“Okay, that was one. Let’s get to three and then we can negotiate that fourth one, deal?” He lifts one eyebrow and I try to laugh. My exertion only allows me a quick nod, though.
“Fine,” I bark out.
He chuckles and shakes his head, guiding my hands back down as I work on the second rep. Determined not to get weaker, I groan loudly, the same way my dad does when he maxes out, and the air in my lungs buoys me enough to finish the second rep with a little more energy. Not wanting to lose it, I nod at him to go right into the third. My muscles burn, and sweat glistens on my arms. It’s the middle of winter in Indiana but I am burning up.
“You got this,” Cannon chants.
His voice invades my head and I take my eyes away from my hands for just a blip. His eyes are focused on my hands, on the bar that is too heavy for me at this point but that he believes I can move. He nods, but our gazes don’t quite meet. I’m glad because if they did, I might drop everything.
Lost in his blues, I blow out hard as the weight lands against my breasts. This exercise is so much harder for women. I can’t imagine men lifting weights precariously over their balls. It wouldn’t happen. I push and grind and my elbows are tingling by the time I straighten them again, arms locked and spent. I don’t let go of my grip, though. I don’t let the flex slip away either, because now is the time to negotiate. A small part of me wants Cannon to insist and give me permission to not walk the walk I so carelessly talked. But that is not his style. Yet one more thing for the list.
“You ready for this fourth one?” His eyes shift just enough to meet mine, and I can read the challenge in them. It’s different than the taunting way his cousin stares at me, or the way parents at Xavier looked on when I took the field. Cannon is looking at me as though he legitimately believes I can do this.
I nod again and pant out a “Yes” as together we bring the bar back down to my body. Cannon helps way more this time, taking a good twenty-percent of the weight for me by the time I reach my chest. The way up is a different story.
“Time to battle,” he coaches, easing up so I feel the struggle.
His assistance isn’t gone, but he isn’t helping me at the same level he did the first three reps. This time, my arms have little to give, so I dig in with my feet and crush the arch of my back against the bench for every extra little ounce of leverage I can get. I start to cry out as the bar falls to one side then the other. Each time, Cannon gives me a nudge back to balanced, continually uttering encouragement.
“You’re so close. It’s almost there. One more . . . just one more push.” He takes over when I’m about an inch from getting the bar back on the rack, and the moment my arms are free, I let them dangle to my sides as relief and pride flush my body.
Cannon claps a single clap and brings his closed palms up to his lips, hiding his grin.
“I can do that,” I say, echoing my proclamation from minutes before. My lips a lazy, open-mouthed smile, I say it again, my eyes meeting Cannon’s as he backs away a few steps. “I can do that.”
“You just did that,” he corrects.
His cheeks dimple with his closed-mouth smile, and I cash that expression in as mine—I earned those dimples. Still a little breathless, and hot as hell, I maintain our stare until it becomes uncomfortable. Cannon is the first to look away, glancing down at his feet as he shuffles back until his shoulders touch the wall.
I swivel my legs around the bench as I sit up, straddling it and facing the other direction so we’re now looking at one another. His stoic armor slips as his focus moves from my face to my neck, then to my bare midriff. When he looks me in the eyes again, he sees he’s caught and rubs his palm over his chin as he lets out a bashful laugh.
“I like the belly button ring,” he says, gesturing lazily at my stomach. I tuck my chin to my chest and stretch my skin.
“Oh, yeah. I forget I have it sometimes.” I shrug when I look back up at him and he gives a slight shake to his head, breathing out across his faint smile.
“What?” I press.
His eyes dip to my stomach again and his lips part, his expression a little more predatory, definitely interested. I allow myself a glance toward his stomach, and then lower. Training shorts don’t mask much, and Cannon is definitely into belly button rings.
I flick my finger against the metal to get his attention, but he doesn’t waver, his gaze still on my bare skin, soaking me in like a boy told not to eat desert before dinner.
“I didn’t plan on working out.” I tap the bottom of my pink boots against the concrete floor a few times, drawing Cannon’s stare there instead. He tilts his head back with a short laugh.
“That’s a first. Pretty sure Pete’s never had anyone lifting in princess gear before!” He lets his hands fall into his pockets as he shifts his weight against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles.
I lift my toes to gaze at the glitter accents on the knitting, and smirk.
“My little brother bought these for me as a joke because me and pink aren’t really a thing. Turns out though . . .” I draw my legs
