Page 29 of Okay, Cupid

Last summer when Leo held my hand for the first time, I had to use my shirt to hide my crotch.

Because hand-holding gave me a boner.

Leo just laughed at me, but not in a mean way. That sweet sound floating through the summer air, carried toward the ocean on the soft breeze. No, I can’t think of Leo right now, boner or not.

It’s not good for me or my anti-boner agenda.

Huy does his ten reps, and after a short break, he does ten more, and then another ten. Leaving me totally in the dust when it comes to exercises done today.

“Is there anything more appropriate for someone like me?” I stand in front of him as he wipes the bench off. Five foot five and barely able to lift forty-five pounds above my head, I doubt there’s much. But the last thing I want to do is fail gym of all classes.

Huy smiles up at me, his forehead a little sweaty. “Yeah, how do you feel about leg presses?”

I don’t know what those are, but as Huy leads me over to a machine that I think more closely resembles a medieval torture device, I suspect that I don’t like them.

“Sit like this,” Huy directs, his shorts riding up his thighs as he takes a seat. “Put your legs up like this, and push!” He does exactly that, pushing this large metal platform in the air as the weights on the machine are lifted off with ease.

He has really good legs, and huge calves, which I guess makes sense, being that he’s the soccer captain. I’d imagine there are a lot of leg days in his schedule.

He stands just as quickly as he sat down. “Think you can do that?”

“Maybe.” I do just like he did, pulling out this little metal rod in the weights to go for something much lighter. “You’re a lot better at this than I am,” I say as I struggle, though I’ll admit that it’s easier to do this than it is lifting the weights. I guess growing up in a walkable city gave me something to work with.

“When you’re the team captain you can’t get caught slacking.”

“Is that fun?” I ask. “Playing soccer?”

“Is it fun?” He raises a brow. “What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just making conversation,” I tell him, almost out of breath. “Work with me here.”

I guess working out has its perks. There’s no need for beating around the bush.

“It’s fun, yeah. We made it to the championships last year, but San Jose beat us.”

“Oh, that’s a bummer.”

“Yeah.” He taps on his water bottle. “We played hard; it just wasn’t enough.”

“You sound like you blame yourself.” Okay, maybe I should beat around the bush a little. “Sorry, I didn’t want to say it like that.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong. I’m the captain, I could’ve played better.”

“But it’s a team sport.”

He laughs at that, a low sound that lasts for half a second but lingers in the air. “Fair enough.”

I think that maybe he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. Not until he tells me that I’m done with my sets. My legs feel like Jell-O as I stand. I take Huy’s hand when it’s offered to me; his palm is a little sweaty, pretty warm.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” I tell him as we switch positions. He moves the metal rod in the weights closer to the top, his thigh muscles constricting as he readies himself.

“It just makes me nervous for what’s to come.” He hoists the metal plate into the air. “Coaches were at those games; they were there to watch me. And I lost. It might’ve cost me scholarships.”

“Well … you don’t want to go to those schools anyway,” I say, hoping that’ll make him feel better.

“Trust me, I do.”

Right. Bad advice.