Page 31 of Jackrabbit

“Aye, Cap,” Colt said, tightening his core.

Colt started clean, as he always did. Smooth form, no tremors despite the work they'd already done. Getting stronger fast, which was good.

“Tuck your elbows,” Beau instructed, pressing his fingertips against one of them that had started to flare.

Colt did without missing a beat.

At rep 18, his shoulders started rolling in. The band was uneven.

Beau pressed on one of his curled shoulders. “Straighten up. You're losing it.”

Jaw tight with effort, Colt corrected.

He stayed straight for three more reps before his arms started to shake, and Beau thought he oughta test a theory. “Good. That's good, Colt. Four more just like that.”

The reaction was immediate. A sharp inhale, and Colt’s neck flushed pink. For just a second, his grip faltered. His eyes flicked to Beau before he gritted his teeth and finished the set with perfect form.

Huh.

Colt slowly released the resistance band and took a shaking breath. So praise was a good motivator for him. That made a lot of sense, actually. Some athletes needed to be yelled at until they got it right, and some needed to be told they were doing good when they were about to lose it.

Beau watched Colt use the hem of his shirt to wipe his mouth, eyes tracking sweat as it dripped down his obliques and into the band of his sweats.

He turned away.

Right. Praise worked. He'd use it.

Chapter 20

Over the next three weeks, Colt took to training like he was born to it. His plank time tripled, his neck steadied during resistance work, and his leg press created an influx of social media comments that had made even Colt blush as he'd read them.

Beau sat back one day and watched Colt complete a full race simulation without a single collision, and then another two after Beau had leaned against the seat and said, “Good job, boy. Real good. Do it again.”

All Beau needed to do to get Colt to take that extra step forward was his voice.

That’s it. Hold it there, boy.

Nothing more than that. Colt’s breath would catch, his neck would flush, and he’d keep going past the limit he’d thought he had. The first few times, he’d faltered for a second when Beau spoke. Now it was like he was waiting for the praise. He’d bloom under it. It was good coaching. Play to your athlete’s specific learning needs. That’s what he was doing—coaching the way Colt needed him to.

Colt’s social media exploded. Turned out that Camila had been dead right. Colt’s first sim video rivaled his arrest video for views, and it didn’t matter that half the comments were telling him he’d crash and burn. Engagement was engagement. And Colt kept Beau out of it, just like he’d promised.

Mostly.

“Beau,bookbabesixtyninewants to know what else Coach does with them hands,” Colt told him one afternoon, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he showed Beau a picture he’d taken the week before.

Colt’s shirt was soaked all the way through with sweat, and Beau’s hands were just visible at his trim waist while he adjusted Colt’s form. Neither of their faces were in it. Just an angled shot of Colt’s body and Beau’s hands.

“Mhmm.” Beau leaned back into the engine bay of the Camaro and fitted a hose back in place. “Tell ‘em them hands fix cars and whoop ass.”

Colt let out a surprised bark of laughter, and Beau looked up to see him blushing furiously. “I don't think that's the discouragement you think it is.Somepeople like that kinda thing.”

Beau realized what he'd just implied and felt his own cheeks going pink. “Get back to work, you menace.”

“I mean, if you want an internet nickname.”

“Don't.”

“Race Daddy has a nice ring to it.”