His dark eyebrows winged up momentarily, but he shrugged and added them. “Really though, he brought you with him for a reason. What’s the deal? You’re not his sister.”
“Nope,” she said, grunting a little as she lifted the weight above her shoulder. It was the awkward angle, not the pounds that made her struggle. But the stranger didn’t offer to share the burden, which she approved of. After she got the weight on and clipped, she double checked his side to be sure it was properly secured.
He scowled at her.
She smiled sweetly. “Just checking.”
“I know how to put a weight on a bar,” he said under his breath.
“How was I supposed to know that? Safety first,” she chirped, then stepped onto the riser and let the bar and padding settle comfortably over her shoulder blades.
“What’s the connection?”
“Agent,” she finally said, then twisted her hands to unrack the bar and began a set of twelve presses with her calves. This one was hard because she always had the instinct to bounce. It took effort and concentration to make the motions of lowering her heels toward the ground smooth and deliberate.
“Your agent hooked you up.”
She racked the bar and stepped forward, still on the riser, which made her an inch taller than the annoying man. Before answering, she surveyed him a moment. Skin that was darker than a tan, probably indicating multiple ethnicities in his genealogy, dark hair that was buzzed nearly to the shape of his head, and eyes that were sharp and such a deep brown they nearly blended in with the pupils. Fit, of course, but not overly tall. Lean rather than muscular. Built for speed, she guessed.
“Running back?”
“Receiver,” he corrected, looking surprised. “Bobcats fan?”
She laughed and shook her head before taking her place under the bar. Before she unracked, she added, “Football is a mystery to me. But it was a shot in the dark. You weren’t going to be a lineman. And everyone knows who the quarterback is even if you hate the sport. Trey Owens is known by all.”
As she went through her next set of twelve, he surveyed her. But she had a feeling it was less about sexual appreciation and more about judging her worthiness.
“So you’re, what, a workout partner?”
“Something… like that,” she said with some effort, racking the bar and stepping out from under it. “What does it matter?”
“Because I like to know who I’m working out with.” His smile wasn’t cocky, exactly, but it wasn’t all that friendly either.
“I’m not distracting anyone, and I’m not in your way.”
“You’re here.”
“So what? Afraid I’m going to press more than you and make you look bad?” She patted his shoulder in a there, there gesture and got ready for her last set of calf raises. When she finished and started taking the weights off the right side, she was surprised when he unclipped and removed the weights on the left.
“Are you saying you could press more than me?”
She laughed again. “That would be ridiculous. Hard as I train, biologically that’s unlikely. But,” she added because she couldn’t resist, “strength isn’t the only thing that counts in the game.”
That had him raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh yeah?”
She grinned. “Yeah.”
Michael checked his phone, shocked he hadn’t missed a call or text from Kat while he’d been in the meeting. Come get me, I’m tired. By now she had to be bored senseless.
Unless she was causing problems. Again. Jesus.
Michael broke into a jog as he made his way from the offices at the facility to the weight room. The moment he hit the hallway, he heard the masculine laughter and cheering.
God, please let her not be doing some weird dance routine on top of a weight bench.
But as he opened the door, he wasn’t sure which was worse: her dancing on top of a weight bench, or…
“Lambert!” Caleb walked over, a smile on his face. “She’s a frickin’ machine! She’s about to kick Rodman’s ass. This is the hardest I’ve seen him work in weeks.”
Michael maneuvered around the guys who were standing watching the back of the room where the mats for stretching were and found… well, damn.
Kat and Rodman Holiday were both hauling ass on burpees in what he quickly realized was a competition. They placed their hands on the floor, thrust their legs back into push-up position, hopped them forward again, then jumped as high as they could, arms reaching above them. From the looks of it, they’d been going for a while. Each had a counter standing beside them, keeping track of the number completed as the rest of the guys shouted encouragement—or heckling for Rodman.
Then someone in the crowd yelled, “Ten!”
The countdown was on, everyone joining in with, “Nine, eight, seven,” like it was freaking New Year’s Eve in Times Square.
“How long have they been doing this?” Michael asked to nobody in particular.