his beautiful face has that quiet look of concentration I find so sexy. His biceps bulge as he slams the bag repeatedly, and he’s so focused on what he’s doing, I hear him growl at the bag sometimes, low and deep in his throat.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Coach is having one of his loud afternoons, and I hear him start up again: “We won’t take shit this year! We won’t give anything away. We take what’s ours!”
Remington has no reply except to hit harder.
“We’re going to need a heavier punching bag if we’re going to be champs, Riley,” Coach says from the side of the bag opposite from where Riley is now taking notes.
I love how Coach Lupe uses the word “we” as if he’s up in the ring himself, fighting alongside Remy.
Pfft!
Like that man really needs any coaching.
“What do you mean?” Riley yells back, signaling at the large, heavy bag Remington is crushing with his fists. “It’s the 270-pound bag—there’s no heavier one here.”
“Sways too much!” Coach yells, shaking his bald head.
Riley laughs and jabs a finger toward Remington. “ Let’s switch him over to speed.”
Coach whistles and signals him to the speedball, and Remington pulls off a glove so he can hydrate.
His gray T-shirt is plastered to his chest, and sweat trickles down his throat, his torso, and his toned, muscled arms. A Celtic tattoo peeks out from under his sleeve as he lifts the bottle to his mouth, his bicep bulging like a mountain at the move, and he looks so fuckable, my nipples bead. He’s been at it for so many hours, I can almost feel the heat of his body all the way across the gym. My fingers itch to work on him, and I’m not even getting started on the rest of me. Let’s just say that when he’s black, I’m particularly aware of his “needs.” And I can’t wait to tend to them in a very good, girlfriendly way.
I’m already tingling in anticipation when a soft vibration nearby jerks my eyes to my cell phone, which I cast aside along with a water bottle. I pick up and read.
MELANIE: I’m having nightmares of that he-beast on your behalf! You recovered from those insects yet?
BROOKE: No.
MELANIE: But why don’t you want to tell Remy that HE-BEAST MUST DIE!
BROOKE: Mel! Because he WOULD do it!
MELANIE: GO RIPTIDE! KILL THE HE-BEAST!
BROOKE: No, Mel, I have to tell him I’m FINE. I’m trying to appease his caveman.
MELANIE: I know of no other way to appease cavemen but through food and sex, and I just felt bats in my stomach thinking of you getting to “appease” an agitated Riptide!
BROOKE: I know, it’s such a HARD task!* ?
MELANIE: OMG, where’s my athlete friend, you whore? I miss you, fly me up soon!
MELANIE: Let him show you how much he loves you again by bringing up the BFF—I mean, what’s the matter with him? He’s got you and now he forgets about impressing you by flying the BFF in?
“Stop looking around and focus! She’s not going anywhere, Tate,” Coach barks as I text Melanie a farewell; then I hear the sounds he makes on the speed bag.
Thadumpthadumpthadump . . .
Today, we aren’t alone in the gym.
Two gymnasts are training at the far end, and my stomach has not been too happy as they blatantly ogle him. They watched him when he was jumping rope. Then, they watched, their eyes almost popping out of their heads, when he was doing his pull overs, mountain climbers, and his upside-down ab work. My beast looks so sexy when he trains, those two have been gaping
all
morning and afternoon. One even fell on her butt for all the staring she was doing.
And I guess the problem with me now is that with every pretty woman I catch admiring him, I remember the groupies or whores and feel sick to my stomach again.
Exhaling as I lean forward into a downward dog yoga position, I hold it for a moment, then pass on to a cobra stretch—where I’m spread facedown on the mat with my back and neck arched backward—and I get a glimpse of him at the speed bag. There he is,
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Coach is having one of his loud afternoons, and I hear him start up again: “We won’t take shit this year! We won’t give anything away. We take what’s ours!”
Remington has no reply except to hit harder.
“We’re going to need a heavier punching bag if we’re going to be champs, Riley,” Coach says from the side of the bag opposite from where Riley is now taking notes.
I love how Coach Lupe uses the word “we” as if he’s up in the ring himself, fighting alongside Remy.
Pfft!
Like that man really needs any coaching.
“What do you mean?” Riley yells back, signaling at the large, heavy bag Remington is crushing with his fists. “It’s the 270-pound bag—there’s no heavier one here.”
“Sways too much!” Coach yells, shaking his bald head.
Riley laughs and jabs a finger toward Remington. “ Let’s switch him over to speed.”
Coach whistles and signals him to the speedball, and Remington pulls off a glove so he can hydrate.
His gray T-shirt is plastered to his chest, and sweat trickles down his throat, his torso, and his toned, muscled arms. A Celtic tattoo peeks out from under his sleeve as he lifts the bottle to his mouth, his bicep bulging like a mountain at the move, and he looks so fuckable, my nipples bead. He’s been at it for so many hours, I can almost feel the heat of his body all the way across the gym. My fingers itch to work on him, and I’m not even getting started on the rest of me. Let’s just say that when he’s black, I’m particularly aware of his “needs.” And I can’t wait to tend to them in a very good, girlfriendly way.
I’m already tingling in anticipation when a soft vibration nearby jerks my eyes to my cell phone, which I cast aside along with a water bottle. I pick up and read.
MELANIE: I’m having nightmares of that he-beast on your behalf! You recovered from those insects yet?
BROOKE: No.
MELANIE: But why don’t you want to tell Remy that HE-BEAST MUST DIE!
BROOKE: Mel! Because he WOULD do it!
MELANIE: GO RIPTIDE! KILL THE HE-BEAST!
BROOKE: No, Mel, I have to tell him I’m FINE. I’m trying to appease his caveman.
MELANIE: I know of no other way to appease cavemen but through food and sex, and I just felt bats in my stomach thinking of you getting to “appease” an agitated Riptide!
BROOKE: I know, it’s such a HARD task!* ?
MELANIE: OMG, where’s my athlete friend, you whore? I miss you, fly me up soon!
MELANIE: Let him show you how much he loves you again by bringing up the BFF—I mean, what’s the matter with him? He’s got you and now he forgets about impressing you by flying the BFF in?
“Stop looking around and focus! She’s not going anywhere, Tate,” Coach barks as I text Melanie a farewell; then I hear the sounds he makes on the speed bag.
Thadumpthadumpthadump . . .
Today, we aren’t alone in the gym.
Two gymnasts are training at the far end, and my stomach has not been too happy as they blatantly ogle him. They watched him when he was jumping rope. Then, they watched, their eyes almost popping out of their heads, when he was doing his pull overs, mountain climbers, and his upside-down ab work. My beast looks so sexy when he trains, those two have been gaping
all
morning and afternoon. One even fell on her butt for all the staring she was doing.
And I guess the problem with me now is that with every pretty woman I catch admiring him, I remember the groupies or whores and feel sick to my stomach again.
Exhaling as I lean forward into a downward dog yoga position, I hold it for a moment, then pass on to a cobra stretch—where I’m spread facedown on the mat with my back and neck arched backward—and I get a glimpse of him at the speed bag. There he is,
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