by Ginger Scott
“He’s giving you a refund because he shouldn’t have charged you in the first place. Aren’t you, Pete?” Cannon is close by. I feel the heat radiating from his body from his workout, and a certain amount of oxygen leaves the space he enters.
I hold the fiver up between Pete and me and glance from Lincoln to the old man. I flatten it on the counter and slide it his way. “Take it off my tab. I’d like to get a monthly membership.”
He gives me a sideways grin and slides the money toward him with a single finger.
“I’ll bring the other forty-five when I come next time,” I say.
He nods, pulling a clipboard up from behind the counter and tossing it down in front of me. A crumpled paper stuck to the top reads: ENROLLMENT FORM. He taps it with his finger, and I note the small tattoo above his knuckle, two small letters—G and F—faded in green.
“Put your info on here. I’ve got a fancy program that bills you so I don’t have to handle cash. Something about taxes or some shit.” He laughs, a little sinister, as if he’s maybe gotten away with skipping taxes a few times in the past.
“Sure,” I say, glancing up at him while pulling the paperwork and pen close to my body. I fill in my name and tap it with the ball point of the pen until he looks at it.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“No, just want to make sure you take a good look at my name so you can commit it to memory and quit calling me sweetheart.” I raise a brow and leave my mouth flat and serious. A short laugh punches out of his chest, but he nods.
“I’ll do my best,” he says, eyeing the six-foot-plus guy standing next to me whom I have yet to completely acknowledge. I have mixed feelings after Friday. Cannon left our hitting session because Zack told him to, his mood suddenly changing to fit his cousin’s stereotypical grudge. Then, when Zack turned our basketball game into a blatant and very public example of sexual harassment, Cannon just stood there. I don’t expect knights on white horses; I’m not naïve. I do expect guys of my generation to be a little more enlightened. I remind myself, though, that Cannon hasn’t walked in my shoes.
I fill the paper out and spin the clipboard around for Pete to take, but before he carries it off to head back to his chair—and the Packers—I stop him.
“Who’s GF?” I gesture the pen I’m still holding toward his right hand. He turns his palm over and looks at his finger, his eyes getting lost for a breath before a tepid smile sinks into his mouth, rounding his cheeks.
“Gini Forenzi. Best damn cook this side of the Mississippi.” He leaves his gaze on the fading initials then curls his hand into a fist, almost as if to hold on to them and keep them around a little longer. He knocks on the countertop with the same hand, and I can tell that’s the end of that conversation.
My hope that Cannon has moved back to the weights is extinguished the moment I turn around. Hands in the pockets of his black shorts, his white T-shirt soaked with sweat, he jerks his head to the side to flip his curling hair from his eyes.
“Aren’t you freezing in here?” It’s the only question I feel like asking.
“Give it an hour, you’ll be peeling layers off too.” His voice carries over the volume on the TV and he looks toward the back of Pete’s head. The old man promptly grips a remote and raises the sound a few more notches.
“My place, my thermostat. You don’t like it, get your own gym,” he grumbles.
My eyes widen and I can’t help but laugh as I look back to Cannon. He shrugs at the response.
“Pete lives upstairs, and he keeps things . . . warm.”
Warm. Yes, that’s the word for what I’m feeling right now. It has nothing to do with Pete and his thermostat, though. My stomach feels the same way it does when I take sips of my father’s whiskey on holidays. I’m on shaky ground, and I’m not sure why. I think it’s because I want to let Cannon off the hook, but after spending the last forty-eight hours renewing my bad impression of him, it’s hard to flip back again.
“You wanna spot me?” He backs away toward the bench he has set up, and at a quick assessment, it looks as though he’s lifting about two-twenty-five.
“Sure.” I shrug, that line I drew over the weekend blurring with my first step toward him.
He straddles the bench, pulling up the legs of his shorts as he sits, and it’s impossible not to gawk at his thick, defined quads. He might be right about the heat in here. I already regret the long-sleeved tee. I push the sleeves up and move into position at the bar while he leans back, resting his head in front of my knees. His hair flops back and if I were in shorts, it would tickle me.
