Page 51 of Bad Prince
But now it’s steadier.
“You planning on staring at my calves all morning,” she asks, “or are you actually going to keep up?”
I nearly miss a step.
“I’m keeping up.”
“Debatable.”
We go harder.
No flirting.
Just push and counter-push.
She drives the pace.
I refuse to fall behind.
By the time we finally slow, my lungs are burning and I’m grinning like an idiot.
She rests her hands on her hips, breathing controlled.
“You look less miserable than you did in Boston,” she says.
“You’ve been monitoring my misery?”
“Hard not to. ESPN wouldn’t shut up about you.”
I step a little closer. Not crowding. Just enough to feel the warmth between us.
“I’m not miserable anymore.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
There’s something there.
Curiosity.
Caution.
History.
“Good,” she says quietly.
Then she grabs her water bottle.
“Don’t be late to your lift, Vale.”
She jogs off.
I watch her go.
And that’s when I feel it.
Not from her.
From the weight room entrance.
