Everybody's Hero. Tracy Kelleher
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of hyperventilation that had seized her. And she was having a hard time blaming it on laundry products.
Jason Doyle is an assignment, she told herself firmly. And he’s the means to helping out a good friend. Period. What she needed now in her life was the safety of simplicity. No complications. No risks. Just uninterrupted nights of sleep, regular meals and a paycheck every two weeks.
What she didn’t need was Jason Doyle messing with her brain, and messing with the rest of her insides. And right now she was definitely having a mind-body experience, one that wasn’t leading to a greater state of bliss. No amount of self-help gurus, green tea or lavender bath salts was going to provide an antidote, either. What she needed had to be far more potent—one-hundred-percent caffeine.
She turned back and watched as Jason paid the driver. He slung his backpack over his shoulder. His jacket rose to expose his hipbones, jutting against the low-slung, soft fabric of his sweatpants. She gulped and turned away quickly. “I desperately need coffee,” she gasped. She was going to need it intravenously if his pants slipped any lower.
She looked around for a coffee shop, taking in her surroundings for the first time. “What are we doing in the Village?” So intent had she been during the conversation in the cab that she hadn’t paid any attention to where they were going. “I thought we were going to the gym.” She’d naturally assumed they were using a training facility at the Garden. Or if not, some posh health club, with state-of-the-art machines and freshly squeezed carrot and guava juice in a carefully constructed snack bar.
She turned a three-sixty on her heels. When she thought of the Village, she thought of jazz clubs, wacky Halloween parades, and shops selling rhinestone handcuffs and crotchless underpants. She didn’t think of strapping specimens of male beauty—at least not in the context of professional sports. But here they were, on the edge of the New York University campus, not exactly a powerhouse in hockey.
“I would have thought you usually worked out with the team,” she said again.
“That’s true. They have special equipment tailored to building up quads and hamstrings for lateral movement.”
Claire nodded, not having the faintest idea what he was talking about.
“But I also like to scout out universities. It’s something I got into the habit of doing when I was with my last team. Their gyms may not have the shiniest equipment, but the gym rats are really eager. Nothing pushes you harder than a bunch of cocky twenty-year-olds watching your every move.”
Why anyone would voluntarily want to compete against guys who could party all night, live on bags of Oreos, and still come out and run a sub-five-minute mile, was beyond her comprehension. Unless you still felt you could do the same thing. She studied Jason. “I suppose you think you can drink shots of tequila all night and still outrun, out jump and out lift any of them.”
“I can’t?” Jason looked incredulous.
If he didn’t look so boyishly handsome in his sloppy clothes and unkempt hair—no, there was nothing boyish about Jason Doyle—Claire would have clocked him right there and then. Talk about delusional. The man thought he was immortal, or at least immortally young. Chalk up another reason for her to steer clear. In her experience, people with an unnatural sense of their own invincibility tended to do reckless things that got themselves and others into trouble. Big trouble.
“Well, some of us are mature enough to realize that we need to take care of our bodies, to nourish them with essential vitamins. That being the case, I’m going over there to get coffee.” She pointed to an espresso bar on the corner. “Can I get you something?”
“No, I never drink coffee. Do you know what coffee does to your system?”
“It’s the one thing that my body responds to in a predictable way.” She rummaged in a side pocket of her bag for some money.
“Maybe it’s time to generate some unpredictable responses?”
“And you’re just the guy to do it, right?” Claire shook her head and managed to pull a five-dollar bill free of some tissues and gum wrappers. “Talk about being predictable.”
“Honey, nothing’s predictable when it comes to me.”
5
JASON HAD BEEN RIGHT about the college crowd.
They showed him respect, but absolutely no mercy. He reciprocated in kind.
Even at this early hour, a few dedicated members of the varsity teams—men and women—were working out. They were heavily into weight training, high rep as well as bulk. Bench pressing. Cleans. Curls. Squats. Also interval training. Running steps. Hoisting medicine balls. Contorting their bodies into Kama Sutra-type positions on giant rubber fitness balls. Sweating it out on rowing machines and Nautilus equipment.
After an hour and a half, most of the students had gone—some to classes or simply too exhausted to continue. Not Jason.
Claire wiped her brow. She had long since abandoned her anorak, and stripped down to jeans and a thin gray T-shirt with a fraying hem. To say the air in the weight room was close was a gross understatement. If someone were to bring in a truckload of snow cones, they’d melt faster than you could say “Good Humor Man,” and there’d be a tidal wave of gargantuan proportions.
Trying to ignore the pool of sweat that collected in the vee front of her bra, Claire propped her foot up on a bench. She rested her elbow on her knee and focused the camera on Jason’s biceps as he did curls with some humongous-looking weights. With each breath, he bent his elbows, bringing the weights to his chest, only to slowly and deliberately repeat the motion over and over. The sinews in his arms stretched taut. The muscles bunched and relaxed. Over and over. Bunched and relaxed.
She shifted the lens, focusing on his face. The intensity of his concentration as he worked, eyes shut, was hypnotic. She stared, and for one of the few times in her life, forgot to take a photo.
Jason Doyle might be a top athlete due to his extraordinary talent, but it was talent honed with an unbelievable amount of determination. Here was a man who knew the value of hard work, of pushing himself past the point of pain to what could only be more pain—all because he knew what it took to win. And that, Claire realized, was the mark of a champion. Not just the desire and the ability to make the winning shot or to score the crucial goal, but the willingness to expend the hours of solitary effort required to push the envelope of performance.
Here was athleticism in its most primitive state. Its most brutal. Its most exhausting. And at the same time, its most appealing. Its sexiest. Claire wet her lips, salty with perspiration, and took a picture.
Jason lowered the weights and stopped. He inhaled loudly, his chest expanding. The faded letters that spelled Grantham University had become difficult to read due to the drenching sweat that covered his T-shirt. Slowly, he circled his neck, loosening his shoulders. And opened his eyes.
Claire pretended to look through the camera.
“You want a go at it?” Jason motioned to the weight rack. “Your biceps look pretty fit. You must work out, too.”
“My exercise comes strictly from lugging around a ton of equipment.” Claire clicked a few more shots.
“Make a video and you could probably market it as a new exercise routine.”
“Yeah, right. I can see it now. ‘Lugging and Hauling Your Way to Fitness. Only requires twenty thousand dollars worth of camera equipment. But for a limited offer, available today only, we’ll throw in a potato peeler and a julienne slicer.’”
“What, no serrated knife?” He smiled as he breathed heavily through his mouth, then peeled off his wet shirt and tossed it across the handle of a nearby exercise bike. “Boy, it’s hot in here. I must have sweated off ten pounds.”
Jason Doyle clothed was dangerous. Half naked, he was positively illegal. Claire didn’t even bother to pretend