I’ve been trying to justify what happened with me and Miles for the last
few days. Or more of what didn’t happen. Who was I to sit there and stroke his hair like his fucking real girlfriend? It was dangerous. Lethal. I had a shit week, skating until my hands and feet were numb and there he was with a warm shower and a shirt that felt too comfortable against my skin. I knew what I was doing when I walked out the shower, basically naked, but I couldn’t stop. A huge part of me didn’t want to. I didn’t leave my clothes on purpose. I was too busy trying to get to his house after I almost broke the treadmill from cranking it up every few seconds. Luckily, I left before I did something I’d regret.
I went back two days ago to help him with his meal plan which was too easy. He was willing to throw out all the junk he had for healthy alternatives. I tried to give him his shirt back, but he refused it. “I don’t want it back,” he said. “It looks better on you anyway.”
I need to figure out a way to control myself before this tension turns into more before we’ve even publicly announced our relationship.
I’m now running around the house, trying to find my good sports bra to wear to the gym with Miles. I burned through more workout clothes this week than I usually do in a month, and I haven’t been on top of the laundry. The only one I have now is a black Nike one which I haven’t worn since high school. And not to my benefit now, my boobs have grown a ton since then.
“Did you shave?” Scarlett asks through of a mouthful of toast when I get to the kitchen. She’s sat at the island, eating her breakfast while balancing a study video on the back of her cup. She’s been pestering me with these kinds of questions all morning.
“No, Scarlett, I didn’t. We’re going to the gym, I’m not trying to fuck him,” I counter but she shrugs. Under very different circumstances I would have. Hell, if I was unstable enough last week, I definitely would have. I know it goes against everything I’ve tried to avoid but there is something so undeniably attractive about him. Something that with one look, I could be completely destroyed. Hockey player and all.
“Can’t you do both?” Kennedy asks, walking in the kitchen as she rubs sleep out of her eyes. “He might just trip and fall right between your legs.”
“Do you guys both have to be on my case right now?” I sigh frustrated. They both giggle and there’s rapid knocking on the door. They exchange glances and pull a stupid face as I run to answer it.
It’s Miles. He’s in grey shorts and a white tee, a duffle bag slung across his shoulder. He looks devastating. He steps into the apartment and raises a hand to Kennedy and Scarlett who are so obviously ogling. I am too.
“You look hot,” he says quickly, gesturing to my tiny sports bra and joggers. I suck in a breath at his forwardness. Swatting him on his shoulder, I try to battle the blush on my cheeks.
“You don’t have to pretend to like me. They already know that we’re pretending,” I say, walking away from him to collect my bag from the couch.
“I know,” he whispers. I turn to see him smirking. Scarlett gets out of her seat, standing in front of him. I don’t have to see her face that she’s either smiling or judging him. They’re almost the same height, Miles only a few inches taller.
“Miles. Nice to finally meet you. Again,” Scarlett says, her voice humours and light. He shakes her outstretched hand. I walk up towards them, standing at her side.
“Ooh, don’t say ‘finally.’ He’ll think that I talk about him all the time,” I warn, rolling my eyes. Miles’ mouth opens then closes, shaking his head. I smile to myself.
“But you do talk about him all the time,” Kennedy shouts from whatever corner she’s disappeared to. I catch Miles’ eyes over Scarlett’s head. He raises his eyebrows, but I ignore it.
“You ready to go?” I ask. He nods, exchanges goodbyes with my friends and we head out of the door and catch the elevator down to the bottom floor. He walks past my car in the parking lot and continues walking down towards the main road. “Where are you going?”
He turns around dumbfounded. “To the gym. Why are you taking your car? It’s, like, five minutes away.” He sighs, throwing his hands up and then
dropping them.
“Oh, you sweet, innocent, child. Get in,” I demand, and he obliges. He looks so out of place in my car. His larger-than-life shoulders barley fit in the seat, and he has to adjust his chair to give his legs more room. It’s comical, really. We barely make it out of the drive before he starts asking me a million questions.
“Where are we going? There’s not another gym for miles. Are you going to murder me? Is this a kidnapping? Why aren’t you answering my questions?” he asks rapidly.
“If I wanted to kidnap you, why would I ask you to come to my
apartment?”
“You’re right but that still doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Can you chill? I said we were going to do real training. If there is one perk to my dad owning hotels, it’s that I get access to all the private gyms.”
He looks at me and laughs. “You’re insane.”
“That is the second time you’ve called me that. I’m just being practical. Why would we waste our time in a gym where the equipment is mediocre, at best, when we could go to a luxury one that has just been built.”
He doesn’t ask any more questions while I drive. He does change the music every two minutes, never letting a full song play. In the last ten minutes I’ve heard, Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey, Lil Nas X and Miley Cyrus. I was beginning to think that he’s not that bad. That he’s not the douche hockey guy I made him out to be. Until he started singing. I almost crashed four times in the thirty-minute drive at his screeching.
“Remind me to never carpool with you again,” I say when we walk into the hotel.
