Page 27 of Most Valuable Player
It’s a pretty uninteresting session, until Mason receives a call that causes the table to vibrate. For a while, he lets it ring face down, staring at it blankly before flipping it over and revealing the name “Dad.” He exhales, then slips out of the booth to take it. As he’s walking away, the bones in his back tightening, the sound of yelling echoes through his receiver.
“I’m busy,” he mutters. “Why is she shouting? Tell her I— What’s that noise?” He pauses, still as stone. “Put her on the phone.” Another beat. “Mom? Hey. Uh. No, what you’re feeling is valid, I’m sure, but—I’m out. It’s important, so…stop talking for a moment.”
Mason wanders farther from the table, but the establishment is small and there’s someone in the bathroom, so he can’t retreat out of earshot.
“Put it down and stop yelling. Honestly, it’s embarrassing…” His shoulders slump and his voice quiets. Then, angrily, “Go for a walk or something. Just get away from Dad. I’m busy.”
He slams his phone into his pocket, then storms to the booth and slides in, snatching his pen. He starts jotting notes down with heightened vigor.
“I’ll come over after this,” he says, his voice strained. “To work out.”
“Okey dokey,” I say, smooth, casual, and natural. I’m not going to ask about it, even if I’m curious. I don’t want him prying into my life, so I won’t pry into his.
Cam Morelli doesn’t worry about other people’s problems.
I shouldn’t have offered him access to my workout resources. What was I thinking? Being around him makes it difficult to remember the kind of person I’m supposed to be, and I have no idea why.
I can’t exactly retract the offer because I’m not a complete asshole, so we end up at my place. I draw him toward my bedroom and fumble for workout clothes that won’t slip off his figure, then toss them over. He’s been staring unblinkingly at my poster of Beau Rainey and seems surprised when the clothes land in his arms. “Oh, we’re actually doing this,” he says, looking at the outfit with dismay.
“How can I give you a plan if we don’t know what works for you?” I ask skeptically, shedding my pants and shirt to pull the looser clothes over me. Mason’s face burns pink, and he charges to the bathroom tochange. I’m not sure why he’s flustered, since he’s seen everyone’s bodies in the locker room.
When he returns, he’s wearing my shabby old workout clothes. The shirt hangs low enough to expose his collarbone, and he’s had to tie the shorts as tight around his narrow waist as they allow. “So, exercise,” I say as we descend into the basement, and I awkwardly do a twirl with my arms extended because Mason Gray is in myhouse, wearing myclothes.
Mason looks between everything, intrigued. The elliptical, treadmill, weights, chest press machine, exercise bike, yoga mats, and so on. “You have a whole gym,” he says with amusement.
“I wanted to get bigger after I moved, so I put years of allowance money toward equipment. My parents chipped in, and I’ve built my own little exercise haven over the past few years.” I turn the TV on, filling the basement with casual lo-fi. “What are you hoping to get out of working out? Fitness? Stress reduction? Bulking up? Improving—”
“Bulking up,” Mason says, desperately enough that my brow pops. “I want…If I had a body like yours, maybe I wouldn’t be so…”
He doesn’t complete his thought, and I decide not to press. “It’s important to warm your body before exercising,” I say, guiding him to a yoga mat opposite me. “We’ll start with basic stretches. Sound good?”
Mason nods, though he’s fumbling with his fingers and his eyes dart around the basement like he’s mapping out escape routes.
“Squats.” I clasp my hands and lower myself, then rise and gesture for him to try. He mimics my position, pointing his toes forward and holding his hands out flat, face down. His palms are shaky. Instinctively, I wonder if it’s because he hasn’t eaten before remembering that we just stuffed our faces a couple of hours ago. Why is he so anxious?
Mason doesn’t descend nearly as far as he should for a proper squat. “Ow,” he remarks.
“Spread your legs wider and try again.”
Mason’s lip flinches into a smirk. He spreads his knees apart, and though he sinks lower, his face strains again when he comes back up. “What’s next?” he prods.
He wants to move on after one and a half squats? I decide to swallow my laughter. “Message received,” I say, and I thread my fingers, then rise to my tiptoes and reach for the ceiling. “Stretch like this. As high as you can go.”
I catch that he spies the hint of skin showing beneath my shirt. He mirrors me as requested, the T-shirt sleeves bunching at his shoulders, exposing his pale upper arms. Despite how tightly they’re tied, the shorts he borrowed have already slid down his waist and are resting on the flare of his hips.
“Touch your toes,” I instruct, bending over and grazing my tennis shoes. He attempts to do the same, though his hands barely dangle past his knees. “Lower.”
Mason gives an irritated sigh that further amuses me. Like, he asked to do this, didn’t he? We’ve only been at it for forty seconds and he’s already whining. “Can’t,” he snaps.
“Move your legs farther apart and try again,” I instruct.
Mason gives me a skeptical glare. “I’m starting to think the only reason you let me come over was so you could ask me to spread my legs for you.”
At that point I’m sipping on one of the water bottles I brought downstairs, and I hack violently on it. As I try to sputter out a response to defend myself, Mason widens his stance as ordered and forces his fingers lower so they’re nearly touching the ground. I think I catch the faintest glimpse of another smirk.
Is he teasing me?
“Lower,” I snip, and I reach over, pressing my hands flat to hisback and pushing down. He squeaks with pain and immediately swipes my hands away.
