A pillow hits me square in the face. I startle, my heart racing, as I spring to a sitting position. For a feather pillow, it packed a punch. “Emily, what the hell?”

“Rise and shine. I let you sleep while I showered. Now it’s time to get up and get dressed.”

I shake my head and run my fingers through my snarled hair. Sick with anticipation and nerves, I didn't sleep well last night. I tried calling my dad a couple of times to tell him the good news about my article for the paper, but it went to voicemail. It always goes to voicemail. I haven’t actually spoken to him in almost five weeks. And I’ve left him six voicemails.

I fell asleep around four-thirty. My body aches from lack of sleep, and my eyes are burning. But I've survived on less before, and lack of sleep isn't going to stop me from doing what I have to do today. Neither is my fear of talking to jocks.

Emily wears blue spandex and a workout bra. Her long hair is tied up in a messy ponytail. I've never seen her this put together—or this alert—in the morning. Today, it seems we've reversed roles, and it doesn't sit right with me.

“You showered to go to the gym?”

She shrugs. “Of course, I did.”

I glance at the clock. “It’s five to six.” Emily actually woke before me and my alarm clock. I should put this momentous day in my calendar.

“Early bird gets the worm. Jocks take over the gym at six o’clock sharp. They stay for maybe an hour, so we need to move.”

“Six o’clock? Really? You didn’t tell me this last night.” I wipe the sleep from my eyes before springing from bed. She tosses me her leggings and a sports bra. I hold them up and groan...and then when her back is turned, I sniff them to make sure they’re clean. I put them on, but also throw on a T-shirt, too.

“What are you doing?”

I look down at my clothes and fail to see the problem.

“You’re not wearing a baggy-ass shirt with a seventies action figure on the front. Not happening. Just take the shirt off and wear the bra.”

I prop my hands on my hips like Wonder Woman in the poster above my headboard. “Well, I’m not wearing a bra by itself, so what else would you suggest?”

She fishes out a fitted top instead. I don’t feel comfortable in it, but I let her have her way. I’m still pulling at the fabric and trying to stretch it out when we get to the gym. Every time Emily catches me, she slaps at my hands, and I force myself to stop for a few minutes, but instinctively, they keep going back to pulling at the fabric that lies against my stomach.

In the gym, Emily leads me to the change room. There are a handful of girls in there. One is completely topless, showing off her boobs with pride as she roots through her locker for a bra. I can't help but stare. Her body is perfection. Not a single stretch mark. But that's not why I'm staring; I’m envious. Not necessarily of her body, though it's a nice one, but I'm envious of how confident she is in her own skin. She doesn't appear to care one bit that other people can see her naked and vulnerable. When she catches me looking, she grins. Like she likes it. That's why I'm envious.

Because I never thought to bring a lock, we toss our jackets in a shared locker. After we change out our shoes, we're ready for business. While Emily fills her water bottle, I pace, peeking in a few doors with windows: spin class, Zumba in the cardio room, and yogis in downward dog. “This place is huge,” I tell Emily when I make my way back to the fountain.

“I know. The hockey team usually lifts weights first thing in the morning on Tuesdays. I got their schedule from Anita.”

I have no idea who Anita is, but thank you, Anita. “Awesome. Okay, this is going to work.” It has to.

“Let’s split up. I’ll text you if I find him,” Emily says. She starts to walk away, but I grab her arm and pull her back.

“You can’t. I might not recognize him. I could barely see his face in that Facebook photo.”

She sighs. “Okay. We’ll do it together.” She sashays to the left. Even in gym clothes, it's like she’s walking the catwalk. I try to mirror her walk but trip on my shoe laces. When we reach the glass door, we peer inside. We try to be casual about it, but the longer we stare, the more conspicuous we look.

“Hurry up, Emily. We’re being obvious.”

“Okay. Wait! I see him.”

“Where?”

She’s about to point, but I slap her hand down. “What’s he wearing?”

