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Page 41 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)

SAMUEL

C alyx is a ticking time bomb. He’s been my official boyfriend for going on three weeks, and if he doesn’t tell me he loves me soon, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna explode.

Not to be an asshole, but I find his internal struggle endlessly entertaining. Still, I figure I was the one who called boyfriends first. I’m the only one who ever asks him out. He can do this one thing first.

Tonight, however, he’s too busy fussing and bitching over my black eye and the dinner plate-sized bruise on my rib cage. Nothing’s broken, but you’d think I lost an arm.

Like via a woodchipper, and it can’t be sewn back on.

When I winced at his greeting hug, it was all downhill from there. “This is exactly what I was talking about.”

“This is what a winner looks like, angel.”

He did not like that at all .

It’s not all bad, though. Besides the complaining, he’s actually being really sweet.

I’m in bed, where he wanted me, between his legs, resting my head on his chest. His touches are tender, and the position itself is protective.

It occurs to me while we’re watching another episode of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier that if I were alone, I’d be feeling pretty sorry for myself tonight.

It’s true, I did win the match, but I let a couple of cheap shots through, and I could have done better.

Also, I hurt everywhere and not just the places it’s obvious.

Knowing how miserable I would be without him makes being with him so much better. I feel warm and content. Grateful. In love.

I’m pretty sure it’s love. I figure since he’s the only person I want to be with, the only one whose opinion actually matters to me, the only one I like to touch and talk to and definitely the only person I want in my bed whether he’s mad at me or not, it’s probably love.

His presence makes my heart feel so full it hurts.

It’d be easy to tell him that right now.

A perfect time really because it’s one of the rare occasions where we likely won’t have sex.

He’d fight me if I said it, though. Tell me I’m too young, and I don’t have enough experience, or he’ll find some other logical reason I couldn’t possibly be in love with him.

But for me, it’s more like—how could I not be? If I had my phone, I’d take a picture of us right now just so I could show it to him as proof.

I’m not saying it, though. If the timing is perfect for me to tell him, it’s good timing for him, too. So I thread my fingers through the ones he has splayed on my chest and kiss his inner arm. He squeezes my hand. Three times.

His knees are bent at my sides. Sighing, I run my other hand up and down the back of his bare thigh.

“Can we watch something else after this?” he asks. “I’m having trouble getting into it.”

“Whatever you want,” I tell him.

“What happens when we’re done with all the Marvel stuff?”

“We break up. ”

He laughs softly. “Oh, well shit. We should definitely pause this one then.”

“You wanna stay with me a little longer, baby? Drag this whole thing out?”

“At least through the holidays.”

“What do you do for the holidays?” I ask.

“Depends. What do you do?”

“The usual. Go home. Get fed. Sleep a lot. I usually get a bunch of new clothes.”

“Ah, well, sounds like a win-win.”

“Seriously, what do you do?” I ask.

“Last year I was in Australia. There were a lot of parties. It was summer there.”

“What about on Christmas day?”

“I was probably hungover. I don’t remember.”

“Where do your parents live?” I ask. This is one of those topics that probably should have come up before, and maybe it has, but he’s pretty good at distracting me if he doesn’t want to talk about something. Parents are one of those things for whatever reason.

“My mom lives in Miami, and my father lives in Boston.”

“Oh.”

“We’re not close,” he says. “Obviously.”

“How’d you wind up here?” I ask.

“No particular reason. I just like it here. California in general. Great architecture,” he says.

I smile. “Well, if we haven’t finished all the Marvel shows by the holidays, we could maybe do something together.”

“Like…?”

“Did you like Christmas in the summer?” I ask.

“You want to go to Australia?”

“Hawaii?” I offer .

His legs move along my sides, and it feels really, really good. Warm and delicious. So fucking comfortable. “I like Hawaii,” he says.

“It’s not the Maldives…”

“But it’s really nice and pretty and the beaches are good there, too. Flight’s way shorter.”

“I’m already convinced,” I say.

“Your family wouldn’t miss you?”

“I’ll give ‘em a couple of days, but they have three sons. They can spare me.” What I don’t say is that the idea of Calyx being alone on Christmas while I’m down in LA being fed three meals a day and getting lots of mom hugs breaks my heart.