I left without a hair band, so I stuff my hair into the neck of my shirt to keep it out of my face. When I look down and meet Cannon’s waiting gaze, I notice the amusement threatening to break his lips into a chuckle.
“What?” My New York accent is thick tonight.
“You are always tying your hair in literal knots. Why do you even have it long?”
I blow at a stray lock that’s already fallen over my face, and it’s enough to pull out the laugh he’s been holding on to.
“You make a good point, Jennings,” I say, pushing the rogue hairs back into my collar, then tugging the neck of my shirt forward to keep them locked behind me for a few extra seconds. I hope.
I wrap my hands around the center of the bar while he places his on the outsides, making eye contact with me when he’s comfortable. He nods and blows out, and suddenly I notice his lips. Full, a maroon red brought out by the blend of the cold air outside and the oven Pete’s made inside. His cheeks are rosy, and there’s a faint trace of stubble along his jawline. I don’t think he could quite grow a beard, but for some reason, I imagine a version of him ten years from now that has one.
With a hard upward thrust, Cannon brings me back to the present, pushing the bar from his chest with a grunt. My fingers remain loose but poised, ready to help. Nobody at Xavier ever lifted this much weight. My dad lifts this much. Sometimes.
His pace is unflinching, the bar lowering with ease, rising with an equal push every time. He doesn’t struggle until the end of his fifth rep, and even then, he only needs a little verbal encouragement from me.
“You got this. This is nothing for you, come on!” I boost. His eyes flit to mine while he holds his breath, his pupils a deep black from the effort, the ring of blue around them practically glowing, as if he’s more machine than man. Perhaps he is, because when he reaches the top, he leaves his eyes on mine as he grunts out, “Again!”
I hold his intense stare, gauging his command, rooting out whether he’s simply showing off for me or working to improve . . . for him.
I nod when I realize he’s going to do this no matter what my response is, and I tighten my hold on the bar, not wanting him to injure himself on my watch. The bar falls more easily this time, his resistance weakened, and as it bounces off his chest, his drained power becomes evident.
“Come on!” he shouts at himself. I help with the lift just enough to give him an edge, his left arm stronger than his right; most of my work is to keep the bar level.
“Almost there,” I say, even though he’s only a quarter in to the return.
“Come on, push!” His eyes lock on mine again with my shout, and the doubt clears away behind them. He growls as his grip tightens, my hands sliding toward his, holding his fingers in place, not so much lifting as guiding him up. The muscles and tendons on his forearms and biceps roll in waves, working in unison to pass this hurdle. The moment the bar rolls back onto the rack, a hard breath rushes from his mouth, puffing his cheeks before his arms fall limp at his sides.
The smile that stretches his maroon lips is instant, and so very wide. Dimples mark both cheeks and the rush of blood comes back into his face as laughter billows in his throat and through his mouth in apparent relief.
“Goddamn, that was hard,” he admits.
My hands are still on the bar as I stare down at him, my hair no longer obeying where I put it, instead sticking to my nec
k and face. I barely did any work and I’m sweating. Cannon was right, but it’s the feel of his hands underneath mine, trusting mine, working with mine, that makes me rush with heat.
I suddenly need distance between us. I fall back a few steps to another bench, sitting down to pull my long-sleeved shirt over my head, and wiping away the sweat from my neck and forehead. I’m in my sports bra, which is never weird for me, and usually isn’t a big deal for other guys in gyms. But my bare arms and midriff are Cannon’s primary focus as he stares at me upside down, his head tilted up and his hair falling from the end of the bench while he stares at me from his lying position.
Leaning back, I place my palms on the bench behind me and stretch a little, fully aware of what this position does to my breasts and stomach. I’m basically a peacock right now, tits for feathers. I’m not a Victoria Secret model, my size modest, but B-cups pronounced from my muscle can draw attention. I’ve never really wanted someone to look. It’s antithetical to what I preach. Fuck hypocrisy, though, because this is the first time since our kiss that Cannon Jennings has looked at me and licked his lips.
