But something about our bodies moving in sync and the way he’s pointedly trying to pretend he isn’t affected sends a thrill through me I can’t control. It’s honestly the perfect distraction, and I barely even think about Pierce’s little prank.
“Quit smiling,” he snaps when he catches my stupid expression.
“It’s practice,” I say lightly, brushing him off. “It’s supposed to be fun.”
“No, it’s not. Wrestling isn’t supposed to be fun.”
“Says who?” I laugh.
“Says me.”
“Oh, right. And you’re the captain. The top dog,” I say in a forced tough-guy impression. Then I wink and nod. “Got it.”
“Brody,” he warns, and I feel my grin stretch wider at the sound of my name broken down into so many slow syllables.
I lift my hands. “Okay, okay. No jokes. But could you, like, pretend this is enjoyable even once? What’s the point if you’re not having fun?”
I’m not even trying to get a rise out of him. He looks like he’s one wrong move from imploding, and I want to take the edge off. Because before I came in here and started joking around with him like this, it was me who felt like I was going to lose it.
He ignores me, not appreciating my attempt at levity. We move into counter drills, and it’s more automatic movements, like an over-rehearsed dance. He shoots, I sprawl. I shoot, he defends. Our bodies collide again and again, sweat slick between us, breaths mixing.
I don’t know what sets him off this time, because I feel like I’ve been half-lulled into a trance, but something between us shifts again. He goes too hard. It’s nothing harmful, but it’s definitely not light.
It feels like he’s trying to prove something. Or punish one of us, maybe both of us.
My ribs ache when his elbow catches me.
“Easy,” I say.
“I am being easy.”
“You sure?”
“You’re just being a little bitch.”
I raise an eyebrow. He launches into me again, faster and harder, until I have to ground my weight to keep my balance.Luckily for me, I have a pretty low center of gravity, so I’m not easy to take down. And unlike yesterday, I don’t let him have the win so easily.
For whatever reason, he’s pissed. At me or himself, I’m not sure. At everything, maybe. Perhaps he’s feeling overstimulated in the same ways I am, and there’s too much tension bubbling beneath the surface for it to not result in an outburst. His angry little display is kind of cute, despite the really shit afternoon I’ve had.
So I laugh. Because that’s what I do when things go sideways.
He stops dead. “If you’re not going to take this seriously,” he grits out, “why are you even here?”
Before I can answer or attempt an explanation at how uncomfortable I am, he lunges.
Unlike yesterday, it’s a calculated move, probably meant to show he has more control than he displayed yesterday. He catches my thigh, pulls, and takes me down in one motion, driving me into the mat with a thud. Pinning me with a clean, flawless technique that I could respect and appreciate if not for the personal vendetta to show me up.
I make a move to flip him, but then I see it.
There it is again. That flicker of something behind his eyes. The faint tremor that runs through him and causes a chain reaction in me.
Oh, damn.
His eyes widen and his throat works like he’s struggling to swallow. His fingers curl as if he’s resisting the urge to grip me, either to shake me or pull me closer, there’s no telling.
He’s trying so hard not to feel it. But I know he does.
I know it because I feel it too. I suck in a sharp breath at the way my entire body reacts to his, blinking up at him to try to focus on the bigger issue here. Not his body, or the way it’s pressing into me, or the way we’re hardening against each other. Him, and his obvious fear over his reaction to me. Has this never happened to him before? Coach is right, boners do happen. Especially in middle and high school. But even now, too much rubbing against each other is going to stimulate some nerves. Add in whatever this tension is between us, and it’s a recipe for a stubborn, hard dick.
