“You aren’t a nobody.”
“World ranking says otherwise. But seriously, don’t sweat it. I’m used to it.”
His frown was back. “That sucks.”
In a world where people had said I’d deserved to get hit by a car for being gay, it was hard to be angry at those who just wanted to see what kissing me was like, but he wasn’t wrong. It still hurt every time someone hastily backpedalled. “Yeah, I guess it does.”
I hit stop and swung my leg off the bike. “I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m doing some lifting then heading to the group workout room for ladder drills and such. They let me use it after the aerobics class. You can join me if you want.”
“That’d be great,” Miles said, climbing onto his bike. “Thanks. Especially after . . .”
“After you kissed me?” I said when he left the words hanging. “Surprisingly, I don’t find being kissed by another man embarrassing. Even if you didn’t mean to, it was still nice.”
Leaving him to both warm-up and digest that unfortunate piece of honesty, I headed across the gym to the lifting racks determined to forget he existed. I almost achieved it, until he came to lean against the wall and watch me finish my last set.
“Youliketraining,” he said as I racked the bar, his words an accusation.
My cheeks flushed. From the effort, I told myself, not because I thought I’d caught an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “Sure. Don’t you?”
“Not particularly. I like playing well and I like winning. That takes training, but I don’t enjoy it for itself.”
“Sucks for you.”
“Ah, but thankfully, I have a match tomorrow so nothing too heavy for me today.”
The aerobics class had finished while I was lifting, leaving the moderately-sized room empty of all but the equipment they kept stacked against the walls and an abandoned water bottle lying on the matting. Miles kicked it out of the way while I dropped my training bag and unzipped the top.
“What do you want to do?” I asked, pulling out cones and tape.
“Go back to bed, personally,” Miles said. “But my conditioning coach would have other ideas if he was here.”
I raised my brows at him. “Is he a taskmaster too?”
“Extremely so. I’m lazy, you see, so it’s the only way to make me do anything.”
The words were flat, like a statement of fact rote-learned, and in their wake his silent stare dropped my stomach.
It must have shown on my face, for he barked a sudden laugh. “God, Mat, you look so concerned. It’s fine. I’ll just do some ladder drills and throws, that sort of thing.”
“Right, well, why don’t you set up how you like and I’ll get a medicine ball. You want two kilos? Five?”
“Urgh, it’s too early for weight conversions.” Miles screwed up his nose. “Ten pounds would be four and a half, so I guess five.”
I went to get the ball, glad to step away for a moment because this whole new thing where we were not just talking but training together felt strange. Although, despite the awkwardness of last night’s kiss and this morning’s excuses, also remarkably easy.
We started with stretches and ladder drills, jumps and footwork exercises using cones on the floor – all the things that could be done without assistance, and though Miles was taking it easy, he was impressive to watch. His speed, the hair trigger of his reflexes, and his explosive movement were all more impressive up close than on the court. And when he took breaks, he didn’t retreatto his phone but stood, hands on hips, barking encouraging commands at me.
“Faster. Go. Go. That’s it.” He clapped, keeping time. “Go again. Push harder.”
“Are you channelling your conditioning coach?” I asked, sucking breaths.
“God no, you don’t want that,” he said, and before I could ask why, he picked up the medicine ball, adding, “I’ll throw with you after your next run.”
“It’s fine, I can ask one of the guys in the office.”
Miles folded his arms over the ball. “You would rather a guy with a desk job over me? I’m insulted, Matteo.”
“What? No! I just mean you’ve got your own shit to do.”