She smiles wide and keeps her eyes on me before training them to the left to watch Clayton from her peripheral. “Yellow muscle shirt. Plain. There’s some writing on his chest in white but I can’t read it. Black shorts over biker shorts. Black sneakers. Sexy black hair. Thick jaw. Tall. Maybe six-three. God, he’s glistening.” She lays her hands on the glass with splayed fingers. “It's like his body is sparkling under the florescent lights.” She licks her lips.

I pinch her and she yelps. “You’re being obvious.”

“Don’t pinch me!”

I turn and put my hand on the door. I see him now, and I understand the lip-licking. He’s yummy. Not in a handsome Abercrombie and Fitch way, though. More in a primal, me Tarzan kind of way. His hair is messy but sexy. His face is covered in scruff. He looks massive, especially since the guy working out next to him seems to be new to the gym and barely reaches his pecs. Clayton’s wide jaw clenches as he curls up weights, first in his left hand and then in his right. His tattooed biceps pop and his shoulders round, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. Yes, he glistens. And the lights also make his blue eyes stand out, even from here. I'm not a girl who enjoys tatts. I much prefer a clean-cut kind of guy, but this guy…there's a tingle between my legs that has me doing Kegels.

Insecure Chubby Charlie rears her unbeautiful head, forcing me to turn on my heel and hurry down the hall. I hate that, after all my hard work, she still makes me doubt myself so much. Emily runs after me, stopping me by the fountain. A guy is bent down, lips parted, taking a drink. We wait for him to leave before she starts reassuring me.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

“Oh, no you don’t! Don’t be a pussy. He’s just a guy.” She’s quiet for a moment, the wheels spinning in her mind. “Just pretend he’s Jack.”

“Jack! What are you talking about? He’s the furthest thing from Jack you could find.”

“Well, literally he’s not, but figuratively, he absolutely is. This sex-on-a-stick hottie is the gatekeeper to a job you want more than anything. So, go and get that job.”

“I’m just not the kind of girl who can get a guy like that to spill his secrets. We both know that.”

“I’m not sure why you’re so self-conscious about your appearance, but you need to get over it. You’re beautiful. And you’re quirky and kind. He’ll like you. Just be yourself. Trust me. You are not that girl anymore. And regardless of the way some people treated you in high school, I always knew you were awesome. I never doubted you for a second. Don’t doubt yourself now.”

She’s right. I’m not that girl anymore, but it’s so easy to let old insecurities creep in when it comes to my appearance and to guys. I just have to get over it. Mind over matter. I’m able to powerwalk through everything else in life, why can’t I tackle this with the same amount of effort? The truth is, I can. I just have to decide to do it. So I do.

We enter the weight room together. She picks up some dumbbells in the far corner and starts to curl them in front of the mirror. A guy sitting on a bench puts down the weights in each of his hands and watches her ass. Slowly, I make my way over to Clayton. The small guy beside him leaves, and I take his spot on the mat, also near the weights. I have no idea what to lift so I try to pick one up, but it falls back onto the metal cradle. Too heavy. A loud bang rings out, and he glances in my direction. I force a smile and try to act confident. “Oops,” I say, trying to act flirty. His lips twitch into a tiny smile.

Another girl is stretching across the room, and I remember stretching before workouts in gym class, so I figure maybe I should do that instead. I start with my arms, leaning to the side with one arm over my head. Clayton does his thing about three feet or so away from me. From the ground, he lifts a bar with fat weights on either side up and over his head. They look heavy. I’m breaking a sweat just watching him, but his face is even and his body and clothes are dry. I’m already warm.

After I stretch out my arms, I spread my legs wide and bend over to touch my right ankle. I’m not limber, and my muscles strain to the point of throbbing pain. I hear someone gasp and someone giggle. Through my legs I see a girl watching me with her mouth agape. I straighten up. Is she looking at me? She turns away, and I decide I’m just being self-conscious. I need to stop. For once, I need to listen to Emily. I'm not that girl from high school. So, I bend over and keep stretching.

