“You dance?” I ask.
“Not really. I enjoy the music and the company. It would have been better if you had been in the booth with me.”
I smash my lips together. “Perhaps another time.”
His smile broadens, and those pristine, gleaming white teeth that make him so damn handsome light his face up even more. “I’d like that very much.”
We make it to the Athletic Club and walk through the lobby. Branson shows me where the women’s locker room is, and he understated it when he mentioned the steam shower. This place has all the luxuries of a high-end gym. There are walnut-colored lockers prettier than my kitchen cabinets, personal steam stalls, and vanities that are stacked with beauty products. There are even massage rooms, many of them in use.
I change into my workout gear—black yoga pants and a sports tank top that shows off my lower midriff. I tie my sneakers and place my bag in a locker.
The gym is a level above, overlooking the indoor pool. I hit up the elliptical for twenty minutes and then do some light circuit training.
When I’m done, I head downstairs, grab my bag from the locker room, and walk around in search of the racquetball courts. The sounds of sneakers screeching against a court are loud as I walk down a hall. Men are standing in the doorway, watching a match. Up above, I see a viewing platform with people hanging out.
Inside the court, Hunter is whacking the ball with his racket, making it pop against the wall as it ricochets back with force.
Branson is leaning against the wall, watching Hunter play.
“I thought you two played together?” I ask as our eyes volley along with the guys.
“We’re in the singles playoffs tonight. I won the last game. Whoever wins this round will play me in the championship,” he states.
I whistle. “I didn’t know it was so competitive.”
“You have no idea,” Branson states just as Hunter runs for the ball, hitting it across the court, making it touch the wall just in bounds and bouncing it back to where his opponent can’t get to it.
Hunter wins the game. As he wipes the sweat from his brow, he shakes hands with the man he was playing against and then turns toward the door.
When his eyes land on me, he acts confused.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in disbelief. His gaze roams toward Branson and then to me, eyeing my gym attire.
“Branson invited me to see the playoffs.”
He squints his eyes at Branson and then turns back to me. “I’m glad he did. I see you got a workout in as well. Good for you.”
Branson extends a hand to Hunter. “Well-played match. I look forward to whooping your ass out there. Hope you’re not too worn out.”
Hunter shakes his hand. “Just getting started. See you out there.” His joke makes Branson laugh as he walks away to his side of the court.
I bite my lip as I glance down at my hands. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I was heading home and—”
“Hey.” He leans in and lifts my chin. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ll get to impress you with my athleticism. Though it might be awkward when I kick Branson’s ass in front of the girl he’s trying to impress.”
He flexes his muscles playfully, and I laugh.
“He’s not trying to impress me.”
He leans forward and kisses my lips. It’s fast yet deep and with just the right amount of tongue.
“Baby, we’re all trying to impress you,” he says.
“You’re ridiculous.”
He smiles. “You have no idea.”
He quickly raises his eyebrows a few times before heading back to the game. I lay my fingers over my mouth and savor that kiss.
Branson is on the far side of the court. He’s staring directly at me. I smile and wave.
Hunter sees and tilts his head at me. I brush him off with a silly expression.
Feeling better about being here, I take a spot behind the glass wall and watch the game. Branson serves, and the two begin their battle. The ball hits the front wall and then the sidewall, and then it lands outside a line painted on the wood floor.
Hunter returns, and they volley until someone yells, “Side-out.”
Apparently, no points are awarded.
Hunter serves next. The ball hits the wall, bouncing twice before Branson can get to it. He rallies it back with such force that Hunter has to dive and slams his racket into the wall so hard that I fear it will break.
A man nearby makes a sound as if that was a tough move.
They volley until the ball is out of bounds again. Branson gets to serve again. The men grunt as they swing with all their might. Hunter trips over his feet as he dives and misses.
Point to Branson.
My boss turns around and smiles at me. I give him a thumbs-up and then put it down when Hunter glares at me.
The ball is now Hunter’s, and something has changed.
Like a ping-pong on steroids, the ball is throttled across the room. It must take a lot of trust to trap yourself in a small room, behind a glass wall, with a torpedo coming at you at rapid speed. The pounding sound slams over and over along with the slap against the racquets and the men’s loud sounds of exertion.
Hunter gets a point on Branson with a smirk on his face.
The two men seem to have tunnel vision, each of them playing as if there’s more than just a gym championship title on the line. I can’t imagine their weekly games are like this.
It’s mean. It’s primal.
It’s an all-out war that needs to stop, or someone’s going to get hurt.
“Fuck!” Hunter yells as he falls to the floor.
I spoke too soon. Branson slammed into Hunter, and now, they’re both on the floor with Hunter clutching his ankle.
I open the door and rush to his side. “Are you okay?”
“I’m good.” He tries to stand, but by the painful expression written all over his face, anyone can tell he’s hurt.
Branson leans down to give him his hand. “Sorry about that, bloke.”
Hunter reaches up to take it and stands up, his right foot hovering in the air.
“Can you put any weight on it?” I ask him.
He tries to and winces in pain.
“Come on. Let’s get you home and get it iced and elevated.”
“No. I want to finish the game,” Hunter demands.
“How? By hopping across the court?” I ask.
Branson lets out a laugh and then rights himself. “Forfeiting is admirable.”
Hunter shakes his head with a laugh as he pushes his hair off his sweaty forehead. “For now, Ford. Just remember, if it wasn’t for my ankle, I’d kick your ass.” Hunter’s carefree personality is back.
Branson shakes his hand and then grabs their bags, putting Hunter’s racket away. After Branson is declared the victor with little pomp and circumstance, Hunter puts an arm around my shoulders and lets me walk him out the door.
Branson is at our side. “Do you need me to bring you home, Katherine?”
I turn to Hunter, who’s scrunching his face. I tell Branson, “We’re gonna take a cab to my place. See you in the morning.”
Branson’s brows pinch as we walk out the front door, and he turns toward the locker rooms.
Hunter has a mischievous grin on his face. A puzzled expression covers mine.
“You certainly handle losing pretty well,” I say.