“I’ve got a gorgeous voice, Wren,” he whispers in my ear at the reception desk. His breath tickles my neck and I shiver. I ignore him and get our day passes and we walk through the transparent doors into the gym.
Secluded gyms like these, that nobody knows about just yet, are my favourite. They always smell fresh and I’m usually one of the first people to use the equipment. It’s like opening the cap of a fresh orange juice bottle. It’s so satisfying and calming.
We place our bags in the corner of the room and we start a light warm up. It was easy settling into a routine with him. The girls took forever to get into going to the gym with me. After a few painful months for them, they saw it more as an annual thing to come along with me. Apparently, I’m too intense for them. Miles and I quickly get into a smooth rhythm of doing a few miles on the treadmill and the Step Master. We then move to the weights.
“How much can you bench?” I ask when we take a small break. I pull out the lid off my water bottle with my teeth and gulp some while he just stares, catching his breath.
“Isn’t that the same as asking a girl what their bra size is?” he asks back.
I can’t help but laugh.
“That’s not the same thing. You don’t have to tell me. I was just wondering,” I say, getting ready to go on the bench press myself. He stands behind me as I slide in, getting ready to spot me.
“I don’t know. Maybe, one-seventy,” he concedes, suddenly looking embarrassed. I let out a huh in recognition. “What about you?”
“Uh, one-ninety. On a good day,” I say, my cheeks turning red. I don’t know why I asked, and I don’t know why I told him.
“How the fuck can you do that? You’re, like, the size of a child. You really are hard core,” he sighs. I ignore his child comment and let out a disbelieving chuckle.
“Not really. I’ve been training since I could walk pretty much. I did a lot of gymnastics growing up, to improve my arm and leg strength,” I admit.
The silence stretches between us as we become a mess of heavy breathing and grunting. After alternating on the bench press, we move back to the floor space, changing between weighted squats and sit ups. It brings a strange sense of comfort being her with him. I usually try to work out on my own in these private gyms but knowing someone here is a lot nicer than I thought.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I groan at Miles for what feels like the thousandth time. I’m a picky eater and I’m a picky person. Watching someone continuously do something wrong is one of my pet peeves.
“I think I know how to do a squat, Wren,” he retorts, still standing weirdly in front of the mirror. I go towards him, standing in front of him so he can see me in the mirror.
“Watch what I’m doing,” I say, meeting his eye in the mirror. He just blinks at me as I spread my legs to decent position, make sure my back is correct and I squat down low. I didn’t think about the proximity until I feel
my ass brush against his shorts. I watch him inhale before letting out a shaky breath. I grab his hands from behind me.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“You don’t seem like a very visual learner,” I murmur as I place one of his giant hands onto my lower back and the other on my stomach. “Can you feel how my back isn’t leaning too forward?”
He doesn’t say anything. He makes a noise in the back of his throat and nods at me in the mirror. “Just feel that when I go down, okay?” He nods again. Slowly, I lower myself down to the squat position, holding it for a few seconds before coming back up. “See?”
I repeat the motion again before moving away from him. I watch him do it himself until he’s got the hang of it.
We mostly work another round in silence until were both on the floor. Miles slides his phone to me before laying down in front of me. I hold onto his feet while he does his first round of sit ups.
“I found some…questions…on BuzzFeed…that we should… know the answers to if we’re going to be a fake couple,” he breathes. I laugh at his persistence to work out and talk at the same time. I open his phone.
“You should put a password on here, you know?” I say.
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” he challenges. Fair enough. “They’re in my Notes.”
I scroll through his phone and open the Notes app. I skim through the questions, not sure what I was expecting. They are all relationship based or weird icebreakers to get to know each other. He sits up from his position
because I can no longer hold his feet. We sit facing each other, cross legged, looking sweaty and dishevelled.
“Okay,” I draw out. “This will be fun. First question. What was the first thing you thought about me when we met?”
Miles runs a hand through this hair. “Honestly, all I could think about was how hot you are.”
“Miles, be serious,” I say, poking him with my foot.
“I am!” he replies. I poke him again. “Fine, when we met at the party, I just wanted to keep you talking to me. To keep you interested. I had already recognised you from school and the photos in the dean’s office, but I don’t know. When we started talking, I guess I just wanted you to like me, and I could tell it wasn’t going to be easy.”
His honestly catches me off guard. I’ve always been aware of the way I come across to other people but still hearing him point it out like that makes me feel a little uneasy. I take in a shaky breath, watching his eyes dance across my face. “Thanks for being honest.”
“What about you?” he asks, nudging his foot into mine.
“My first thought was: God, I hope he doesn’t die right now because that would suck,” I start, remembering the night at the party, watching him convulse over the sink. He chuckles lightly. “And then, I thought you were pretty annoying but you’re more tolerable now.”
“Just tolerable, huh?” he says, plucking the phone out of my hand. I roll my lips between my teeth and nod, trying not to smile. “Okay, I’ll take it. Did you go through any phases growing up?”
“Oh my God, way too many to count,” I say, shoving my hot face into my hands.
