AFTER SCHOOL, CAM drives me to the Y without saying a single word the entire way there. I grab my bag the second the truck stops. “The reverse silent treatment, Cam? I’m impressed.” I must be rubbing off on him. I reach for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Hold on.” He takes an energy bar out of the center console and hands it to me. “You didn’t eat lunch.”
“I’m not a fan of cafeterias.”
Cam taps the steering wheel. “Is that why you were hiding out in the library?”
“I wasn’t hiding.” I sink back against the seat.
The Twins noticed when I didn’t show up at lunch, and they made Grace check the girls’ bathrooms in case I’d fallen like the old lady from a Life Alert commercial.
“They’re the same way with me,” Grace said. “Especially Cameron.”
The Twins were standing in the hall next to the library when I came out with Grace, and they practically tripped over each other trying to make it look as if they hadn’t been waiting.
Cam didn’t speak to me for the rest of the afternoon—until a minute ago.
“Don’t you need to get to practice?” I ask.
Driving me to the Y after school means one of the Twins has to miss the first fifteen minutes of football practice—an exception their coach isn’t willing to make on a regular basis.
Cam checks the time on his phone. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go. Coach is already annoyed. We’ll pick you up as soon as practice ends.”
“Okay.” I step on the running board below the door and lower myself to the ground.
“You forgot this.” Cam leans over the passenger seat, holding out the energy bar. I take it and shove it into my bag.
Inside, I check in and go straight to find Cutter. Today, the boxing gym looks empty. I spot Lazarus sitting at a card table next to the ring, playing chess. He has his back to me and he’s studying the board.
“Cutter is on the phone,” Lazarus says without turning around. “She’ll be out in a minute.”
“Thanks.” I inch closer and watch as Lazarus captures a rook. “Is it hard to play alone?”
He rubs the salt-and-pepper stubble along his jaw. “It depends. I like studying the board from both sides of the table. It reminds me of the old days when I used to box. Before the internet and fancy coffee with names nobody can pronounce.”
Lazarus’ dark brown skin is so smooth that it’s hard to guess his age.
“Boxing and chess.” He winks at me. “Two of my three great loves. They both require strategic thinking. You have to plan your next move and figure out what your opponent is going to do at the same time. But it’s a lot harder when someone comes at you with a right hook.”
Boxing and chess? Boxing seems more like a test of speed, strength, and stamina than a game of chess in the ring.
“Were you good?” I ask.
Lazarus removes a stopwatch from his pocket and loops it around his neck. He winks at me. “One of the best.”
“The best what?” Owen’s voice catches me off guard.
I steal a look in his direction and the butterflies in my stomach do more than flutter. They nose-dive like fighter planes in a dogfight.
Owen is barefoot—and for some reason it’s sexy. Black gym shorts hang low on his hips, and the fabric of the faded gray T-shirt he’s wearing is thinner in some places, revealing the outline of the muscles underneath. It feels like the temperature in the gym just rose by thirty degrees.
Lazarus shakes his head at Owen. “I was telling Peyton that I’m the best padman and cutman on the East Coast. Start stretching. Then get your tail in the ring and I’ll prove it.”
Owen looks over at the man old enough to be his grandfather and grins. “Somebody is fired up today. And you’re the best padman and cutman on both coasts.”
Lazarus moves a knight on the chessboard and captures a queen. “You’ve never seen me fired up. But when I was young, I would’ve given you a run for your money.”
The affection between them is reassuring. Lazarus seems like a man with character—someone who wouldn’t waste time training a jerk.
“Ready to work out with Cutter?” Owen asks. He reaches for one of the higher ropes, takes hold of it, and leans back, using his body weight to stretch his hamstrings. Owen’s T-shirt rides up, offering me a clear view of his carved abs.
High school guys aren’t supposed to be this hot. Reed was solid as a rock, but he didn’t have as much muscle definition.
Owen has a body that looks as if it’s meant to be touched. I imagine dragging my fingers down his stomach.
Owen catches me staring.
Kill me now.
I never answered his question.
What did he ask me? Something about Cutter and PT?
“I was ready to start the day I got here,” I blurt out, referring to PT.
Cutter steps through the doorway as I’m walking to her office. She’s dressed in a plain T-shirt and a pair of black martial arts pants. The pant legs billow out when she moves.
“They’re a present from my boyfriend,” she explains when she notices me looking at them.
“The Olympian?” I ask. Last time I was here, Cutter was showing Lazarus a photo on her phone of an Olympic medal-winner. I shouldn’t be nosy, but the Olympics are almost as cool as professional soccer.
Cutter stops and thinks about it for a moment.
“Sorry, it’s none of my business.”
“Peyton is talking about your new boyfriend.” Lazarus snaps his fingers. “You know, what’s-his-name.”
“You mean Dale!” she says. “These aren’t from him.”
“He’s another one of her boyfriends,” Lazarus explains.
I have to ask. “How many boyfriends do you have?”
“Too many,” Lazarus mumbles.
Cutter smooths her blond pixie cut. “They’re not really my boyfriends. They’re men I’m dating.” She turns to Lazarus. “And nobody judges a man if he dates more than one woman at a time. Why should I comply with ridiculous gender norms? Besides, the whole online-dating thing was your idea, Lazarus.”
