“Pussy,” he says, squeezing my hand even harder, and shaking it to get my attention. My eyes go to his on instinct, and there isn’t a single trace of pity on his face. His lips don’t twitch, and I can tell this isn’t a front. He isn’t trying to put on a strong face for me. He isn’t pretending that he doesn’t care what I just said. He honestly and truly doesn’t. He’s just calling me a pussy.
“Ty, did you hear me?” I ask.
“Yeah, I heard you. You have MS. I can’t feel my legs. La di fuckin’ da. Are we training or what?” His expression hasn’t changed once, and the armor I just started to build up around my heart is already cracking.
I pull my hand from his and unfold the paper again to really take it in. Everything on here—every exercise and the time associated with it—is familiar. I know I can do it. I’ve done it before. I also know I may experience setbacks. And I know my body will be tired. But I want this. Maybe it’s because Ty’s the one believing in me, and maybe that’s making me want it even more. It’s probably the wrong decision based on a medical plus-and-minus chart, but it’s the right one in my heart.
“Where do I start?”
The way his mouth slides into a prideful smile melts any remaining doubt away, and I take a slow, deep breath, my chest almost puffing at feeling strong and wanted all at once.
“We need to get your miles back up,” he says, grabbing my bag from the small shelf and tossing it to me. “No weights today. Today is all about the treadmill.”
I follow him to the aerobic machines, and everything feels lighter, yet nothing between us has changed. And I think I like that most of all. “Oh, by the way,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder, “my parents have a suite for the first home game. They’re taking Nate and me, and we have extra seats. I’d like you to meet them. Wanna go?”
It may not be the right move, and I may be blowing any future strategy, as Paige would say, but I smile and let my eyes light up anyway, because Ty is actually doing it—he’s earning me, like I’m something to be earned. “I’d like that,” I say.
He nods in response, like it’s no big deal, but I also hear him exhale heavily, and I can tell asking me made him nervous. I make him nervous. And I like that, too.
Chapter 6
Ty
I have never done a load of laundry in my entire life. Not once. Ever. Nate calls it my gift, my one super power.
Mom always takes care of it when we’re home. It’s her thing. She always says she loves the smell—the way the fabrics feel when she pulls them from the dryer—and the warmth. I get it. When I was a kid, I used to love tagging along with her while she did the weekend chores, and we’d always end up in the laundry room. I would sit in the corner, in the basket filled with freshly dried towels, and eat a bowl of grapes. Something about the dryer sheets lulled me to sleep. To this day, when I’m at home, Mom practically bakes my blanket and pillowcases in the dryer, and I swear to god I sleep like a damned baby.
You think my addiction to the smell of warmed lavender would be enough to learn how the whole process works. But as much as I love the end result, I absolutely loathe the manual-labor part of laundry. It’s just so…tedious! It’s not like dishes or vacuuming, not that I do any of that often either, but at least when you do the dishes, it’s done…in like…fifteen minutes. Or you put them in a machine and just come back later and pull the dishes out when you need them. Laundry, though—laundry requires waiting. And carrying. And folding. And sorting.
While I was in Florida, I was usually able to get someone to do my laundry for me. Nate’s taken care of it for the last month, throwing my laundry in with his. He says I’m so good that I even have him trained. I know he’d do it again. I know he’d do it every week, for the rest of the semester. But I just saw Cass go into the laundry room, and suddenly here I am, halfway down the hall with a full basket of laundry in my lap.
“Hey, fancy meeting you here!” I shut my eyes and release a breathy laugh when I hear myself speak. I’m so fucking lame.
“Oh, hey,” Cass says, jumping at my voice. She’s sorting her laundry, so I pause and watch.
She’s wearing tiny running shorts and this thin T-shirt that makes me want to toss water on it just to watch it stick to her skin. We haven’t really talked much since our training session a couple days ago. I have a feeling she thinks I’m freaked out because she told me about her MS. But I’m not. I haven’t gone to see her because every time I do, I want to kiss her. But then I think about her one stipulation, and I wonder if me—and all of my crap—won’t find a reason to hurt her once I’m done. That would be the end of it, too. No more training sessions, no more not-so-random laundry room run-ins. I don’t think I want to be done with that.