“You wanna go next?” He asks the question while still meeting my gaze from upside down. It’s somehow easier to look him in the eyes this way.
I nod and get up just as he does. We cross paths, our arms brushing as we pass and he moves to stand at the bar while I position myself on my back, feet flat on the ground and my eyes fighting not to look past the bar and into his. I focus on my hands while shifting my butt on the bench until my lower back finds comfort. I test my grip while Cannon removes most of the weight. He’s about to take another twenty-five plate off when I stop him.
“I can do that,” I say. It’s my max. It took me all summer to get up to one-twenty-five, and I was stubborn about it. I can tell Cannon has reservations by the way his gaze sticks to mine, his head slightly angled. His doubt fuels me.
“I said I can do that, so let’s go, pitcher boy.” He flinches at my tease but shakes his head while smiling.
“Pretty sure in the short time I’ve known you I’ve learned when I can and can’t tell you to do things,” he mutters.
“And that would be never. You can never tell me what to do,” I respond, my mouth a tight, serious line for exactly two seconds before I let my laugh break through.
“I’m pretty sure you’re not joking about that.” He winces in one eye and smiles crooked. I nod toward the bar and try my damnedest to focus on this heavy-ass weight I’m about to lift up from my chest.
“Alright, Staten Island girl, show me what you got!” His encouragement is genuine, and it’s enough to get me through the first thrust, lifting the bar off the rack and into position above my chest. Now comes the hard part.
I flit my gaze to his in a brief panic, and his grip tightens on the bar as he senses I need more help than I let on. He doesn’t bail me out, though, which I appreciate. He’s going to make me follow through with this.
“Come on. First one; we can get to three,” he says, his voice low as he bends forward and speaks at me.
“Four,” I grunt back. I can feel his assistance, his hold taking enough of the weight off for me not to crush my ribs, and as I let the bar hit my chest, I’m able to rebound it back up. I grit my teeth and tense my jaw so much that I feel the strain in the sides of my neck as my hands wobble their way back toward him, my elbows locking at the top.
“Okay, that was one. Let’s get to three and then we can negotiate that fourth one, deal?” He lifts one eyebrow and I try to laugh. My exertion only allows me a quick nod, though.
“Fine,” I bark out.
He chuckles and shakes his head, guiding my hands back down as I work on the second rep. Determined not to get weaker, I groan loudly, the same way my dad does when he maxes out, and the air in my lungs buoys me enough to finish the second rep with a little more energy. Not wanting to lose it, I nod at him to go right into the third. My muscles burn, and sweat glistens on my arms. It’s the middle of winter in Indiana but I am burning up.
“You got this,” Cannon chants.
His voice invades my head and I take my eyes away from my hands for just a blip. His eyes are focused on my hands, on the bar that is too heavy for me at this point but that he believes I can move. He nods, but our gazes don’t quite meet. I’m glad because if they did, I might drop everything.
Lost in his blues, I blow out hard as the weight lands against my breasts. This exercise is so much harder for women. I can’t imagine men lifting weights precariously over their balls. It wouldn’t happen. I push and grind and my elbows are tingling by the time I straighten them again, arms locked and spent. I don’t let go of my grip, though. I don’t let the flex slip away either, because now is the time to negotiate. A small part of me wants Cannon to insist and give me permission to not walk the walk I so carelessly talked. But that is not his style. Yet one more thing for the list.
“You ready for this fourth one?” His eyes shift just enough to meet mine, and I can read the challenge in them. It’s different than the taunting way his cousin stares at me, or the way parents at Xavier looked on when I took the field. Cannon is looking at me as though he legitimately believes I can do this.
I nod again and pant out a “Yes” as together we bring the bar back down to my body. Cannon helps way more this time, taking a good twenty-percent of the weight for me by the time I reach my chest. The way up is a different story.
“Time to battle,” he coaches, easing up so I feel the struggle.
