Alyssa ♔

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Maddie's proposition means Max and I are the only two in the gym this evening. I am sitting at a weights machine, swinging my arms back and forth while he trains on one of the punching bags. 

I try not to look at him, but it's hard when we're training so close. He's so focused, controlled, and his eyes stay on the bag as he pounds it with his fists. If that were me, I'd be struggling to breathe, but he's barely even working a sweat. 

To him, it's like we're in two different worlds. Not once does he acknowledge my presence–it's like I cease to exist. Despite the fact I should be thankful, it irks me a little. I'm used to being the center of attention, to guys falling over their feet to talk to me; I'm not used to being ignored.  

I'm reminded of when I'd refused to acknowledge him, and my stomach sinks. Pretending not to know him was a necessary evil. If Justin had somehow caught on to the fact that Max and I knew each other, he'd have done more than left a few fingerprints on me. 

I watch the way his hands pound the bag. His arms are thick and sculpted with muscles, like he spends most of his life in here training. He probably does, nobody fights the way he fights without putting in the hours. 

He looks good doing it, but that's not the only reason I can't stop staring. It's the way he's so lost in the movements, the way his body seems to explode with each punch like he's pouring everything into his hits. Maddie was right, it does look therapeutic.

He suddenly stops punching and looks over his shoulder. "I get it, I'm pretty, but are you going to stare at me all night?"

My cheeks burn with heat. I thought I'd been discreet by looking at him between reps, but evidently not. "Sorry." My voice comes out meek, so I quickly square my shoulders. "I wasn't looking at you. I just–that looks nice." 

He furrows his eyebrows. "What does?"

I nod at the bag. "That. Punching that bag. Maddie said it was therapeutic, and I guess I kind of know what she means now." 

He watches me for a second in a way that makes me feel nervous. His eyebrows furrow, and it causes this little crease between his eyes that makes him look dark and brooding. Finally, the crease eases and he lets out a sigh. "If I show you how to use it, will you stop?"

I raise my eyebrows at his proposition. "Yes." 

He beckons me over with the nod of his head, so I get to my feet. He stands back from the punching bag and waits for me to reach him before finally turning to face me. 

"You'll need gloves," he says. He pulls off his own and places them down before pulling some new ones from the equipment box. When he straightens up, he stands in front of me and tells me to hold out my hands. "Always tape them first," he says, meeting my gaze. "It stops your hands from sliding around in the gloves."

He pauses for a second or two and watches me carefully. It is almost as though he's reluctant to touch me. Then, gently, he takes my hand in his, engulfing it with his palm. It is warm and solid, the kind of touch that sends jolts through my skin and down to the pit of my stomach. I jerk back a little, watching the way he wraps the tape around my knuckles. It's been a while since I last felt that feeling.

"I'm sorry," I say, because the guilt I feel about last night has been eating me up. "For being so rude to you last night." I wait for him to look at me, to acknowledge that I've spoken, but he keeps his gaze on my hands. "It wasn't personal," I continue. "I just haven't told anyone about going to the gym, and they'd want to know how I knew you and–" 

He suddenly stops wrapping my knuckles and raises his gaze. "You don't need to explain."

His gaze is intense, and I feel like I'm quietly being judged, so I say, "I know I don't. I just didn't want you to think I was being rude, or that I have anything against you. I–" 

"I didn't give it any thought at all." He steps back a little and puts down the tape before straightening up. "Stand like this," he says, and without waiting for a response, he moves me into position. 

Warmth pools in my stomach. There is something strangely intimate and forbidden about his hands on my body, even if it is completely innocent.

He's standing right behind me, which means I can practically feel the heat of his breath on the nape of my neck. "You want to make sure your knuckles of your index and middle fingers are hitting the bag first," he says, his voice low. "Otherwise you could break them." 

I nod to show I'm listening, but it's hard to concentrate with him standing so close. We're from two different worlds, we aren't supposed to be in the same room as each other, let alone a hair's breadth apart. If my parents or friends could see me now, they'd have a breakdown, I'm sure of it. 

"Keep both feet on the floor," he says, and then he raises my arm and shows me where on the punching bag to hit. "Aim here, nice and controlled."

I do as he says, and the moment my glove hits the leather of the bag, it's like my body jolts awake. I feel it in my arms, the force traveling down to my stomach and my legs, like an electrical current.

