Page 127 of The Fall

My arms tremble. I lock in my grip, then catch Blair’s scent, Key lime and salt, as he steps behind my bench.

“Brace through your lats.”

I inhale and push. My form breaks halfway; the bar wobbles.

“Elbows in.” His fingertips brush under my arms, steadying my position. That touch spirals through me, scattering my focus into sparks. I grind out another rep. Blair’s hands float close enough that I can nearly feel their heat. “Good,” he says.

I rack the bar. My shoulders release; my breath comes back in pieces. “Thanks. I needed the push.” I’ve been going further every workout, pushing myself for more, more.

“You’ve put on good weight,” Blair says. His eyes track over my shoulders, my arms, my core. It’s purely professional. There’s no linger in his look.

“I’ve been working on it.”

“It’s paying off. You’re harder to knock off the puck.”

“Still not as solid as you.” He’s heavier on the puck than anyone I’ve ever skated with.

“Few are.” He grins.

I want more than this; I want his laugh between shifts and his shirt on my bedroom floor, but he keeps the line sharp. I’m a teammate.

Hollow belts out part of a truly awful country-pop chorus while Hayes keeps up his lazy leg press and high-energy shit-talk. Divot is pumping out pull-ups; he isn’t stopping anytime in the next hour.

Blair is still by my side. “You doing sled pushes today?”

“I’m supposed to be.” I grimace. Sweat drips from my forehead to the floor.

“Let’s rotate sets.”

“Sure.”

He takes the sled like it weighs nothing. I track the angle of his back with each stride and watch how his shoulders ripple, how the bands of his calves tighten on every plant and push.

He finishes and circles back, chest heaving, and wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt. The flash of skin hits me like a sucker-punch, his abs flexing, that strip of tanned muscle above his waistband. I force my eyes away, anywhere but on the sweat tracking down his stomach.

“Your turn,” he says.

I peel off my sweat-drenched shirt and toss it to the side. His gaze cuts toward me, then away. I step up to the sled, gripping the handles until my knuckles go white.

“Remember what I said about the lean.” His voice is right behind me. “You’re still too upright.”

I adjust my stance, drop my hips lower. The first push sends fire through my quads, but I dig in, driving forward.

“Better,” Blair calls out. “Keep that angle.”

The sled scrapes against the turf, metal on rubber creating this awful grinding sound that matches the protest in my legs. Halfway through, my form starts to break. My back rounds, shoulders climbing toward my ears.

“Stay tight through your core. Don’t let it collapse.”

I grit my teeth and lock everything down, pushing through the last ten feet. When I finally stop, my legs are rubber. I lean on the sled handles, gulping air.

Blair hands me his water bottle without me asking. “You trying to make me look lazy?”

I laugh right in his face, then take a long drink to hide how hard I’m breathing.

“Your turn again,” I say, tossing the bottle back. “Unless you need a break?”

We win three more games, then we lose to Nashville in overtime. I play like shit again, enough to take the team to the brink of a loss, before Hollow comes up with the clutch goal to sweat out a win.