“Vincent, you’re early,” she said a little too brightly.
“I dropped off my luggage and came straight here.” Her brother strode in and hugged her. “Look forward to seeing what you have in store for me.”
He gave me a curt nod, which I returned with a similar one of my own. Neither of us quite knew how to handle the thaw in our relationship when we were sober, so we kept a respectful distance while Scarlett turned on the music.
“It’s going to be harder than the wishy-washy workouts you’ve been doing on your own,” she said.
“Wishy-washy?” Vincent sounded outraged. “I have a great training regimen. Ask Men’s Health. My interview with them was their most popular article last year!”
Second most popular. I bit back my reflexive response. My interview with them got a thousand more clicks than his, but antagonizing him before I told him I was dating his sister later this afternoon was probably not a smart move.
“Uh-huh.” Scarlett sounded unimpressed. “Either way, you’re not caught up on the type of training we’ve been doing all summer, so I’ve modified today’s session to account for that. The season starts in less than two weeks, which means we only have five sessions together.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure why your coach insisted on having you come back for so short a time, but it is what is. We’ll start with warm-ups and then go into the resistance bands.”
I knew why Coach wanted Vincent to catch the tail end of our training together, even if it was only for two weeks. He was gruff and grumpy as hell, but he was an optimist at heart. He probably thought two weeks of forced bonding was better than none.
“Also…” Scarlett drilled us with a hard stare. “The three of us haven’t trained together since the beginning of summer, but my rules still apply. There will be no fighting or bickering in my studio. Understand?”
I offered a laconic salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Vincent smirked. “What he said.”
She rolled her eyes, but a tiny sprout of optimism peeked through her professional demeanor when we transitioned into our workout without a speck of argument.
Scarlett paced the studio, studying our forms and adjusting us when necessary.
When it came to football, Vincent and I were on par with each other skills-wise. But when it came to cross-training, I had the added benefit of three months’ worth of dance-based practice; he didn’t.
I fought a smug smile when I breezed past our resistance and flexibility training while he struggled with the movements. The muscles we used for dance were different than those we used for football, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t relish the way he faltered.
Just because we didn’t actively hate each other anymore didn’t mean I should pass up an opportunity to (silently) gloat a little.
Vincent growled something in French that made Scarlett sigh. “Okay, let’s take a five-minute break. Hydrate, get your heart rate down. I’m going to use the loo.”
She slid a quick look at me on her way out.
Remember, be nice, it said.
I am nice, my glance responded.
We’d been careful not to make eye contact during our session in case we gave away our feelings somehow. We’d agreed to take Vincent out after training and ply him with a few beers before we dropped our bombshell on him, but I was having second thoughts.
Should we ambush him on his first day back in the city, or should we give him time to settle in first?
Silence hummed alongside the A/C as we waited for Scarlett to return.
I chugged half a bottle of water and glanced at Vincent, who was wiping his forehead with a Blackcastle-branded sweat towel.
“What are you doing after training?” I asked, breaking the ice.
“Why? You planning to ask me on a date?”
I snorted. “DuBois, I wouldn’t ask you on a date if you were the last living creature on earth.”
Not this DuBois, anyway.
“Good, because I wouldn’t fucking say yes.” He tossed his towel back onto his gym bag. “But I don’t have plans yet.”
“You fancy a pint at the Angry Boar? For subbing in at the charity match,” I added gruffly. “Last weekend was to celebrate winning, so this is my official thank-you. I don’t like owing people.”
His smirk returned. “So you are asking me on a date.”
“Oh, piss off. Do you want a pint or not?”
“I guess I could use one today.” He patted his stomach. “Can’t drink like that after the season starts.”
I made a noise of agreement. We had to be much more careful with our diets during the season.
“Speaking of thank-yous…” Vincent glanced at the door. No sign of Scarlett yet. “Thanks for listening to what I said at the beginning of the summer.” His voice was layered with so much reluctance it sounded like someone was forcibly dragging those words out of his mouth.
My brows bent with confusion.
“About not hitting on my sister,” he clarified. “I admit, I expected to come back and see you all over her, but you’ve been respectful. And professional. And you punched that fucker Pessoa for touching her. So I appreciate it.”
His grimace indicated how much it pained him to admit he was wrong, but it probably wasn’t as distressing as my knowledge that he wasn’t wrong.
You’ve been respectful. If he only knew. There’d been nothing respectful about what I did to Scarlett in the studio yesterday.
“Right.” I coughed, hoping Vincent couldn’t see the remnants of yesterday’s activities stamped all over my face. “He deserved it.”
