Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats #6)(15)

So she took a moment to observe without his knowledge. He’d shaven, and from the fact that he never seemed to have anything more than a day’s growth on his chin in any photos she’d found, she assumed clean-shaven was his preference. Pity, since the scruff and bedhead did something a little animalistic to her. She preferred the scruff.

And since she wasn’t supposed to “prefer” anything dealing with her manny, it was best he kept a clean-shaven look.

He wore just a simple T-shirt and tear-away workout pants—which likely covered shorts—and running shoes. Beat up ones, at that. It was as if the only flash the man carried was his car.

That made her snort. That car… so typical.

Just then, he turned his head to look at her, and her breath caught. Something about the way he watched her, like a mixture of pain in my ass and something darker, deeper…

That was probably insane, that being considered a pain in his ass would make her happy.

When he motioned her in, she followed, unsure what she would find inside the weight room. But was relieved there weren’t many people there. The trainer talking to Michael—a younger, bald black man wearing a Bobcats warm-up jacket and cargo shorts—stood with his hands on his hips, looking skeptical at best. A few players—she assumed they were, based on their size—lifted weights. Another jogged on a treadmill. A few more stood on mats by a mirror, presumably stretching, but mostly talking.

But as she surveyed the room, the lifting, jogging, and talking seemed to come to a stop until all she could hear in the room was the hum of the air conditioner and the beep of a protesting treadmill.

“She’s your responsibility,” the trainer muttered to Michael. “You can’t leave her in here. If you’re not with her, she’s gone.”

“No,” Michael started to argue, “she’ll be fine. Seriously, she’s an athlete. She won’t get into any trouble.” He added the last with a piercing glare toward her, almost as a warning.

Trying her best for innocent, Kat batted her lashes and grasped her hands to her heart.

After studying her for a moment, Michael rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll stay with her. I’ve got a meeting in an hour,” he warned. “You’re not staying past that.”

“An hour’s good,” she agreed hastily, not wanting to push her luck. “I’ll go stretch.”



Michael watched as Kat walked toward the mats at the back. Interestingly, she kept her hoodie on and fully zipped up now, as opposed to earlier when it had been open. This, despite the heat and humidity the room constantly carried. Women he knew would have taken the chance to show off their toned bodies in a room full of professional athletes.

She is a professional athlete, you nitwit.

Since he had practice after his morning meeting, Michael had no intention of working his own muscles to fatigue. He wandered over to where two linemen—one of whom lived in his building—were bench-pressing. As they switched between sets, he chatted with them, keeping an eye on Kat.

But she was in her own little world now. Earbuds in place, jacket still on, eyes closed, she ran through a series of stretches that looked sort of fluid, like yoga, but a bit too aggressive to be yoga. Every time she bent over, he noticed several heads swiveling her way.

“So, who’s the chick?” Donny, the lineman sitting on the bench, asked.

“Yeah, I wasn’t aware we were bringing dates to workouts now,” added Zayne, chuckling a little to himself.

“There’s a yoga studio three blocks that way.” Donny settled back down under the bar, gripping and regripping to find the best placement for his hands. “Probably where she belongs.”

Damn it, she was going to distract someone and get them hurt. Michael walked over toward her, trying hard not to look like he was hurrying. “So, Kat—”

“Can you spot me while you’re here?” she asked, pulling one earbud from her ear by the cord. “Or should I ask someone else? I can always work on the machines if you don’t have the time to spot,” she added, shooting a longing look toward the free weights.

“I’ve got time.” Why did he say that? He could have gotten off free and clear by just saying he had another meeting to get to. Or he wasn’t allowed to spot for fear of getting injured.

Or he could nut up and just spot the lady. She couldn’t possibly want to work out for that long.

He watched as she surveyed the equipment, then chose the inclined bench. He waited for her cue on how much weight to add onto the bar, which already weighed forty-five pounds itself.

She looked at the bench, the bar, then the weights on the ground. “Twenty-fives,” she decided, reaching to the bottom for the largest circular weight.

“Uh, no.” She was going to get herself killed. He reached out to halt her arm from tugging, finding himself perversely disappointed he was grabbing the slick wicking fabric of her hoodie rather than the soft skin of her arm. “Let’s see how you do with fives.”

“Fives.” She stared at him like he’d asked her to bench-press a bug. “Fives. You’re kidding, right? You want me to sit here and waste my time with fifty-five pounds.”

So she knew how much the bar weighed. Points for her. But not enough points to make him watch her rip a tendon or bust the equipment. Firmly he said, “Start with fives.”