Page 49 of Stroked Long
A part of me wants to believe he finds me somewhat attractive. I mean, I brush my hair and teeth, so that should give me some points in the attractive column, right?
BOOM
The windows above Bodi’s bed rattle, the condo shakes once again, and my heart jumps in my throat from the powerful storm that refuses to let up.
“It’s okay,” Bodi says, just as his free hand connects with mine. Before I can consider the soft touch of his fingers on my skin, he grips my hand with his, matching our palms together, his thumb running along mine in a gentle, soothing stroke.
Every inch of my body tingles, becoming well aware of the effect he has on me. He makes me want more, he makes me yearn for something I’m not sure he wants.
Needing a conversation so I don’t hear my beating heart roar above the storm, I ask, “Are you excited about the upcoming trials?”
He seems a little shocked from the question, and I fear he might pull his hand away. But he doesn’t. He continues to hold it, leaving me with a feeling of absolute peace.
“Trials are the worst,” he confesses. “No one really likes them. They are a hump you have to get over to get on the team. You could be the best in the world but one bad day can hand you a ticket back home with no Olympic rings set for your future.”
“So I take that as a no.”
“That’s a no. I will be happy when they are over.”
“Does that make you nervous?”
He doesn’t answer right away. What could he possibly be thinking? Is he mad I’m asking too many questions? He has his limits, and I’m trying to find out what they are. I pray I didn’t hit one.
After a moment of silence, he says, “I don’t think nervous is the right word. I’m confident in my skills, in my training, in my mental game; those are all factors I can control, but there is always something I can’t control, which doesn’t sit well with me.”
There is so much I want to know. I want to ask about his need to control, about his parents, why he’s so adamant about keeping things a certain way, about his obsession of locking everything, but I haven’t earned that privilege yet and if I ask too early, he will distance himself for good. He’s already teetering on the brink of accepting me into his little world. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my chances of being accepted.
“That’s frustrating. At least you have a grip on what you can control. You will do great. I know you will.”
“I believe so.”
It’s one of the first times I’ve actually heard him talk positively about himself, and it’s refreshing.
“So you never answered my question.”
“What question is that?” His voice is low, almost sultry, but I know he’s not doing it on purpose to entice me. He sounds more relaxed, which I can relate to thanks to the little thumb strokes he’s making on my hand, easing the tension in my body from the storm.
“What do you do on your days off?”
“Nothing spectacular. I’m pretty boring actually,” he admits. “Pay bills, do laundry, catch up on anything I’ve missed during the week, answer fan mail, and hang out at the club offering free lessons to whoever is there that day.”
“You don’t have a personal assistant?”
“I don’t trust anyone to do my things for me.”
And right there, that’s a little window into his world. He doesn’t trust anyone besides the ones closest to him. I know the only reason he trusts me to work on the foundation is because of Eva. Am I in his inner circle? I don’t think so, but I’m getting pretty damn close.
At least I hope I am.
“What do you do?” he asks, pulling the attention away from himself.
“I don’t pay bills and answer fan mail if that’s what you were wondering.”
Chuckling quietly, he says, “Oh yeah, fan mail is answered on Mondays for you, right?”
“Only with my pink gel pen. If I don’t have my pink gel pen, then no fan mail.”
“You’re ruthless.”
