Page 21

Chapter 21

GAbrIEL

I didn’t think it was possible to simultaneously kick yourself for starting something and, at the same time, be so frustrated you hadn’t taken things further, but I couldn’t think about April without the warring guilt and need. Both were potent, but the need was so strong, it was nearly painful. I tortured myself, letting my thoughts wander to her all the time—to her plump lips, her taste, that fruity scent of hers, how it felt to pin her to the wall.

Every detail tormented me.

According to her training data, April dominated her workouts. I liked to believe that was just my stellar coaching at play, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she was using the physical exertion to release some pent-up energy. I know I was.

After my most recent ride, Rick sent me one sentence: Cool it, Torres.

Lying on the tile of my living room, sweating and panting, I’d thought it was hopeless. I could chase the thoughts of April away, but they always came back .

There was the temptation to reach out and talk about what happened, but I was afraid even to tell her what a great job she was doing on her workouts because I didn’t trust myself to keep it professional, especially knowing she wanted me, too.

She had a real shot at crossing the finish line of an Ironman this year. If I fucked that up, I’d never forgive myself. We only had one month left to keep our eyes on the prize. Maybe after, we could pursue things, but that felt like false hope. I liked April, really liked her. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. Besides, she deserved someone who could offer more than I could. She deserved someone who could afford to be emotionally invested.

So, I kept communication robotic—just workouts through a system, which made things infinitely more awkward when I got this text from her: Trevor can’t join us on the road trip. He has an interview for a competitive position.

I’d gotten that text between appointments at the clinic, and for a while, I’d just stared at the phone in disbelief.

Without Trevor as a barrier between us . . .

This was either a bountiful reward—a redo of sorts—or the cruelest of punishments.

I sat on the massage table and ran my fingers through my hair. I couldn’t go with her. That would be a mistake, right? Undecided, I left my phone on the counter, the message unanswered until after my next client.

By then, she’d texted again: If you don’t want to go with me, I understand. But I wasn’t able to find another hotel in the area. Everything is booked for the race.

Shit. Now I made her feel like I didn’t want to go with her. I had to fix this. I didn’t want things to be weird between us. I could be professional. We could go back to having a coach-athlete relationship—to being friends.

Me: No. Let’s follow the plan.