“Too late. I already do.”
The closed door we pass by is his bedroom, I assume. It’s like there’s a super magnet in there, and I’m an iron rod, my senses homed in on it.
“I have a trainer to visit three times a week,” Troy says and pushes the door to the gym open. “Mel joins me on Sundays. And a few clients have needed access to a private gym over the years.”
I blink at the space. “Private gym doesn’t do this justice. Damn, Troy! You need to learn to brag better.”
The gym is one big open space, about as large as the front half of his home. In addition to the full weight set and top-of-the-line equipment I expected, there’s a batting cage on one side and what looks like a sauna on the other.
I pump my fist into my palm. “Hell yeah. Your own batting cage?”
He shrugs as he sits on a bench. “My knee doesn’t let me swing like before. But I can make do enough to entertain myself.” He pulls up the leg of his sweatpants, revealing a knee brace that I realize he probably usually wears. With a grunt, he adjusts it before shoving his pant leg back down. “I’m not complaining. I made it a full year into my pro career before my injury took me out. That’s longer than some athletes.”
I frown, not liking to think about that fact. “Hell of a year, by the way.” I find a spot on the mat to stretch. I’ve read about his time in the Major League online, but I’m sure there’s plenty more to tell, if he ever opens up. “I don’t really follow baseball—”
“Oh yeah,” he says brusquely, standing again. “You said that. What the hell’s wrong with baseball?”
I remember the night we met, which makes me grin. I did tell him I don’t like baseball, didn’t I?
“Nothing’s wrong with baseball,” I say and stretch my arms over my head, leaning into a side bend. “Just too much standing around for me, I guess.”
Troy coughs out a laugh. “Is that right? We stand around for a few hours, do we?”
I lean the other way. “Kind of looks like it.”
I’ve been enjoying the clips I’ve watched of his game, but it’s still fun to give him a hard time about it.
He grunts. “You’re lucky I don’t fire you from the agency for that.”
“Mr. Frisk.” I drop down into a half-squat. “If you keep threatening to fire me, I’m going to get ideas.”
He tightens his brow. “Is this how you work out with your teammates? Talking the whole time?”
I chuckle. “It’s just that I’ve got so much to say to you.” I glance my eyes around the gym. “Where will we start? You’re taking me through your whole workout, right? Make sure it’s a hard day.”
Troy pulls a stretching band behind his arms, extending wide so the fabric of his shirt is drawn tight across his broad chest. “We’re not starting anywhere until we’re good and warmed up. You know how to watch your limits?”
“Yes,” I say immediately.
Troy frowns. “Here.” He throws the stretching band at me, hard, and I laugh as I catch it against my chest. “I do a slow build on the treadmill. Fifteen minutes. You do whatever your routine is.”
He walks over to one of the treadmills, messes with the machine, and starts a steady walk that slowly quickens. I take a minute to watch him and stretch with the band.
His feet fall heavily on the treadmill, and I realize how big they are. Troy is sturdy in his strength, and rock solid in his masculinity.
Even when I’ve thought guys were hot before, I’ve never been drawn to someone like this. But it was electric being with a man so sure of himself, rubbing up on someone rough and hardened.
Finding him so real and raw.
The fact that he’s also looking out for my game makes me want him more. It makes me trust him and believe that I can pursue this without jeopardizing everything else. That he’s the only guy I could pursue this with, in fact.
I step on a machine beside him, accelerating slowly until I match his pace. Troy and I jog in steady silence before he steps off and returns to stretching.
When I join him, I’m warm, and the front of Troy’s shirt is damp with sweat. He’s still stretching, so I do the same.
“You stretch your quads yet?” he asks. “Your lats?”
I pull my shirt up and turn, showing him my back. “These lats? I don’t know. They still feel a little tight.” I drop my shirt and rub down my thigh, squeezing my quad through my shorts as I face him again. “These, though, I never forget.” I rub back up, pulling the shorts with me. “I work hard on these.”
