Wrangled

I frown, then peer down at myself. “Am I wearing something wrong?” I ask, concerned.

“No,” he answers at once, his voice stern. “You’re … You’re wearin’ everything fine. Totally fine. Perfect, actually.” He squints at me suddenly. “Did you tell me you work out? Did I miss that?”

I lift an eyebrow. “What?”

“Your body. You’ve … You work out, clearly. I can see that.”

“Not really,” I admit. “I mean, I’ll go for a light jog with my best friend a few times a week, to chat about our latest things, and to get some fresh air. It’s a good way to stay focused.”

“Focused.” Chad chuckles distractedly, then shakes his head. “God’s been damn good to you, then. Them’s some nice genes you must have, to be that slender and toned with so little effort.”

I smirk. “Who said it’s ‘little effort’? I watch my diet … most of the time,” I add, thinking of the steak and crepes I indulged in. “Unlike literally everyone here in Spruce who has been raised on Biggie’s Bites and sauce-slathered crepes.”

Chad’s gaze drifts down my body again. He barely chuckles at what I say, distracted, as he continues to take in the sight of me.

Honestly, I didn’t realize I’d elicit such a reaction from him.

“Eyes up here.”

Chad’s eyes snap up to mine.

I step the rest of the way onto the mat, putting myself in the ring. “So how are we going to do this? You know just as well as I do that I don’t know the first thing about wrestling.”

“Right.” Chad seems to come to at once, focusing himself on me. “So, ah … you’re gonna need a few basic pointers, then. Get up closer to me, right here in the middle of the ring. Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared of you.” I come right up to him, stopping with just a foot of space between us. “Not anymore.”

Chad swallows hard. Pride swells in my chest.

“Alright. So … bend your knees,” he tells me. “Like this.”

I do what he says, mimicking his pose.

“Good, good. Now try to stay as low to the ground as you can,” he tells me, gesturing. “Get beneath your opponent, if you can.”

“Beneath them?” I try to picture what he’s telling me. “Isn’t the point of wrestling to get on top of your opponent and—?”

Before I know it, Chad’s hand swipes under my leg, my body flips over like a pancake, and he’s got me pinned to the mat by my wrists, with one of my legs trapped under his body, which hovers over me, his face in front of mine.

He grins. “One point for me.”

I squint skeptically up at him. “I don’t think that was a pointer as much as it was a sabotage.”

He lets me go, then gets back into position, ready for another round—or another go, or whatever you call it. I spring back to my feet, then bend my knees and spread my hands, ready to predict whatever he’s about to do to me.

“Second pointer,” he says, his eyes on me with such intensity, the blue nearly glows. “Don’t take your eyes off your opponent for a second. No distractions. Nothin’ in the world but you … and him.”

My eyes sharpen, brows pulling together with concentration as I stare down Chad and his strong, agile body.

Now that pointer, I’ll gladly take and obey.

“And also,” he adds lightly, “try not to pay attention to that weird guy watching us from the other side of the gym.”

Alarmed, I turn and look.

Chad’s head goes into my chest the next second, I’m in the air, and his hands reach behind my legs. I let out one shout of surprise that is instantly silenced when I slam to the mat with a grunt. Yet again, Chad hovers over me with my wrists pinned down. He’s also somehow managed to get my legs spread with his socked feet.

“You’re flexible,” Chad notices, a dark and playful glint in his eyes as he gently slides his feet a bit farther apart, which in turn spreads my legs more.

I shrug beneath him, as if bored. “Pilates,” I answer simply.

“I imagine all that stretching you do before those long jogs of yours helps, too.” His voice carries a wickedly teasing tone. “Hey, speaking of stretching, am I stretching your legs too far apart?”

“Nope.”

“You sure about that, Stretch Armstrong?”

“In fact,” I say, lifting my chin defiantly, “I’m comfortable.”

The corner of Chad’s lips curl. He’s responding beautifully to my taunting.

“Is that so? You like it down there, havin’ those long, flexible legs of yours stretched by a real wrestler?”

“Yep. I could do this all day.”

“All day?”

“All day. I’m not tapping out. Isn’t that a thing in wrestling?” I ask, playing it cool. “Tapping out?”

Chad, apparently tickled by my question, lets out a laugh that breaks his intensity for a second.