Page 53 of Blitz

The instructor moves us through the class. It’s been ages since I’ve done a pilates class. Normally, I stick to yoga or a dynamic stretching routine on my recovery days. I kind of miss it. I’ll have to make sure to schedule this class for next week after the away meet.

We add in weights for an arm workout. My triceps burn as we do a million tricep kickbacks. I meet Tuck’s eyes in the mirror and he winks at me. He’s using baby five pound weights, same as me, and sweat pours down his face and dampens his shirt. I know he’s fit. I know he can lift. But it’s slightly gratifying to know that my big, strong boyfriend is having just as much difficulty with this workout as I am.

Fred’s face is pink, the only indicator that she’s working hard. Her twin French braids are perfectly neat, not a hair out of place. My hair is falling out of its ponytail and sticking to my face. Sweat pools in my sports bra and at the base of my spine.

The burn feels good. My muscles are deliciously relaxed. Blood rushes in my ears as my heart pounds at a thousand beats per minute.

We head into a cool down. It’s a lot of stretching, a few poses borrowed from a yoga repertoire. My body feels loose and pliant. I can do anything. I collapse onto my mat and take a deep breath.

After class is officially over, Tucker turns to me and gives me a tired smile. “That was great, baby. Thank you for suggesting it.” He offers a hand and helps me to my feet.

“Any time,” I say, a bit weakly. I don’t know how to tell him I didn’t suggest it; he did.

He leans down for a kiss, and I duck out of his grasp.

“I’m all sweaty.”

“I don’t care.” His hand catches mine, and he slides his sweaty fingers between mine, his face so incredibly earnest it makes my teeth clench. “Come here and kiss me, babe.”

Like I’m under his spell, I tilt my face up for a kiss. He parts my lips with his tongue and licks into my mouth. His hands settle on my hips, squeezing gently, as if to reassure himself that I’m physically there. He doesn’t tug me into him. There’s a solid foot between our bodies.

Our friends start to gather in a half circle around us. Wes looks exhausted, his eyes weary, sweat dripping down his plain white t-shirt. Amir and Barrett are also sweaty messes, though they look considerably more enthusiastic about the last hour than he does.

“I need to come back next week,” Amir declares, wiping his face with the hem of his t-shirt. He flashes his big brown belly, hairy and sweaty. He doesn’t seem to care. “You guys do this every week?”

“It was our first class,” Fred says. She looks immaculate, the only sign of her exertion her beet red cheeks.

“We’ll be back,” I promise the guys. Even Wes looks intrigued at the idea of doing this again, his mouth quirking up into a half smile.

“We’ll have to make it a regular thing,” Tucker says, all in and enthusiastic. Because that’s the way he is: when he commits, he goes all in. He doesn’t do things in half measures. There’s no in-between with him.

Chapter twenty-two

Tucker

Something is off with Mason. I don’t know what it is, but I know when something is bothering her. She’s not telling me something.

My roommates and I spend a few hours hanging out, catching up on a few episodes of Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! that Wes recorded. Normally, the six of us gather on Sunday evenings and watch the week’s episodes. With half of us having plans tonight, that might not happen.

It’s a rare night that Sam isn’t with us. She’s having a girls’ night with her roommates, Miles informs us as he hands me my bowl of popcorn. We’re having a guys’ night in. When we make it through all of the week’s episodes, Wes opens his book and Greg pulls out the video games, and we make it a party.

My phone doesn’t ring. I debate texting her, texting Micah, texting Jamal. My brother has a night off in Detroit—he’s probably out getting laid with a devastatingly pretty woman who will warm his bed for a night or two before he moves on to the next one. Micah hasn’t been a part of my life for two and a half years; I don’t know if I know who he is anymore. He’s a top ranked NFL draft prospect. He probably isn’t the laid-back guy I remember.

Mason hasn’t posted on social media in the last forty-eight hours, but she’s replied to a few comments other people have left. She talks a lot with Fredericka, Melissa, and Mark.

I only kept my social media profile because the athletic department requires it. My profile is almost entirely highlights and clips from football games. There’s a video of me deadlifting my personal best that I particularly enjoy. Otherwise, I don’t post. I use the account to stalk Mason more than anything else.

Observe. Keep watch over. I don’t stalk. Her profile is public; she never removed me as a friend.

I know she’s had boyfriends. There are pictures of her kissing an Asian guy wearing a Georgetown tennis shirt. Photos with a group of good-looking guys with their shirts off. They all have six-pack abs and virtually no body fat.

It’s hard not to feel insecure. Why would she want me when she can get with a guy like that? She can have any guy she wants.

She wants me, a voice says in the back of my head. It sounds a lot like my mom. She wouldn’t be with me if she didn’t want me.

I just wish I knew what was going on with her.

I go to sleep in my empty bed and think of her. In the morning, I go to class and think of her. She’s in my sociology class. She smiles at me and takes her usual seat in the back of the room. I know I won’t focus back there, so I don’t sit with her; I take my normal spot in the front of the room. The entire time, I think about her. Her smile was wan. Did she get enough rest last night? Did she think of me, too? What on earth is going on with her?