Yet again, I don’t dignify him with a response. He knows how I feel. We’re both semi-professional athletes in our prime. And by semi-professional, I mean not-at-all professional but working toward it. That’s the end game for both of us.
Despite being a Neanderthal hockey player, Apollo gets it. He understands why I’m strict with my diet, why my body is a temple, and why even on the day after Christmas, I’m at the gym.
Hereallygets it. It’s why we fit so well together as best friends. Since everything in the entire universe is designed for couples, we get a meal prep box delivered once a week and take turns cooking dinner. Every Sunday, we batch cook our lunches for the week ahead, and when we hit the gym, we almost always go together.
I wipe down my machine, swipe my water bottle from the floor and follow him toward the exit, pausing over the trash by the door as my stomach lurches.
“I hate you,” I grumble, holding out my bottle for him to take while I clutch the sides of the garbage can.
He waves my drink at me. “Hydrate. Mind over matter. Let’s go home and get some food into that stomach.”
At the mention of food, my stomach heaves, and I spew like the kid fromThe Exorcist. Apollo grunts behind me, shuffles—probably to put the drinks down—before he rubs my back. “Lightweight.”
I can’t help but laugh, despite the acid burning a trail up my chest. He knows I’m anything but. Ballet dancers might look beautiful and fragile on stage, but underneath all that delicate tulle is nothing short of a gladiator.
His warm—albeit sweaty—hand rubbing concentric circles on the small of my back is soothing. But ugh. I fucking hate throwing up. This is one more reminder that binge eating is not worth the carb hangover. Or the bloating. Or the shits. Or the constipation.
“Never again.” I say it every time.
But bread tastes so damn good.
“You said that last time.” He chuckles, removing his palm from my spine. “Let’s get you home. Window open and a bag in your lap. No puke in my new car.”
He didn’t need a new car. In fact, the matching SUVs he and his brothers all drive are barely, what, a year old? But he “felt like a change,” so he bought a sporty... something. He claims it’s not sporty. He says it has a five-star safety rating, it’s built for comfort not speed, but when girls and cops see him driving by, they totally think he’s a little boy racer. It turns heads nearly as often as his ego does.
The only person in Cedar Rapids to get pulled over more than him is his older sister Athena. And that’s because she rarely drives at speeds less than a hundred. I’m only exaggerating a little, too. The woman is terrifying.
I’mnow regretting his choice of vehicle. He opens the passenger door for me, and I groan. The seats are practically on the ground in this thing. It was leg day. My legs are like fucking jelly. How the hell am I supposed to squat and get all the way down there?
“Maybe I’ll walk.”
“¡Ay! Princesa.”He shakes his head as he pulls his door open with a growl. “So fucking dramatic. It’s like you’re a performer or something.”
I give a flourish with my hand before flipping him off.
“You belong on the stage.”
“I belong in the fucking shower. I stink.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to say.”
If I had something to throw at him, I would. But I don’t, so I grunt and groan as I lower myself into the bucket seat. “You’re pretty stinky yourself, you know.”
Before he moves, he points at the water bottle. “Hydrate.”
“Shut up and drive, rich boy.” Reaching for the radio, I elbow him. Thankfully, we have the same taste in music, so there’s no argument over who gets to listen to what. We have one rule when we’re together in the car, and that’s if we sing, it’s loud and proud.
As I reach for the volume button, his phone rings in the cup holder. The name “Papá” appears on the screen. I can almost hear Apollo’s eye roll. He stares at the phone, indecision flickering across his face.
“What’s his problem this time?”
Apollo shrugs, his stare not moving from the screen.
I silence his ringtone, give his thigh anI’ve-got-you-boopat, and crank up the tunes. He starts the car, his shoulders softening. I’ve been around long enough to know thatel príncipe de las tinieblas, the prince of darkness, and his father have a challenging relationship. And sometimes that means I run interference, for everyone’s sake.
The bass rattles through my seat as Apollo starts nodding his head in time with the music. I don’t recognize the song, but that rarely stops us from singing along. We’re epic at making shit up. Confidently.
He lowers the volume enough to be heard over the thumping music. “Did you go on that date last week? You never said anything.”
