“Yeah, there’s hope here. Take me home? Well, we need to take Laken shopping, and then home.”
Drew smiled and dropped a kiss to my temple. “Of course. I love you, babe.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. He jostled me and nipped at my ear. I laughed. “I love you, too. Don’t act like you don’t know it.”
17
Drew
The rapid-firethudof boxing gloves against bodies was familiar. I dragged in a deep breath as I glanced up from wiping down my sweat-covered face with a towel. The ceiling of Beachside Gym was corrugated red metal. Fans turned overhead and industrial lights hung down between them. I loved this place because it was bare bones, only what was necessary for the work—weights, a couple of spots to run, and no machines. We were close enough to the lake that Saturdays and Sundays guys went out to row for real, rather than being stuck inside pretending. Anyone here would spot someone else and show them what to do if they came in and were confused, and I loved that. No frilly extra crap or drama. I’d spent a lot of time here before I was injured, and I was happy I was feeling up to getting back to my normal routine.
Across the way, Peter stood with his arms hanging over the thick white ropes of the large boxing ring. He looked like he belonged there in his black tank top and shiny red Hayabusa Chikara shorts. His blond hair glinted in the overhead light, and he had a focused expression on his face as he stared at the two boys in the fight space, probably about half my age and size, dancing around each other.
“Stop testing the ring and jab!” Peter yelled.
He’d given me a guilty look when he’d opened the Amazon package with the new shorts inside. I’d known immediately he must have considered them too expensive, but the way they hugged his slim hips was damned sexy. Even if they’d been hundreds of dollars, I would have considered them worth the price. He shifted and my gaze was drawn to the way his ass curved out as he leaned harder on the ropes.
“Come on, Southpaw!” Peter yelled and laughed. “Take a jab. He guards high, so you go low.”
One of the boys, who was wearing pink boxing shorts and had gloves to match, immediately lowered his gloves to cover his middle, and I snorted as people working the weights nearby chuckled. “Now he’s guarding low. You go high.”
“What am I supposed to do?” the kid in blue shorts caterwauled in anguish as the other boy moved in and socked him pretty ineffectively on the gear protecting his head. “He’s fast!”
Peter wriggled around, which made it even harder to look away from him, and I shook my head in amusement. “Move, but not just your feet. Move your body. Move your hands. React to your opponent. It’s like fu—actually, you’re not old enough for that comparison.” He smacked a hand to the side of his face and the boys cracked up like they’d guessed what he was going to say anyway. “You have to respond to what the other person is trying to do to you. Hit. Him.”
The boys went back to their dance, but more jabs were thrown. Most of the punches didn’t land, but as I walked over, Peter grunted. “Good one, Southpaw. Hit ’im, Twig.”
“Why does he get a better nickname?” the boy in the pink shorts snarked. He had a scar above his right eye, like maybe at some point he’d been in an accident, and a port-wine birthmark that spread up his neck.
“Fine, I’ll call him Bullwinkle and you Rocky.”
They both groaned, but instead of talking they settled into their sparring and drove each other around the ring. Peter didn’t shy away when I jumped up beside him. He cut me a sharp glance out of the corner of his eye. I nudged him with my elbow. He stepped closer until our hips bumped. That was as good as an invitation, and I hung my arm around his shoulders, loving the smoothness of his skin where I tickled my fingers down his arm. He chuckled and knocked his elbow against my side. The boys stopped to look at us.
“Faster!” Peter barked and startled me and the boys, but they listened to him and jumped back to their workout. He nodded in satisfaction, and my heart leaped to see him happy and in his element.
“They need someone to yell at them, huh?”
He shrugged. “Every fighter does. You can’t see how you’re fucking up. It’s just part of the game.” I ducked down to press a kiss to the top of his head, just so I could watch his cheeks turn pink. I hadn’t quite figured out yet if he was embarrassed or happy when I did this in public; he hadn’t asked me to stop.
Peter cocked his head to the side and grinned up at me. “You done?”
“Just about.”
He poked my side. “You didn’t run long. How are you going to keep up with me when I’m in fighting form if you slack off now?”
“Geez, thanks,” I said, and he chuckled.
“Keeping it real, here.”
He got some revenge when he turned and planted a kiss underneath my jaw. It was a spot he’d discovered I loved having touched, and I sucked in a deep breath. His eyes glinted with excitement as he turned back to watch the fight. I cleared my throat and shifted around, trying to make sure my growing problem wasn’t poking out the front of my shorts in a way that would shock any bystanders. He broke down into something close to giggles, as if he knew exactly what he’d done.
“You’re rotten,” I grumbled, and he preened a little, standing taller. “That wasn’t a compliment. Must I remind you I was stabbed with a sharpened bolt. It’s taking me a hot fucking minute to get back on track with cardio. That thigh muscle hurts sometimes.”
“Whiner.”
I gaped at him, and he laughed.
“I’ll remember this,” I growled out.
