Page 11 of Studs Up
He was fit. Impressively so. I couldn’t help but admire the breadth of his shoulders and how his body had been sculpted from years of training. That urge to spread my hands over him bubbled up again, and I was going to have to do some serious fucking reflection on where these feelings were coming from.
At the moment, I could only watch and wonder.
The wall placard clearly stated that the gym hours were six am to ten pm. It was two forty-seven. Either he broke in or convinced the woman at the front desk to open it for him. With a body like that and a smile that would charm the pants off of anyone, I was leaning toward the latter.
So, what was I supposed to do here? Go back to bed and let him deal with whatever shit was going on with him? Or interfere?
My brain said fuck him, go back to bed. But apparently, I don’t listen to my brain anymore because I opened the door and stepped inside.
He wasn’t even listening to music or watching a show. The subtle whine of the bike and his panting were the only sounds in the room.
I chose the bike next to him, half sitting, half leaning on the seat, crossed my arms, and waited for him to notice me.
He was in his head. His eyes were closed tight, and his face was pinched. Sweat dripped from his hair, his nose, and his chin. Holden hadn’t heard me close the door, and I wasn’t even trying to be quiet.
It was no wonder he was one of the fittest guys in the league. If this was how he spent his nights, then a ninety minute shift was nothing.
Eventually, he slowed down and sat up. His eyes were still closed, and he let his hands dangle at his sides. Opening and closing them, letting the blood back into his fingers. He had been gripping the handlebars so tight they were bone white.
The pulse in his neck was hammering wildly, and this desire to reach out and soothe him overwhelmed me. I didn’t like seeing the pain in his face.
When he opened his eyes, they were a grey void. There was nothing behind them until he blinked it away. And that’s when he noticed me.
“Holy shit.” Monroe flailed and tumbled off the bike and landed clumsily on the floor. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“No,” I said calmly. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Working out,” he snarled as he picked himself up. His skin was flush, and his face was strung out. Heavy bags weighed down his eyes, and he looked frail.
“It’s almost three. You should be sleeping.”
“Why the fuck do you care?”
Well, that was actually a very good question. Why did I care? Why the hell was I down here? There was literally no reason for me to even bother.
“Coach wants me to play nice,” I decided it was the best answer available. “This is me being nice.”
“Lurking like a fucking ghost?”
“No. I was just standing here. Your head was too far up your ass to hear me come in.”
“Fuck you,” he scowled. “I don’t need this.” He snatched his shirt and stalked out of the gym.
“What you need is sleep,” I said following. He rounded on me.
“I don’t fucking need you to give me your fucking advice.”
I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Apparently, you do because it’s three in the fucking morning.”
“Fuck you.” He turned and marched out. I followed him. At the elevator, he tried to shut me out, but I was right on his ass, and he didn’t get the chance to close the door without me.
He punched the button to our floor and silently seethed as he tried to put his shirt back on, but it was sweat soaked and tangled, and he gave up. So he stood there next to me with no shirt and a pair of shorts.
The soft light of the elevator gave him a warm glow that I appreciated far too much, so I looked at the elevator doors with a fine glassy finish, and our reflections glared at each other.
“Is this why you play like shit?”
