THE NEXT AFTERNOON, RED IS ALONE IN THE TRAINING ROOM when I walk in. He’s got a folder and paperwork spread across one of the tables and has pulled his bifocals way down low on his nose, squinting at whatever he sees.
“Hey, Red! Campbell was supposed to come get me when he finished his workout so we could go pick up some lunch.” When Red doesn’t look up, I lean back, trying to see if there’s any light under the door where the ice baths are separated from the rest of the training room. It’s dark. “Is he showering?”
“Nope. That boy is in a mood today.”
“A mood?” Campbell doesn’t really have moods. Every now and then his frustration sneaks out, but he’s careful to tuck it away. Always polite. Generally optimistic. He’s basically Captain America minus performance-enhancing drugs.
Red finally looks up, eyeing me over his wire frames. He doesn’t say anything about my navy pencil skirt, sleeveless white blouse, and neat ponytail, though I see it register on his face. I’ve been trying to dress more professionally so that if someone with money wanders into our office and I have a chance to meet with future “community partners” face-to-face, I’ll look legit instead of like one of their kids.
“He’s been working out for”—Red squints at his watch—“however long it’s been since you dropped him off.”
“Three hours?” I know Red’s eyesight isn’t great and his hearing isn’t much better, but this is the first time I’ve worried about his mind. “There’s no way. What could he possibly do for three hours without working his legs?”
Red waves me toward the gym door. “See for yourself.”
Doubtful, I march away, assuming Campbell found something to watch on one of the TVs and lost track of time. He reads on his phone a lot and plays his brother in silly online games. Even though there are more comfortable places to do all of that. Like in the chair I’ve pulled up next to my desk.
As I swing open the glass door, I can hear the repetitive whir of one of the machines.
The rowing machine.
He’s dangling his right foot off the side, using only his left leg to propel the sliding seat backwards. His hair is dark with sweat;his sleeveless dry-fit shirt is soaked through in a neat line down his spine. Triceps, biceps, quad, and what I can see of his back muscles are sharply toned, and while any other day I might have stopped to watch, I’m a little too irritated to really enjoy the sight.
“What are you doing?” I demand, coming to stand beside him.
He gives me a chin-tilt hello but doesn’t slow down.
The time on the machine’s readout shows forty-two minutes. He’s been rowing one-legged for forty-two minutes. How can his body do that? How can anyone’s body do that? Isn’t his quad exploding? I tap the timer on the machine.
“Almost. Done.” There’s a big gap between words, when he inhales.
“Forty-two … three minutes? Are you crazy?”
When he doesn’t answer, I step on the surge protector button, killing the power to the machine.
“Ryan,” he snaps. It’s the sharpest tone he’s ever used with me. He rips his earbuds out, clearly pissed off. “I only had fifteen more minutes.”
“What if you slipped? What if you snagged your stitches on the edge? It’s sharp.” I push my fingers against it to show him, leaving a red line in my skin. “What if I had to haul you back to Arlington—”
“I wasn’t going to slip. I don’t slip.”
“You’re not supposed to put any pressure on your foot.” I pick up a towel from the wire basket against the wall and throw it at him.
“I wasn’t.”
“For three hours.”
He wipes his face, and I get the sense he’s composing himself behind the towel.
“I know you’re upset that you’re not playing, but this”—I wave to the whole gym and then point to the rowing machine—“is not normal. It’s my job to take care of you, and I don’t want to get into trouble if you hurt yourself.”
“Oh.” He picks up his water bottle and flicks back the top. “That’s what this is about.”
“What?”
“You. Your rules. Getting into trouble.”
My face scrunches in confusion. “No. It’s about you not being stupid. You’ll be back on the field soon enough. Chill out a little.”
Campbell laughs, but it’s cold, humorless. “That’s funny coming from you.”
I stand up straight and fold my arms across my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He says nothing, shakes his head, and swings his legs over the side of the machine. His crutches are leaning against the wall behind me, and I know he’s going to have to limp over to them. I could hand them to him, but he’s obviously eager to prove that he’s Superman.
The space between us is loaded, ready to explode at the next word or breath or look.
How did we get here? To this place where we can be angry at each other over a sentence or two?
I guess when you spend so much time in such close proximity to one person, the nature of your relationship changes faster. There’s a scientific term for it—saturation point or critical velocity or both of those combined—and I can’t remember what it is, but we’ve reached it quicker than I knew was possible.
He breaks first, taking a swig of his water before he speaks. “Can you hand me my crutches? Please.”
“What did you mean?”
“Nothing.” He holds out his hand. “Crutches.”
I lick my lips, suddenly nervous to hear his response. “I only turned off the machine because I was worried.” I grab the crutches and offer them to him.
“I know. It’s just …” He doesn’t take them immediately, resting his elbows on his knees, good foot bouncing up and down. “I figured you would understand. I’ve seen you after your runs. I know how hard you push yourself.”