Someone clears their throat. Then I feel a tap on my back. I straighten up and am shocked to find Clayton facing me. He’s red in the face. He bites at his lip and clears his throat again.

“Hi,” I say, trying to sound calm and unaffected.

“Um…I don’t know how to say this…but you might want to turn around.”

“What?” I twist at the waist and try to look at my ass.

“When you bend over you can see through your pants.”

It’s my turn to gasp now. A guy to his left is chuckling. “Should have let it be. Nothing better than a little vag in the gym.” He winks at me.

“Oh, my God!”

Mortified, I cover my ass and back away, aiming my back to the wall, but I trip over a set of weights and tumble to the floor. People laugh, some more obviously than others. I want to run from this place or die. Either will do.

Emily starts for me, but Clayton crouches down and offers me a hand. I stare at it like an idiot before the stinging sensation on my ankle draws my attention elsewhere. I’m bleeding through my sock. I pull the white fabric down and frown at the cut. It’s not major, but I’m sure I’ll have a bruise around it in the morning.

“Are you okay?” he says, tucking the ends of his hair behind his ears.

“Mmm hmm. Yep. Right as rain.”

He offers me a hand and I take it. He pulls me up, and I stare straight at his pecs before my eyes draw upward to his lips and then his bright eyes. “Umm, do you have a Band-Aid?” Do you have a Band-Aid? I want to hit my forehead with the heel of my hand. It was the only thing I can think to say.

He chuckles before nodding. “Yeah, I think I can find you one.”

Or...maybe it was a stroke of genius.

He motions for me to follow him out of the gym. Alone. On the way, he grabs a sweater hanging on a hook by the door. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “You can use it to...uh...cover...”

I’m going to kill Emily. “Thank you,” I whisper. I throw it on quickly. The hem falls to my thighs and when I push my hands through the extra-long fleece sleeves, they bunch up at the bottom.

Clayton leads me down the hall and through a door. Inside, there is another door with a card reader. He pulls out a card and swipes it, and the door opens. I hesitate when he waves me in, but then I realize it’s just a room, much like a locker room, only there is a stretcher in it and lots of medical equipment.

“You have a card for this room?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. All the players do.”

“Players?” I feign ignorance, but I’m not a very good actress. He probably sees right through me. I’m as see-through as my pants.

“I’m on the hockey team,” he says.

“Oh. That’s a...fun sport.”

He licks his lips and sucks them, as if fighting a laugh. I’m glad I amuse him. He fishes through some drawers and pulls out a small bottle of liquid. “Hop on the table.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

He shrugs, and a crooked smile graces his full lips. “I guess we’ll find out.” His tone is teasing. The hint of a smile on his lips is so captivating, like watching a sunset over a beach horizon. I can’t look away. This must be the reason why girls trip over their words when they’re around him.

I do as he asks, lifting my leg so it rests on the thin black foam mattress. When he comes back to stand in front of me, he says, “This might sting a bit.” He pours the liquid over my cut. It stings, sure, but I have a high tolerance to pain so I don’t flinch. He looks at me, expectantly, and makes a face when I don’t behave like he thought I would. He pats it dry and covers it with a square piece of gauze and tape. “There. All better.”

“You’re pretty good at that.”

“My mother was a nurse. And I was always hurting myself. Eventually, she thought I should learn to do this myself.” Nurse. I commit that to memory so I can write that in my notes later.

“You said ‘was.’”

He clears his throats, and his eyes flicker to mine for the briefest of moments.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.” Actually, I do. But I didn’t expect for him to hint that his mother is dead, so now I feel like a giant asshole. It was easier to agree to this story when I assumed he was probably like every other jock I dealt with in high school.

“I did say ‘was,’ didn’t I?”

I hitch a shoulder.

He says nothing more, and it’s clear he’s not going to by the silence that follows.

“Does medicine interest you? I mean…are you in med school? Or some other health profession?”

