Page 12 of Sweat

She’s got a hopeful look in her eyes, like she wishes I could take her with me. I wish that too. Maybe if Erica came along, Rowan would be on his best behavior, or he’d just taunt me mercilessly about bringing a chaperone to whatever training session he has planned.

“Just gonna meet a,” I falter, “friend.”

“A friend?” That hopefulness grows. “Like, a date?”

“No.” I nearly choke. “Absolutely not. Just a dude from school who thinks I maybe have what it takes to get on the soccer team in time for next season. I’m going to work out with him.”

A wide grin stretches across her pale face, and she reaches a hand out toward me. “Good. I’m glad. You used to live and breathe soccer. You never should’ve quit.”

I take her hand, holding it with all the gentleness I would an injured bird, and I lean down to touch a kiss to the top of her head. “Love you.”

It’s five before seven when I get to the field beside the gym. Rowan is already here, stretching his hamstrings on the grass, alone this time. It’s early enough in the evening there’s still a bit of sunlight lingering in the dusk, and there are still a few students strolling past the field to and from the gym.

“You’re late,” is the first thing Rowan says when I drop my bag next to his, before he’s even looked up at me.

“No, I’m not.” I check my phone just in case, and it’s still three before seven.

“On time is late. Fifteen minutes early is on time.”

I laugh, thinking this one’s got to be a joke, but he tilts his head back and treats me with a look that’s serious as sin. “Alright then, should I leave?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up, like maybe it was a joke after all, or maybe he just gets off on confusing me. Nodding to my pack, he says, “Put your cleats on and meet me at the goal line.”

I rummage through my pack and shove on my cleats while Rowan chides me from a few yards away for taking so long.

“Hurry up! You’ve got two and a half minutes to put them on, or else you’relatelate!”

I roll my eyes and shout back, “You’re neurotic, dude!” But I pick up the pace anyway and jog over to him.

Tonight, he’s in those same black shorts from when I decked him and a sleeveless tee that bares his arms to the chilly evening. I stare long enough to notice goosebumps under a dusting of black hair.

“You should take that off.”

I blink and lift my eyes to connect with his. “What?”

“Your hoodie. You won’t have time to take it off by the time you’re desperate.”

While I shuck off my sweater, I ask, “What are we doing?”

“Suicides.”

“For real?” I chuckle, because only a psychopath would choose to run suicides.

“You’re too big.”

“S’cuse me?” My heart is racing, partly from how comically weird and cryptic Rowan is, but also because he’s standing two feet from me, running his eyes all over me like I’m wearing new skin. I want to tell him nothing’s changed since the last time he sized me up, but maybe I have changed and just don’t realize it.

“You’re too bulky.” He meets my eyes, and I like this too. “All that muscle is gonna slow you down and make it harder to get out of a jam. From now on, less weights, more cardio. You should be training at sixty percent cardio every day.”

“Beckham was bulky.”

Rowan balks at that. “You want to be Beckham, baby boy? You’ve got to get on a fucking team first.”

“Bro, why do you call me that?”

The way Rowan’s brows lower a touch tells me I asked the wrong question, or maybe it’s thebropart he doesn’t like. “I’m gonna run, and you’re gonna run along with me, like a baby glued to his daddy’s side. When I go, you go, and you better get back at the same time I do, because I’m not gonna wait for you. We run until I feel like stopping.”

“So, we’re just going to run all night?” I’m exhausted just thinking about it, but I’m also shivering now, so a few sprints sounds alright.

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