Max stands back as I start to pick up speed, and when I've landed a few punches and finally look over, he is smirking. "You're a quick learner," he says, and something about the way he says it makes me smile. I can't remember the last time I was complimented on something other than my looks.

I like it.

"You're right," I say, slightly breathless. "I couldn't have done this with nails on." 

He smiles now, revealing the dimple in his cheek. "Those weren't nails, those were bear claws." 

I stop punching to look at him. "You know nothing about fashion." 

He glances at my sneakers. When he raises his gaze again, his eyes gleam back wickedly. "Neither do you." Without another word, he heads toward the weights area as I stand staring after him. The audacity! 

I turn back to the punching bag. It feels good to be practicing. Really good. It's like every bad thought or feeling is being channeled through this punching bag. It makes me feel strong and brave.

Powerful.  

"My headphones are broken." I look over my shoulder to see Max sat at one of the machines with his phone in his hand. "I usually listen to music when I'm training. Do you mind if I play it out loud?"

I raise my eyebrows, surprised. Max doesn't seem like the type of guy to ask for permission. I shake my head, and he pulls out this old, cracked phone that looks like it's on its last legs.

"I'm surprised that thing still works," I say. 

His eyebrows furrow and meet in the middle. "Not all of us can afford a new one every month." I quickly fall silent, and his eyes soften. "You want to pick something?" 

I move toward him and take it from his hands. Our fingers brush, and I notice the slight bruise that has formed on his knuckles, no doubt from the fight last night.

I start to scroll through his playlist. "So, uh, I guess my options are Tupac, Tupac, or Tupac." When I look at him, his dark eyes are filled with amusement. 

"No better music to train to," he says.

I settle on a song called All Eyez On Me and we both get back to training in silence. Even though I'd promised to stop staring, every so often I look in his direction and watch the way he lifts. He's deep in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed and every muscle strained beneath the weight.

My heart skips a beat.

After a while, when it feels like I'm about to have a heart attack, I sit down on the bench and sip my water bottle. Max stops too and grabs his towel, wiping the sweat off his face.

"Why are you with that guy?" he asks suddenly. "He's a tool."

I look up, surprised by the randomness of his question. Still, he's not wrong. "I know."

"Am I missing something here?"

I sigh a little. "It's...complicated."

If I didn't know better, I'd think he looks concerned. His eyes fall back to the fingerprints on my arm and he frowns. "He ever grab you like that before?"

For about a millisecond, I want to tell him the truth. I want to confide this big, dark secret about staying with Justin for my family, because I think maybe it'll make me feel better to tell a stranger, but then common sense kicks in and I swallow the words.

"Nope," I say. "He was just drunk. It was nothing."

He looks at me like he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't press the issue. Instead, we both grab our stuff and Max locks up before we make our way downstairs. 

Out on the sidewalk, Max takes one look at the street and says, "Shit," before turning to face me. "Somebody stole your car."  

For a second, I'm confused. "Oh, no. I caught an Uber here. You told me not to park in this neighborhood."  

He looks a little relieved, and then, for the first time, he laughs. He runs a hand down his face like he doesn't know whether I'm insane or not. I have no idea why, I was only following his advice, but the smile doesn't leave his lips. 

I realize I like it. 

We're silent for about a second, and it looks like he's having some mental debate in his head. Reluctantly, he says, "I'll give you a ride."

He watches me, waiting for my response, waiting to see if I'll take the offer from someone like him. He thinks I care about that kind of stuff, and I'm desperate to prove him wrong.  

I smile. "Thanks."  

The brief look of surprise on his face fills me with triumph. We spend the ride mostly discussing music. I learn he's mostly a fan of rap, though sometimes, when no one's around, he'll listen to some country. He learns I like Pop, and I kind of like the way his lips twist into this disgusted frown.  

When we pull up to my house, he doesn't kill the engine. I gather my gym bag and slowly turn to face him, feeling nervous. I never get nervous. "Thanks," I say, sounding more confident than I feel.

He nods, his eyes briefly falling to my lips. "You're welcome." 

The way he's looking at my mouth does something strange to my insides. I dither for a second before climbing out. When I walk across the pristine lawns and over to my house, I realize I'm smiling.

A/N

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