“I’m not talking about physically.” When he looks up at me, his expression is open and a little vulnerable. “You think I haven’t heard you typing in the middle of the night? Do you think I don’t notice that you have twenty new ideas every time we talk about saving the stadium? How many hours are you sleeping, anyway?”
I can’t hold his gaze, afraid of what my face is giving away and refusing to let him see it. “Enough.” Okay, that’s a total lie. I’m getting three or four hours most nights, when my mind shuts off enough to fall asleep.
“I don’t blame you. I know exactly how bad you want this.” He stands and takes my elbows, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to lose baseball either.”
Campbell doesn’t explain himself any further. He doesn’t have to. I know why he’s in the gym, killing himself to get better, faster. We’re both terrified of what may happen if we don’t work harder than everyone else, if we aren’t constantly devoting our time and energy to this thing we love.
For both of us, baseball is so much more than a game.
He takes the crutches from me, but his fingers trail down my forearms first. It’s too slow to be unintentional. It’s a silent apology. And maybe something more.
It’s that something else that jerks me out of the moment. I shouldn’t recognize that’s what his touch means. I shouldn’t have let myself get comfortable with the hand-brushing and shoulder-bumping. And I definitely shouldn’t be standing so close, with my pulse thrashing in the base of my throat and him looking down at me with half worry and half want on his face.
This—whatever this is—has gone too far. We shouldn’t share any of this. We shouldn’t know about each other’s drive and passion and fear. I shouldn’t feel a jolt of awareness every time his fingers skim mine. We’re so far beyond the bounds of what is professional.
None of this is in my job description.
I’ve crossed the line with Sawyer Campbell, but not so far that I can’t step back. So I do, creating more space between us, both physically and mentally. “I’m …” I swallow hard, trying to box out whatever I’m feeling and focus on getting back to the professional. “I’m going to go back to my desk. Please have Red call me when you’re ready for lunch. I can have something delivered for you.”
“Ryan.”
I take another step backwards, toward the door and away from him. “I’m sorry I interrupted your workout. I promise this won’t happen again.”
He calls after me, but I rush out of the gym and let the door swing shut between us.
“SO, YOU LEFT HIM THERE?” MIA SCREECHES AS I KICK OFF MY SHOES and flop onto her unmade bed.
After my very ungraceful exit from the training area, I grabbed my laptop and keys and drove straight to Mia’s. I sent Dad a quick text saying that she needed me for “girl stuff.” He doesn’t question anything of that nature, so I may not hear back from him at all.
I put a gray pillow over my face, blocking out the light streaming in through the windows that wrap around Mia’s room. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Running away is usually not the best choice. For anything.”
“I wasn’t running.” My words are muffled by the soft, bumpy texture. I don’t know why Mia has a pillow made out of baby blanket material, but this minky-velour stuff is a nice option for face-covering. “Just walking. Fast-ish.”
The bed shifts as Mia sits down beside me. “You could have kissed him. That would have been a good choice.”
“Not an option.”
“Maybe not, but that’s what I would have done.” She gives a naughty-sounding laugh.
I push the pillow partway to the side and glare up at her. “Not helpful.”
“I know, but …” She props herself up on a pillow that’s shaped like the back of a chair. Mia has more pillows than anyone could possibly ever use, all test products for her pillow-making business. She’d sewn all of them herself. They’re all funky textures and shapes, and seemingly mismatched. And yet somehow her room looks like the cover of a magazine, done in gray, white, silver, and little pops of gold. I keep telling her she should sell her pillows, maybe in an Etsy shop, but she doesn’t think she’s ready yet.
“Let’s pretend that you let something happen between you and Sawyer,” she continues once she’s comfortable. “What’s the worst possible outcome?”
She shakes her head. “Your dad is only going to fire you if you do something totally gross. Like sneak into the locker room and get naked. You’re his right arm. He pretty much can’t function without you.”
“My mom finds out. And then she sends me to a convent or something.”
Mia makes an ugly, teeth-gritting face. “I’m pretty sure convents don’t take girls anymore, but it wouldn’t surprise me if your mom tried it. That is, if she found out. Which she probably wouldn’t since she’s not around all that often.”
“Whispers follow me and no one ever believes that I’m good at the job without some guy standing beside me.”
Mia doesn’t say anything for a little while, just pats my arm like her abuela does. “This is so sad. You finally really like someone.” I put the pillow back over my face. She’s right. I do like Campbell. He’s funny and smart and intense and not at all what I expected. He’s also completely off-limits.
“It’s fine. I can handle him.” I sit up and smooth down my ponytail. “I’m just going to—”
“Handle him?”
“No.” I huff at her villainous smile. “Handle it. I meant handle this whole situation.”
“Sure you did.”