“Whoa.” Lazarus holds up his hands. “Don’t pin that on me. It was my wife Davina’s idea,” he explains. “She thought Cutter should go on an online-dating site and meet a nice man.”
“That’s exactly what I did.” Cutter pats him on the shoulder. “I just met more than one nice man. What can I say? I feel like I’m on The Bachelorette. I’m living the dream.”
Lazarus moves a pawn across the board. “Even I know that show is scripted.”
I try not to laugh. I’d love to invite Cutter over to Hawk’s for dinner so she can help me teach the Twins a lesson or two.
“He’s just grouchy because he has to give Davina updates,” Cutter says. “She’s like a second mother to me. And just like my mom, she wants me to settle down. We don’t have a lot of time today. UT’s quarterback pulled a muscle in his shoulder, and I need to take a look at it.”
I’m only scheduled to meet with Cutter twice a week. If she bails on our sessions, will it hurt my chances of recovering by March? I change into black leggings, a T-shirt with PROPERTY OF ADAMS SOCCER printed on the front, and cross-trainers.
Owen is already in the ring, hands wrapped and protective gear in place, talking to Cutter.
Lazarus leans against the ropes, listening.
As I get closer, I hear Cutter say, “You’re not blocking on your left. Get that left arm up. Anyone you compete against will see that opening.”
“I block when I need to. I’ve got it covered.” Owen sounds irritated.
“Prove it.” Cutter moves to the center of the ring and wags her fingers, urging him to come closer.
Owen circles her, his hands cupped loosely in front of his face.
She laughs. “Now you’ve got your guard up?”
He maintains his fight stance, keeping his guard up and the weight on the balls of his feet. He moves closer to Cutter, who hasn’t taken a step or bothered to raise her guard. He throws an elbow, and she blocks it without exerting any effort.
“If you think I’m weak on the left, throw a punch,” Owen says.
“The punch you don’t throw is just as powerful as the one you do.”
Owen rolls his shoulders and throws a combination—right elbow strike, a kick from the left, and a right hook.
Cutter ducks before Owen lands the hook. In a series of lightning-fast movements, she reaches over his left shoulder and around the back of his neck. She sweeps Owen’s legs out from under him and pulls his head to the side. He lands on his back with her forearm jammed under his neck, forcing his head against the mat. After a moment, Cutter releases her hold and stands.
Owen coughs and sits up, jerking off his headgear.
“Seems to me like you should’ve blocked on the left,” she says.
Owen steals a glance in my direction. “You made your point.”
Cutter claps a hand on his shoulder as she walks past him. “Good. You can’t afford a mistake like that in the semifinals.” She ducks and slips between the ropes, exiting the ring.
Lazarus raises the red pad in front of Owen and slaps the front. “Let’s switch things up. Work off some of that steam.”
Owen nods and mumbles something, but I miss it.
“You’re up, Peyton.” Cutter waves me over to the corner, where she’s laying out foam floor tiles.
For the next thirty minutes, she leads me through a series of stretches and exercises to test my range of motion. None of them hurt, but they aren’t comfortable, either. She demonstrates the exercises she wants me to practice until our next session and draws stick figures on a piece of paper to represent each move.
“Owen will take you through some strength-training exercises after you walk in the pool. I’ll go over your program with him before I leave.” Cutter hands me the paper with the stick-figure drawings on it and heads out. “Thirty minutes in the pool, then meet Owen back here.”
“Then I’ll tell you more about her boyfriends,” Lazarus calls to me from the ring.
“Be quiet, old man. Or I’ll drop you off at the old folks’ home,” Cutter says on her way out. Both of them are grinning.
Lazarus adjusts his cap. “As long as I have Davina, steak sandwiches, and ESPN, I’ll live in the belly of a whale.” He picks up the pad again and turns to Owen. “Do your worst, kid.”
* * *
Pools are meant for swimming, not walking. After ten laps, my eyes burn from the chlorine, and I didn’t even go underwater. But I can’t complain about the view. The window that separates the pool and the boxing gym offers the perfect vantage point for watching Owen.
He switched from hitting the pad to dodging six heavy ropes suspended from the ceiling while Lazarus sends them flying at him—which led to Owen taking off his shirt.
If I wasn’t paying attention before, I am now.
Owen’s broad shoulders and back shine, slick with sweat. That might seem gross to some girls, but I’m an athlete and I dated a fighter. Sweat comes with the territory. The ropes fly at Owen one after another, and Lazarus makes sure they keep coming. Owen bobs and weaves, avoiding the ropes every time.
Okay … he’s fast. I’ll give him that.
Owen stands near the ropes, head down and his hands on his hips, catching his breath. He looks up and I’m caught in his hold, swimming in brown eyes that confirm he’s feeling the same way.
The glass window between us seems to disappear.
What if my knee was fine and I didn’t have an ex who had pushed me down the stairs? What if I could still trust the little voice in my head?
What if …
Water splashes in my eyes, and I turn away. An old lady wearing a yellow swimming cap backstrokes past me in the next lane over, her arms slapping the water. When I turn back to the window, Owen isn’t looking over here anymore.
Why am I so disappointed?