His assistance isn’t gone, but he isn’t helping me at the same level he did the first three reps. This time, my arms have little to give, so I dig in with my feet and crush the arch of my back against the bench for every extra little ounce of leverage I can get. I start to cry out as the bar falls to one side then the other. Each time, Cannon gives me a nudge back to balanced, continually uttering encouragement.
“You’re so close. It’s almost there. One more . . . just one more push.” He takes over when I’m about an inch from getting the bar back on the rack, and the moment my arms are free, I let them dangle to my sides as relief and pride flush my body.
Cannon claps a single clap and brings his closed palms up to his lips, hiding his grin.
“I can do that,” I say, echoing my proclamation from minutes before. My lips a lazy, open-mouthed smile, I say it again, my eyes meeting Cannon’s as he backs away a few steps. “I can do that.”
“You just did that,” he corrects.
His cheeks dimple with his closed-mouth smile, and I cash that expression in as mine—I earned those dimples. Still a little breathless, and hot as hell, I maintain our stare until it becomes uncomfortable. Cannon is the first to look away, glancing down at his feet as he shuffles back until his shoulders touch the wall.
I swivel my legs around the bench as I sit up, straddling it and facing the other direction so we’re now looking at one another. His stoic armor slips as his focus moves from my face to my neck, then to my bare midriff. When he looks me in the eyes again, he sees he’s caught and rubs his palm over his chin as he lets out a bashful laugh.
“I like the belly button ring,” he says, gesturing lazily at my stomach. I tuck my chin to my chest and stretch my skin.
“Oh, yeah. I forget I have it sometimes.” I shrug when I look back up at him and he gives a slight shake to his head, breathing out across his faint smile.
“What?” I press.
His eyes dip to my stomach again and his lips part, his expression a little more predatory, definitely interested. I allow myself a glance toward his stomach, and then lower. Training shorts don’t mask much, and Cannon is definitely into belly button rings.
I flick my finger against the metal to get his attention, but he doesn’t waver, his gaze still on my bare skin, soaking me in like a boy told not to eat desert before dinner.
“I didn’t plan on working out.” I tap the bottom of my pink boots against the concrete floor a few times, drawing Cannon’s stare ther
e instead. He tilts his head back with a short laugh.
“That’s a first. Pretty sure Pete’s never had anyone lifting in princess gear before!” He lets his hands fall into his pockets as he shifts his weight against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles.
I lift my toes to gaze at the glitter accents on the knitting, and smirk.
“My little brother bought these for me as a joke because me and pink aren’t really a thing. Turns out though . . .” I draw my legs up and fold them on the bench, sitting so my hands can hold on to the tops of my feet. “I really love these things.”
I gaze up at Cannon with a cheesy grin and he pushes away from the wall, nodding at my shoes. “They’re pretty dope.”
I wait for him to pass, irrationally pleased that he approves of my girly footwear. He’s taking down the weights from my bar, so I stand and help him. We work wordlessly for a few minutes, leaving things nice by the rack before moving on to free weights. I kick the tire I saw him flipping when I first visited the gym.
“I’d like to try this sometime,” I say.
He finds a good spot to stand for his bicep curls then glances from the tire to me and back again. “Shouldn’t be a problem for you,” he says, sizing me up like an equal. As he begins lifting, I stand by and watch for a few minutes, letting myself live this moment. I’m always either the cool teammate or the girl some boy who has no interest in team sports is into. Other than Jordan, guys in my game don’t want to cross boundaries, and my relationship with my ex was living proof of what a disaster it is to blur the lines. But maybe . . . maybe I can be both the kinda girl you kiss at a party and the kind you throw with on the diamond.
Lost in this blissful fantasy, I set my feet up a few feet from Cannon, facing the wall-length mirrors as I begin my reps. My weights are about half the size of his, and my biceps are definitely not in the same league, but I keep pace, doing the same number of reps and resting in sync with him. We’re about to begin our third sets when his eyes finally find mine in our reflection. He studies me while his arms begin their work.