Page 52 of Rain Delay

He pushes out of the lunge, swinging his arms to catch his balance. “This is absolute torture,” he says, hopping off the board and wiping his forehead. “You do this for fun?”

I nod, handing him a stretch band. “Trust me, it actually does a lot for your body.” I tell him, setting up my phone again in front of the machine as he gets back on it. “Now you’re going to do lunges with the stretch band while doing some arm curls.”

He looks at me, wildly confused. “While I’m doing these sliding lungey things? Arm curls? You think I’m that coordinated?”

“You’re a shortstop, I would hope so…” I poke at him. “Can’t have an all-star baseball player who isn’t hand-eye coordinated. Kind of a key part of the job.”

“What does this have to do with fielding ground balls?” He asks, putting the band under his foot, stationing himself to get ready to do more lunges.

“Oh my god,” I laughed, unable to help it. “Wyatt Mitchell is actually struggling.”

“I’m not,” he says, balance checking himself before looking down at me. “You’re just being distracting.”

“I did no such thing. I was just stating the obvious.” I say before I climb on my own Pilates machine, doing the same exercise as him with no complaints. “You’re letting Pilates make you its bitch.”

He huffed out a breath, coming out of the lunge and put his hands on the bars. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re lucky I’m not a Pilates instructor, they’re very chipper and explain things in a way you wouldn’t understand. They also work you to the extremes.” I explain to him while I stretch out my shoulders. “The machine will see parts of you no lover ever has,” I smirk at him.

“You’ve seen every part of me,” he shot back, a smirk now curling on his lips. This fucker.

I roll my eyes, moving on the machine, now laying down with my feet against the board. “Copy me.”

His eyes followed, then he looked at how I was laying and tried to copy what I was doing. “Then what?”

“Now you’re going to do leg presses while grabbing on one of those bands behind you. Stretching out everything.” I demonstrate.

It’s quiet and I look out of the corner of my eye, I see he’s just watching me do the exercise, not even bothering to attempt it. “That means you too, Mitchell.”

“Hm?” He hums, clearing his throat. “Right. Pilates.”

I shake my head, doing a couple more leg extensions before bending my knees, doing a set of pulses before sitting up and face him.

“My mind is thinking a lot of things right now that aren’t Pilates related, so I’m going to keep my mouth shut.” Wyatt says, finally trying to do the workout I had just completed.

I blush, nodding without saying a word. I knew exactly what he was getting at, and that made me blush even more.

I walked over to his machine, adjusting the strength and weight on the bands he was pulling. Without even thinking about it, I was leaning over him, my chest practically in his face.

My breath hitched and he stopped what he’s doing and looked up at me.

It was then I became painfully aware of just how close I was to him in this position.

This very vulnerable, and uncomfortable position.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” his jaw tightened.

“Doing what?”

“Being this close to me…” he replies, voice low.

Heat creeps up my neck, and I try to shake it off. “It’s called helping you.”

“Definitely feels like something else.”

I move back, pulling my hands away and watching as he sat up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Wyatt lets out a soft, quiet chuckle. “You’re funny, El. I think you know exactly what you’re doing.” He says.