“As if I need to,” Patrick says, a little too loud, like he’s staking territory. “Just blowing off steam, Whitman.”
Tully’s eyes flick to me again, lingering. “Looks like you could use it.”
The air crackles. I feel it in my chest, that old pull towardTully, magnetic and dangerous. Patrick must feel it too, because he steps closer, his chest puffing.
“Just getting ready for the season to kick your ass on the ice again,” Patrick says.
Tully’s eyes narrow, and I don’t blame him—Patrick is being a jerk.
“Want to make it interesting?” Patrick asks, nodding toward the pull-up bars. “Best of five sets. Loser donates a thousand to the winner’s favorite charity.”
Tully laughs, short and sharp. “You sure? I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your girl. If you haven’t already done that yourself…”
I glare at both of them, not liking where this is going. “Come on, guys. This isn’t a good idea.”
Patrick’s jaw ticks as he stares at Tully. “Bring it,” he says between clenched teeth.
Neither of them looks at me as they move toward the bars. I follow them to the far end of the gym, heart hammering.
Two pros from rival teams in the same gym—all eyes are on them.
They start with pull-ups. Patrick goes first. He gets to twenty-nine on the first set before dropping, his chest rising and falling.
Tully steps up next. He jumps lightly, catches the bar, and starts. His lifts are smooth and effortless. He pulls his chin over the bar again and again. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t grunt—just keeps going until he hits forty-one, then drops down lightly, barely winded.
The phones are out now, no one bothering to hide them.
Patrick’s face darkens. “Show-off.”
Tully smirks. “Just warming up.”
“Let’s see how you do over there.” Patrick points at the free-weight zone.
“Sure, I can handle dead lifts,” Tully says.
“You go first this time,” Patrick says.
“You sure?” Tully asks.
Patrick doesn’t bother responding. It’s clear that Tully is goading him. Tully loads the bar heavy and does nine reps in perfect form. When he drops the bar, the clang echoes, and there’s a smattering of applause.
Patrick looks exhausted around the seventh rep, but he keeps going, stopping at ten. Someone whistles low, and then there’s applause for him too.
By the time they move to sled pushes, their skin is glistening with sweat. Patrick digs in, legs churning, but the sled slows halfway, and he has to reset twice. He gets his momentum, though, and looks triumphant when he finishes. Tully goes after, same weight, same distance. He makes it look effortless. It’s impossible not to gawk at his body—it was flawless when we were together, but he’s become so much more defined. He’sripped. He finishes faster and straightens, wiping his brow like it’s nothing.
Patrick curses under his breath.
The women next to me are whispering excitedly.
One of them fans herself and says, “Oh my God, I can’t believe this. This is going to be my fantasy for life.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. They do look incredible, testosterone overload fighting for dominance. I know I should be rooting for Patrick, my boyfriend…but…Tully.
I feel exposed, like the whole gym can see the war inside me. Tully’s eyes find mine every few seconds, dark and knowing.
They finish with planks. Patrick starts shaking around thefour-and-a-half-minute mark. Tully goes five minutes and twenty seconds, breathing steadily, abs tight under his now-soaked tank. When he finally drops, he catches my eye again. No words. Just that look that says he remembers every night we spent tangled up, every promise I broke.
Or maybe it’s just the way I’m looking at him, hoping he hasn’t forgotten us.