I could invite him to come with me, but I don’t want my dad hounding him about fucking fashion week or something the whole time. Also, there’s the small matter of not having told my parents I’m in a relationship with him. Or a him in general.

There’s also the possibility of my dad coming to my fight in a couple of weeks and there might be an opportunity to have the conversation then, but I’d really like to get that I love you first. Those are the two main reasons I didn’t want my dad to know he was in my bed when he showed up out of nowhere a few weeks ago.

He’s Calyx’s manager—and I want to lock this in before I involve my parents in it.

“Maybe they can spare you, but I agree, I shouldn’t have to,” he says, which is probably the nicest thing he’s said to me since I got home.

I turn over and wrap my arms around him, resting my cheek on his stomach. His heart speeds up. I can feel it. Hear it. He tucks his feet between my thighs and rubs my head.

“I—” he takes a deep breath, and I hold mine. “I can’t believe you have a black eye. We have a party tomorrow night.”

I turn my face into his stomach, rubbing my nose against his abs, knowing it’ll tickle, and he squirms, laughing as he tries to hold my head still. I give up on the love confession, surrendering to his warmth and his sounds. Maybe next time.

When Calyx and I opened up our relationship a week ago, I was not prepared for the amount of invitations we’d be getting.

Calyx doesn’t like it when I say it that way, although it’s totally what it feels like. I only mean he came out to his friends about us. Which apparently also isn’t the right way to put it, but whatever. To say he’s loosened up isn’t untrue, but it only applies to when we’re alone together.

He’s buzzing around this birthday party like a mosquito on meth.

The party is for one of his friends Bailey.

It’s my first time meeting her, but she’s connected with his gym bro Ryan—the guy with the good tattoos who doesn’t like me, so he’s here along with his boyfriend and a bunch of other people who work in finance.

Rachel and Priya are also inexplicably here, and they’re keeping me company while Calyx flutters around the rented out bar.

He’s dressed in ivory tonight. His over-sized sweater refuses to stay on his right shoulder, and the front of it is tucked into matching, tailored slacks that are made of silk.

His “going out” clothes are unlike anything I’ve ever seen humans wear in real life.

If I’d met him in a place like this—seen him from across a room, I would have pegged him as a model right off the bat.

Granted, I have some experience identifying models in the wild, having grown up with my dad.

They can’t help but stand out. Even if their looks aren’t what I’d consider conventionally attractive, either their height or their wardrobe will set them apart.

They’re also sort of always posing. They have this way of finding the light sources and using them to their advantage. The good ones anyway.

Calyx is not an exception. Even his party prep consisted of a week of clean eating and only drinking a particular brand of water because he claims it’s the only kind that won’t give him pimples. I’ve never seen so much as a clogged pore on his face, so I can’t argue his methods.

His gaze flicks to me again. When he notices I’m still sitting with his girlfriends, he continues his conversation with Ryan’s boyfriend Malcolm, talking with his hands and smiling extra hard.

“He needs a blow job,” I mutter.

Rachel sputters into her drink. “This is just what he’s like,” she says. “When he’s happy.”

“Yeah?”

She rubs my back. “Good job. It’s been awhile.”

“He looks like a confetti cannon about to go off,” I say.

“Take him for a spin on the dance floor. Maybe that’ll settle him down.”

We’re standing by the bar, watching the room. Rachel and Priya are selecting their prey, and I’m wondering if I can get the bartender to turn the TV on. There’s a big UFC fight tonight. I’m recording it, but in a room full of mostly strangers, I’m not feeling my most settled.

It doesn’t help that I’m not drinking. With my own fight two weeks away, I’m starting to cut weight so it won’t be so painful the couple of days before the expo.

The first time I had to cut weight the “traditional” way before a fight, I felt like I was legit going to die. I passed out in a sauna, threw up on a treadmill, and did not feel my best in the fight despite the fact that I’d re-fed and hydrated after the weigh-in was over .

I’m trying something different this time, even if it’s not what my trainer recommended.

I say it’s better to be at my best every day even if I won’t be as heavy the day of the fights.

However, it’s the first time I’m testing the theory, so we’ll see how it goes.

Javier was right about the fighter I’m matched against. He’s not great.

I’m no idiot, so I can leave room for the possibility that he’s improved a lot knowing I’m his opponent and training to beat me, but I’m training my ass off, too.

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