The Fake Zone: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Oleander Springs Series Book 3)
The Fake Zone: Chapter 16

Grey knocks five minutes before seven. I’ve already drunk three coffees, and as I reach for the door with a trembling hand, I realize I probably should have eaten something to soak up some of the caffeine and residual nerves that kept me awake into the early morning.

He stands on the front doorstep wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a dark blue Camden sweatshirt, the morning fog a soft background behind him.

His gaze crosses over my tennis shoes, joggers, and zip-up sweatshirt before meeting my gaze. “Ready?”

“Are we going outside?”

He nods.

I grab my keys and set the alarm. “There’s a gym here or a large green space,” I motion to the left, where the field is usually empty.

“Today, we’re just going to run and do some stretches.”

“Today?”

“If you want to be able to hit someone, you’re going to need to train, and that begins with conditioning.”

My shoes become leaden as I shake my head, betrayal and anger bitter in my mouth. “We had a deal.”

Grey lifts his chin, his hair isn’t styled this morning, but somehow looking even better than last night. “And I’m here, honoring it.”

I shake my head, wanting to glare at him and withdraw—old habits I had to break through and overcome years ago with the help of multiple therapists. I replace myself once again pinching my fingers, searching for a sense of calmness that allows me to breathe through my annoyance. “I just want to learn to punch someone in the face.”

Grey lifts his chin. His hair isn’t styled this morning but somehow looks even better than last night. “And I’m here, honoring it.”

“If I do it right, I’m hoping they’ll bleed.”

“They hit you back,” he says. “If you want to take your fear back from this asshole, you’ll have to learn more than just how to hit someone. You need to know when and where to hit them and be sure you can get away.”

I press both index fingers to the inner corners of my eyes. “Can’t you just teach me how to do some kind of fighter move that debilitates them long enough for me to call the cops?”

“What if you lose your phone or they take it from you?”

“And what happens if aliens from outer space abduct me? There will always be a dozen scenarios, but at least being able to hit someone hard enough to stun them would be a good starting point.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, the image of stubbornness as I imagine stakes in his heels digging into the ground. “If you want to learn how to fight, we’re doing it my way.”

“Who said anything about fighting? I want to learn some self-defense maneuvers.”

“Then join a class at the Y.”

My gaze narrows, accusing him of going back on his word. “You said you’d teach me.”

“And I will.”

I grind my teeth together to stop the flood of annoyance that carries accusations aimed straight at Grey.

“Afraid you can’t do it?” Challenge flares in his eyes, shoving me though he doesn’t move.

“Are you seriously goading me?”

He unfolds his arms, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his cell phone. “You have two minutes to decide.”

“Decide on what?”

“If we’re going to do this or not. If not, I’ve got better things to do than argue with you about technique over strength.”

Better things to do.

His words feel like a rejection with every second that ticks by, making me yearn to cancel and forget the deal, forget that he owes me, and more specifically, why, but pride plants its flag.

“Good. If you’re going to waste my time, it only seems fair that I waste yours.”

I turn and start running, following the path connecting to the nearby greenway, like a giant spiderweb of interconnecting trails across Oleander Springs.

“You need to stretch first,” Grey calls.

I flip him off, refusing to do this entirely his way.

“You’re going to regret it,” he warns, but he doesn’t insist we stop or slow down as he matches my pace.

With pride in the driver’s seat, boredom and pain quickly shove into the passenger side as I push myself to continue, ignoring how my muscles protest, and the stitch in my side becomes a second pulse. I hate running. I joke with Evelyn that the only thing I’ll ever chase is Henry Cavill or a sale on a pair of Manolo Blahnik heels. I feel too big and awkward, my strides are somehow both too short and too long, and that doesn’t even cover the discomfort in my breasts.

Grey says nothing.

I’m not sure how long we run for, only that sheer will prevents me from stopping or complaining. When we return to my apartment, sweat has my clothes feeling sticky and uncomfortable, and my hair is plastered to the back of my neck. My breaths are literal heaves, and my ears ache from the cold, combined with my internal temperature being too hot.

“Let’s stretch,” Grey says.

“Now?” I ask, through heavy breaths.

He nods, stopping near the edge of the field where he bends at the waist, touching his palms to the grassy space.

I bend over and barely touch the tops of my ankles. As if that run or my heavy breathing wasn’t enough to prove I’m out of shape, this confirms it.

Thankfully, Grey doesn’t comment, but I know he notices. He notices everything.

We continue doing a series of stretches, moves I haven’t done in years, some ever, and like the basic stretch to touch the ground, I fail at each of them.

“You need to make sure you’re stretching your hamstrings more,” Grey says.

I shift my gaze to him as he moves closer to me. Grey in a tux is something to celebrate, but Grey in sweatpants, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal the ropes of muscles down both arms paired with a fresh gleam of sweat, is a thirst trap.

Once again, I have to swallow my objections and tell him I can do it myself. Independence has always been my greatest strength and weakness.

Maybe he sees my reluctance or is beginning to realize just how hard it is for me to trust because his gaze softens fractionally.

“It will prevent your muscles from getting sore and cramping.”

I give a brief nod of acquiescence.

“Lie on your back.”

If I weren’t already sweaty and gross, I’d grumble about lying on the wet grass that will be filled with fire ants come spring. Grey squats near my legs, close enough that I smell cedar and sandalwood.

My heartbeats quicken as he leans closer.

“Extend both arms and place your palms face down at your sides.” He moves even closer, his knee brushing my thigh. “Now, keep this leg straight,” he moves to straddle my right leg, “and lift your left leg.” He’s already lifting my leg, though, crawling up my body on his freaking knees.

If I weren’t already battling filthy thoughts thanks to our kiss last night, I would be now.

