I gesture with my chin. “Come on.”
He blinks. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere no one can see us.” I start walking away from the vans. “Don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea and kick us off the circuit.”
He frowns, but doesn’t argue or even ask. He just follows.
Huh.
Either he really doesn’t believe the rumors, or he’s stupid enough to follow a guy accused of assault into the dark without blinking.
Ballsy or daft.
When we’re close to the side entrance of the hotel, he glances at me. “You want to go inside?”
“We’re going to the gym.”
“The gym?” He narrows his eyes. “Is that even allowed?”
I shrug. “Yeah. Why shouldn’t it be?”
“We’reprivateers.” He looks baffled. “This is the hotel for the media and the teams.”
“And the circuit pays every hotel they’re staying in for the season to keep the gym open all week forallriders. It’s not exclusive. How do younotknow that?”
“It wasn’t like that seven years ago.”
I stop walking. “How would you know?”
Something flickers across his face, too fast to pin down. “Dane told me about it.”
Right.
“Anyway…” I start toward the entrance again, “… we’re not breaking any rules. Relax.”
We move through the quiet hotel, all polished floors and too-bright lighting. The gym is nearly empty, except for one guy jogging on a treadmill, too absorbed in his headphones to notice us.
As we walk past the mirrored wall, I glance over at Mini Crews again.
He only comes up to about my nose. There’s no way to tell whether he’s got muscle under the oversized hoodie he’s always wearing when he’s not in a race jersey, but I know hehasto have. You don’t ride this level without it. I’m lean, too, but I can throw a punch when I need to.
Let’s see if he can.
We head to the back where the mats are, and I stop, then turn to face him. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
He looks around before his brown eyes come back to me. “Do what?”
“I don’t want you jumping into my shit again. But if youdo, you can’t justslapa guy over the helmet. That’s not…” I scrub a hand over my face. “That’s not a good look. Not for me. Not for you.”
He winces. “Sorry.”
“You ever thrown a real punch before?”
“Sure have,” he says, way too fast, making me squint at him. He clears his throat. “Maybe just… not so recently.”
Why is this guy so obsessed with looking and sounding tougher than he is?
I step onto the mat and motion for him to join me. He does, dragging his feet just a little. As he steps up, he pushes the sleeves of his hoodie higher, and I get a proper look at the tattoos I’ve only ever caught flashes of before.