“Tell me now. I want to know what little Wren was like,” Miles pleads, pulling at my hands. I try to ignore the way the electricity shoots up my arms from his touch.
“Well, my first phase was making everybody call me Wren instead of my first name,” I say shuddering. He looks at me, his eyebrows drawn.
“Wait? What?”
“Amelia is my first name, and my middle name is Wren. I hated the way Amelia sounded so I told everyone to call me Wren and it stuck.” I shrug my shoulders and he just stares at me in awe.
“Okay, so what was little Amelia Wren like?”
“Oh, she was a lot. I went through my One Direction phase; a lot later than I’d like to admit. I once went through a British phase, where I forced everyone in my house to speak with a British accent for a week. I also forced my family to eat my terrible creations that I thought were gourmet meals after watching Master Chef, but they were really just random condiments that I found in the refrigerator. I was just a general nightmare. I thought that I didn’t have friends in middle school other than Scarlett, Kennedy, and Gigi because I was skating all the time but it’s because I was a little weirdo,” I say in one go, surprising myself at how much I just rambled. Miles stares at me with wide eyes and a huge smile.
“I think that’s the most you’ve spoken to me in one sitting,” he says through his wide smile. I roll my eyes and he laughs. “Why do you always talk about skating like you hate it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. The other day, you were saying how hard you work and how it isn’t fun. It sounds like you’ve quite literally been training all your life. If you don’t like it, why don’t you just quit?”
No one has downright asked me that in a long time. What can I say? This has been my mom’s dream for her whole life until she was injured.
Her first daughter couldn’t handle the ice and I was her only hope. I put the work in, I got good and now it’s the only thing I can do. The only thing I’m good for.
“It’s complicated,” I mutter but he doesn’t seem convinced. “That’s a story for another day. What was little Miles like?” He gives me a sympathetic smile before dropping it. If we got into that now, we’d be here for hours.
“I wasn’t as crazy as you, that’s for sure,” he begins. “I don’t think I went through any phases exactly. The only thing I can really remember loving as a kid was hockey. Carter and I lived and breathed hockey. It was all we talked about. We could go weeks at a time talking about the same game over and over. I guess I’m still in that phase, though.”
I see the way his face changes when he talks about him. It’s nostalgic but pained. Something in him smooths out when he talks about him. Remembrance. He looks a little lost. Distant. As if talking about him has made him materialise in front of him.
“Sorry, I don’t think that really answered the question,” he says after a while.
“No, it’s okay,” I reply. I’ve always been a physically affectionate person, so I don’t hesitate before I reach out and put my hand over his. He flips over his hand, so his palm is facing up. We both look at our hands before I slip my hand into his. It feels strange but I need to comfort him in some way. “I can tell you really miss him.”
“He was my best friend. My brother.”
“We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to,” I whisper. He shakes his head.
“It’s okay. I brought him up.” He squeezes my hand before letting go. He stands up, groaning as he stretches. “Come on. We need to get back to work.”
“Do we have to?” I moan, falling on my back. Miles stands next to my aching body, towering over me.
“This was your idea. What is it that you say? Beauty is pain,” he chants. I reach my arms up and he grabs my hands, pulling me up. When I’m standing upright in front of him, I almost sway over.
“Aw, are you calling me beautiful?” I mock as I shake out my arms and legs.
“You didn’t need me to tell you that, Wren,” he whispers before tapping me on the shoulder and sprinting to the other side of the gym. Why does this grown man love to play tag?
*
The car journey home is more chaotic than it was on the way there. Miles still sung – horribly –but it was absolute torture when we was stuck in
traffic. We’re almost outside his house when Miles stops the music abruptly and looks at me. I turn to him for a second before pulling into his driveway.
I look back at his house. Then back to him.
He’s still staring.
“What?” Suddenly I feel uncomfortable under his hot gaze.
“How many guys have you slept with?” he asks without hesitation.
“Is that one of the questions?” I ask back, turning to him. His face is serious but there’s something swirling in his eyes. Curiosity? Desperation?
“No.”
“Then why do you need to know that?”
“I’m your boyfriend, I think I’m meant to know,” he argues.
Fake boyfriend, I want to say. I shake my head at him. He unclips his seatbelt and opens the door. He gives me a pretend smile and then drops it as he gets out of the door.
He looks adorable and ridiculous at the same time. He walks towards his front door, stomping like a child, before I wind down my window shout after him.
“One and a half,” I shout loudly, almost cringing at myself. He turns around, jogging back to me until he’s at my door.
“What?” he a, leaning his arms on the hood of the car.
“One and a half. That’s how many guys I’ve slept with,” I say quieter this time. His face unknots with confusion as he looks at me intensely.
“A half?” he asks, not hiding the surprise in his tone. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“He couldn’t make me come,” I murmur. I watch Miles’ throat as he swallows audibly, his pupils becoming dilated. I start the car up again and change the gear. “Bye, Miles.”
“You… You can’t leave like that,” he stutters.
“See you later, alligator,” I shout as I back out of his drive, leaving his jaw open and hands hanging at his sides.