The tension in the room eases, and I’m happy to find the corner of his eyes crease as he offers me the smallest of smiles. “No. God, no. I mean, I do okay at school, but I could never train the hours I do and become a doctor.”

“So, what are you taking?”

“History.” He props his hands on his hips as he studies me. His gaze is hot on my face, and though it’s soft and curious, I have to look away. There’s that sunset on the horizon again. He has this tiny dimple in his left cheek that sits there without even smiling. His lips are soft and full and kissable. What would it be like to kiss them and feel heat in my cheeks? I know I’m blushing when he starts to smirk at me. But what I like most about his face is the small patch of freckles that dot his cheekbones. The matching dimple on his other cheek shows up now. I give my head a shake, determined not to fall under this guy’s spell.

“What about you?” he asks. “I’m sorry, but I don’t even know your name.”

I hold out my hand, and he takes it in his. He’s warm and his grip is firm. He doesn’t let go. It’s like we’re holding hands. I want to hide behind my hair, worried he’ll see me for the girl I used to be. My cheeks heat, and I bite my lip before forcing myself to speak. “Charlotte. But everyone calls me Charlie. Oh, and I take—” I bite my lip again. This is the moment I tell him I’m taking journalism and I’m going to do a story on him. I imagine the words I want to say right now. I thought about them all night, but now that I can feel the intensity of his charm, I lose my nerve. No one like him has ever taken an interest in me before. Part of me—and I know it’s vanity and I hate myself for it—won’t let me tell him the truth. I’m not ready for him to brush me off just yet. I want to know him better. If I tell him, I risk never knowing his story and I have a burning need to know what it is. “I’m taking an arts degree.” Sort of true. “I’m first year. No major. Not sure what I’ll pick. There are so many options, and it’s such a big decision. I just don’t want to make the wrong choice, you know?” My words come out fast without me taking a single breath. It’s doubtful he caught a word I said.

I’m such a bad liar.

“I’m Ozzie,” he says.

“That’s a great name,” I say. That’s a great name? Good one, Charlie.

“Is this your first time at the gym?”

I shrug and shake my head, but quietly say, “Is it obvious?”

He chuckles at me. “If you want someone to show you around, I might be able to help.”

“That’s really nice of you. But it’s not my thing. It might be safer for me and everyone around me if I stick to what I know.”

He laughs out loud, crinkles lining the edges of his eyes. It softens his face, makes him seem more human than the super hero jock that the school depends on to win championships. “And what do you know?”

I pause for a beat before hitching a shoulder. “School.”

“Hmm. You know, it’s not too late to learn some other things.” He flashes me a wink that has heat traveling down my neck to spread over my chest. He’s flirting. I’m sure that’s what he’s doing. Though my mind goes to dirty, sweaty thoughts, I can’t be certain that’s what he means.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. Let me show you a few things.”

“Uh…sure? You mean at the gym, right?” I gulp. I still don’t know what we’re talking about.

He laughs. “Sure, I did. I’ll help you on one condition.”

Wary, I hesitate. “What’s the condition?”

He scratches the scruff on his chin. “There’s a charity game tonight between the professors and the graduating class. Stop by.”

“Are you playing?”

“I am,” he says, his voice soft and an octave lower. He reaches out, his hand near the side of my face. I still, unsure of what he’s doing. There is an unspoken moment between us where he asks for permission to touch me. I tense but don’t pull away. He gently picks something out of my eyebrow. “It’s just a piece of fluff from my sweater. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you nervous.” He’s close. The sweet mix of his baby powder and aftershave have me drooling. Then he takes a step back, and I find the will to release the breath I was holding.

“So what do you say? Will you come?” He tips his head to the side as he waits for me to respond.

This guy has me in a trance, his eyes like a swinging pendulum pulling me into his spell. I couldn’t say no to him even if I wanted to. This guy is good. Smooth. Like Emily said, he’s every girl’s—and probably every guy’s—dream, and if I’m not careful, he might just become mine.