggle into the pillows with a book and instead pull my laptop from my bag with a dejected sigh. I start in on a product marketing campaign.
It doesn't take long for my frown to reappear and my head to begin pounding again. I feel soboreddoing this work.
I actually enjoyed the writing when I first started at the company. It obviously wasn't the kind of literature that I had loved studying in college, but part of me enjoyed the fact that I was using my skills to project a valuable technology product into the world. I even enjoyed the challenge of learning the marketing aspect.
But nowadays I just can't find it in me to care about what I'm writing. I don't enjoy doing technical research for a product I don't understand, just because the engineer was too lazy to write the datasheet themselves. I don't enjoy writing about the same product over and over again. And on top of everything else, I can't stand the fact that I care so little about what I'm writing, yet it eats up so much of my time—I feel like I'm expending way too much energy on something that, in reality, is just mindless grunt work.
I stick my pen through my bun and rub my eyes tiredly. I stand up from the bed and begin pacing around the room. I find myself remembering Tristan's last question to me.
What's your biggest struggle in life?