I flex just a little and grin.
“One match?” I barter. “And then I’ll walk with you across the street toSweet, which is actually the bakery, and buy you whatever you want.”
He stares at me for a few seconds, and I do my best to hold still while I wait for his answer. He might be onto something actually—I could definitely go for a cupcake, macros be damned.
He drags his tongue along his bottom lip, looks around one more time, then nods.
“Sure. Why the hell not?” He unloops his bag from over his shoulders and takes a step closer. “It’s been ages since I’ve been properly humiliated. I think I’m due.”
“That’s the spirit,” Fender calls from where he’s balancing on a gym ball a few yards away.
“Come on, don’t be shy.” I smirk and prop my elbow up on the desk, wiggling my fingers again to coax him over.
His blush deepens and my gut dances with interest.
“I’ve never arm wrestled before,” he confesses, setting his messenger bag down next to the desk before shuffling forward.
“Never?” My eyebrows fly up. “My mom used to pay my brothers and me a quarter for every arm wrestling match.”
He lets out a stuttering laugh. “To arm wrestle her or each other?”
“Each other. Now that you mention it though, I think she could have taken any one of us when she was in her prime.”
“I thought that answer would clear some things up, but it didn’t. Why did she pay you to arm wrestle each other?” He screws up his face like he’s trying to work out the math on the whole thing.
I shrug. “I guess because it was less destructive than actual wrestling. One time, my older brother, Georgie, power bombed me onto the couch and the whole damn thing cracked in half.”
“Power…” he mutters and shakes his head. “Well, I’m an only child, so no arm wrestling side hustle for me growing up. I just kindly ask that you don’t break my wrist. I can’t afford a hospital bill or weeks spent in a cast.”
I chuckle at his overly polite request.
“I’ve hardly ever injured anyone arm wrestling,” I assure him.
He doesn’t look all that convinced, but he matches my position anyway with one arm up on the counter, facing me. His palm is a little sweaty when our hands connect, but then again, so is mine. His hand feels a lot softer than mine; no calluses from years of weightlifting, just nice, smooth skin.
“Ready?” I check, and he nods. “Alright, go.”
As obnoxious as I’ve been all morning trying to get everyone and anyone to go a round or two with me, I’m not just trying to flatten him in two seconds so I can gloat and shit. I give him an easy pressure to counter his immediate burst, but not enough to take him down. His face isn’t just pink now, it’s immediately flushed with exertion, his nostrils flaring and his teeth gritted.
“Remember to breathe.”
He nods and drags in a full breath, giving me a little more effort.
“You want to look at your hand, the quickest way to lose is to let go of your focus,” I coach. “And be careful to use your full body weight, not just your shoulder or your wrist, that’s how injuries happen.”
He wheezes an amused sound and his strength falters. I hold steady, waiting for him to get back at it though.
“I’m pretty sure your arm alone weighs more than my whole body.”
I crack a smile and grip his hand just a little tighter. “Maybe. But there’s more to arm wrestling than pure strength. Now, keepyour shoulder lined up and I want you to sink your body weight down, really give it everything you’ve got.”
A cute little growl slips out of his throat as he does as I say, his face getting a little redder and a few beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“Good, good, good. Look at that. See? You’re stronger than you thought.” I cheer him on, letting my arm sink almost all the way to the table under his effort until the very last second, and then I give it some power and carefully slam his hand down.
Just because I’m coaching him, doesn’t mean I have to let him win. He stumbles a little and then catches himself on the desk, using his free hand to brush his curls back.
“Well, that was… uh… interesting,” he says.
