Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Yeah, but…wait. Don’t you want to meet up with your friends?”
I frowned. “No, I want to be here. With you.”
That was obviously the right answer. Rafe’s smile was wide and bright.
I got the feeling he wasn’t used to being anyone’s first choice, but he was mine. That should have been a mildly alarming thought, and maybe it would be tomorrow. Tonight, I was content and happy, and that was enough.
CHAPTER 17
RAFE
“What’s he doing here?” Celine whispered from her Pilates reformer.
I followed her gaze to Gus, who was stretching his arms above his head whilst in mid conversation with the instructor. “Taking a class.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “Maybe he just wanted to try a new workout.”
Celine’s perfect brows slid to her hairline. “Make sure he’s next to you. All that muscle is distracting.”
I agreed. Gus had been extra distracting lately, full of wacky ideas that were all part of his anti-yip campaign.
“The trick is to break the cycle,” Gus had informed me. “It’s not a lack of ability. You didn’t suddenly forget how to jump. What you’re doing is thinking too hard. Sure, it’s a tough skill that only a trained athlete can pull off, but that’s who you are. You know your shit, Rafey. For you, jumping, spinning, and turning are like breathing, walking and chewing gum, or riding a bike. It’s instinct. For some reason, your brain is stuck in fundamental mode and we gotta crank that gearshift and unstick you.”
“Gee, that’s poetic,” I’d deadpanned.
Gus hadn’t been insulted in the slightest. “You fuckin’ know it. Let’s do this.”
This referred to a trip to the batting cages, bird-watching with a group of octogenarian aficionados from the nature center, and a Zumba class. Oh, and we’d also skipped a few hundred stones.
Summary: I couldn’t hit a baseball to save my life, bird-watching was a thousand times more fascinating than I’d thought, Zumba was a blast, and yes, I’d beat Gus’s record by skipping sixteen stones on the lake.
Conclusion: Nothing had changed for me on the ice. I was still overly cautious, and my jumps were technically good but lacking pizzazz and height. And to top it off, my crush was out of control.
It was bound to happen. You try having a six foot-three hockey hunk in your dish every morning, making your coffee and pumping you up with positive quotes from athletic greats.
“ ‘You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,’ The Great One, Wayne Gretzky. Eat your Wheaties and get your ass in gear. We’re going to the gym.”
Or…
“ ‘Do not let what you cannot do interfere with what you can do,’ John Wooden, UCLA basketball coach and the dude who came up with the pyramid of success. Fuckin’ genius, right? Drink your java. We’re gonna see some yellow-rumped warblers.”
Or…
“ ‘Champions keep playing until they get it right,’ Billie Jean King, tennis legend. Get dressed pronto, Rafey. We’re going to Zumba, and it’s going to be mayhem. I don’t know how to dance…like, at all. Get ready to laugh your ass off.”
Yes, I’d laughed my ass off.
At the gym as Gus had pretended to struggle hefting two ten-pound hand weights.
At the nature center as he’d wielded binoculars and declared every common sparrow to be a rare breed much to the annoyance of the more serious bird folks.
At the batting cage where he’d sung an off-pitch rendition of “High Hopes” by Panic! At the Disco whenever he’d hit the ball…which was literally each time he’d stepped up to bat.
And Zumba… Oh, wow. Gus shaking his hips to a rhythm only he could discern, continually moving in the wrong direction and randomly clapping was the kind of funny that rendered me incoherent, laughing till my sides ached and tears spilled down my cheeks.
I honestly didn’t know how I was going to survive Pilates. For one thing, this was a more subdued form of exercise, lots of stretching and balance. Gus was an incredible athlete, but he’d admitted that he’d never done Pilates and was afraid he’d accidentally break the reformer or fall on his face. Penny, the same instructor who’d taught yoga at the house a couple of months ago, had assured him that he’d be fine.
I was more worried about me. My skin tingled at the sight of Gus in his black workout shorts and snug tee that showed off the contours of his muscular pecs and biceps.
All this togetherness had gone to my brain. I didn’t just like my roommate. I wanted him, respected him, and got dizzy just being near him. Honestly, I was shocked Celine hadn’t called me out for mooning over Gus, but she’d been focused on training and classes. She’d notice now because the former Bears captain showing up for a surprise appearance at a Pilates class on a random Wednesday afternoon was a new one.