Page 25 of Sweat

“Uh…what is it?” I take it because it’s Rowan giving it to me, but I’m hesitant to unscrew it. I’m not big on liquor, and I hadn’t pegged Rowan for a booze hound either.

In front of me is an intimidating tower of concrete steps and aluminum bleachers. Rowan’s ass is on the lowest bench, tying his New Balances as he says, “Just drink.”

Usually, I’m pretty good at dodging peer pressure, but this is Rowan we’re talking about. If he ever jumps off a cliff, I’ll findit just so I can jump after him. Maybe that should embarrass me. It does embarrass me, but it’s still true.

I unscrew the cap and toss back a swig. The tang and salt hits my tongue like a bolt of electricity. I come out of it coughing.

“The hell? Is this pickle juice?”

Rowan’s expression is downright maniacal. “It’ll help with the cramps.”

“You’re fucking with me,” I laugh, handing him back the flask.

“Swear to God. Pro athletes drink it. Tyler Glasnow drinks it.”

I consider Rowan’s argument with a low hum and a peek down the barrel of the flask. Fuck it. If a major league pitcher vouches for pickle juice, I’m sold. I throw back another swallow, and whether or not pickle juice really staves off cramps, it’s at least helping to keep my dick soft as Rowan sheds his muscle shirt in front of me.

“How long are we running for this time?” I ask, tossing the flask onto Rowan’s bag.

Hopping to his feet, he says, “This time, we’re gonna race.”

“Race?”

He nods toward the top of the bleachers, high enough I have to crane my neck to see the summit. “First to touch the railing wins.”

“Let’s do it.” To even the playing field, I pull off my shirt and drop it onto my backpack. The slight breeze in the early evening air tightens my nipples. I look down at Rowan’s chest and see his little nips hard as beads. “What do I get if I win?”

He tips his chin. “What do you want?”

“Buy me dinner.” God, I hope that didn’t sound as gay as I think it did.

“Didn’t you just eat at Mommy’s?”

“What can I say? I’m a growing boy.”

“So I’ve seen.”

I laugh to mask my embarrassment. Before I can pop another woody, I tell Rowan to get set and begrudge that he has to leave my side in favor of the next aisle over.

“On one,” he calls back to me as soon as he’s on his mark. “Three. Two. One.”

We bolt. I keep my eyes on the steps in front of me, focus on my breathing, and I dig the fuck out of the concrete.

At the top, I snatch the railing like a lifeline, my chest buzzing and my calves howling. But not even my adrenaline can convince me I won when I saw Rowan reach the pole a second before me, and the first words out of my mouth are a string of curses. I keel forward to catch my breath while Rowan paces with his hands on his hips, heaving toward the starlit sky.

“You good?” he asks, just like he did the night I got knocked on my ass with a fly soccer ball.

When he stops in front of me and holds his hand down, I take it. The way he pulls me upright says the dude is stronger than he looks, but I could still toss him over my shoulder if I ever want to. The thought makes my dick twitch.

“I’m good.”

“Loser.” He smirks.

“Fucker,” I mutter through a goddamn blush.

“Is that what I win?”

“What?” Was that meant to sound as gay as I think it did?

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