My thighs clench and heat blooms low in my belly, growing as he runs one large hand along the outside of my knee.

“Keep both legs straight.” He props my foot against his shoulder. His knee is inches away from the apex of my thighs, and I can barely even think about it because he runs his hand over my leg again, instructing me to relax as he leans over me, his broad shoulders eclipsing the sky entirely.

After a few moments, he tells me to switch legs, and he moves to straddle my opposite leg and prop the other against his shoulder. He wraps a hand around my thigh as he inches forward. I can’t breathe. I can’t stop imagining him naked.

Grey glances down at me, his fingers constricting against my thigh. “Try and relax.”

The thought of him thrusting inside of me does anything but make my muscles relax.

When he moves away, I’m hit by a sudden wave of disappointment that makes everything feel unfamiliar.

“What next?” I ask.

Grey shakes his head. “We do it again tomorrow.”

I sputter. “What?”

“We have to start with cardio. In a few weeks, you’ll be ready to start shadowboxing.”

“Weeks?”

He raises a brow. “You’re out of shape.” Obviously. His assessment still stings, like being told my favorite pair of jeans makes my butt look big. “It’s going to be a few weeks until you’re ready.”

I staple my hands to my sides so my knuckles don’t drag across the ground—not that they could. I’ve already proven I’m not flexible enough for that, but every muscle in me is so fatigued it feels plausible.

“If you pick up and do some extra training on your own, it’ll go faster.”

If my brain weren’t so addled with exhaustion, I’d like to believe I’d be returning a snappy comeback that would prevent my pride from feeling so bruised. “I’m going to hate you if you make me do this daily.”

He raises one sweat-free brow, his hair still dry and his face not even pink. “I thought you already did?”

“If you’re gaslighting me, I swear, I’m—”

He shakes his head. “This is how it works. Drink plenty of water,” he tells me, and then he turns, moving toward the parking lot without another word.

I unlock the apartment and disarm the alarm before kicking off my shoes, a chill running through me as my heart rate slows and my damp clothes settle against my skin.

I head up to my room, where my gaze locks on my reflection for two horrified seconds. I take in the extreme redness of my cheeks and the whisps of hair clinging to me before I tear myself away so I don’t continue to scrutinize myself.

I turn the shower past hot straight to scalding and stand under the spray, debating if training with Grey is what I really want or if it’s actually a terrible idea wrapped with good intent like other grand ideas I’ve had. I have examples of these bad ideas in my copy of The Guinness Book of World Records, where I’ve marked every record I thought we should try—imagined us winning—and never did.

I pull on a clean pair of sweats and head back downstairs, questioning whether another coffee would be a bad idea with my heart currently feeling so off rhythm from the exertion.

I eat a bowl of cereal instead and devote the rest of my Sunday to the confines of my room with a book.

I’m still lost in the pages of a book when Evelyn knocks on my bedroom door.

“Are you still hibernating?” She had come by earlier, asking if I wanted to hang out with her and Hudson, but I declined, knowing how little time Hudson has before the weight of responsibilities as team captain return.

“It was a good day for it,” I say, hearing the rain dance across the roof. “How has your day been?”

“Good. We were thinking about getting Chinese food. You want to come?”

“Well, if you’re going to twist my arm…” I tease, moving to stand. My thighs and shins burn a protest before I can get upright.

“Are you okay?” Evelyn asks.

“No,” I gasp. “How do you run every day? Why do you run every day?” Evelyn ran every morning during the summer and most of autumn. She’s recently taken to running in the afternoon or sometimes in the gym here at the apartment. “And why do I hurt so bad?”

Evelyn looks confused. “You were running?”

“Yes,” I croak, finally standing.

“Was someone chasing you?”

“Ha-ha,” I say mirthlessly.

“You hate running.”

“I know.”

“When did you go running?”

“This morning.”

Her gaze narrows with a fresh set of confusion. “Where was I?”

“Sleeping.”

She shakes her head. “Why are you being so cryptic? I need details.”

I heave a long sigh as I consider where and how to start this conversation. “As restitution for that fake date, Grey agreed to teach me how to hit someone so that when we eventually run across the next skeevy jerk at a game or bar, I can punch him in the face. But he failed to mention cardio being a part of this plan until showing up this morning with little more instruction than to run.”

Evelyn’s eyes slam open. “He’s teaching you how to hit someone?”

“He has a friend in the MMA scene and apparently trained with him.”

“Seriously?” She shares my bewilderment.

I shrug. “News to me, too.” I wince with every step I take to my closet.

“How far did you run?” she asks.

“Too far.”

“Did you stretch?”

“Afterward.”

She flinches. “How long are you doing this? Like once a week?”

“Daily?”

Her lips slip apart with surprise. “Every day?”

“Don’t.”

“What?” Her voice rises, feigning innocence, but I see how her eyes shine with hope and intention.

“I know where your thoughts are going, and you need to reel that shit in because it’s not happening.” Evelyn has been hoping that Grey and I will become something since she arrived this summer.

“It might happen.”

I give her a severe look of warning. “It’s not.”

“He wants to see you every day.”

I shake my head. “Grey and I will never happen. We are the definition of acquaintances, two people who get along for the benefit of others who matter to us.”

“You like Grey, and you trust him.”

“Because he’s Hudson’s closest friend on the team. We’re doing this because he owes me for going with him to that booster event. It’s a transaction.”

Evelyn sits on the edge of my bed, her hands resting on her thighs. “I can show you some stretches that might help while you go through the worst of the muscle pains. The first week will be the worst. If you stretch before and after, it will help, and so will hydrating—water, not coffee.”

“This just keeps getting less and less enticing.”