Out of Bounds (The Summer Games #2)

  My heart pounded. No. We were supposed to have another full week in Seattle before we left. How is this possible? June and Rosie shook their heads, just as distraught by the news as I was.

  “Calm down,” Erik said, tossing my pre-wrap aside with a touch too much aggression. “It’s two days. We still have plenty of time to train, and even if we didn’t, every single one of you is ready to compete.”

  He turned back to my ankle and propped it up on his thigh so he could use both hands to wrap the white athletic tape around it. Is having my ankle on his thigh supposed to be intimate? Because it’s making me sweat. Suddenly, I felt like leaving for Rio as soon as possible, just to get some space.

  “I’ve been very impressed with everyone’s skills, conditioning, strength—your hardware,” he said. “But that’s only half the battle. What I’d like to see you work on is your software, your mental toughness, so I’ve drawn up some unorthodox training schedules for these last few days before we leave.”

  We sat in silence, waiting for him to continue. Surely he wouldn’t do anything too torturous to us this close to our departure. Right?

  “Well?” Lexi interrupted. “What is it?”

  “I’ve identified something unique you each need to work on.” He tilted his head to June. “I’ve been telling you for the last few weeks you’re too stiff on floor, so I’ve signed you up for two hip hop dance classes before we leave.”

  June’s eyes nearly fell out of her skull. “Hip hop? No! That’ll mess up my choreography.”

  “It’s not optional,” he replied with a hard stare before turning his gaze to Molly and Rosie.

  “You two will be taking a boxing lesson.”

  Rosie’s eyes widened. “Boxing?”

  “You’re both too timid on vault, like you’re afraid you’re going to get hit. So, I want you to get to do the hitting and build some confidence.” At Rosie’s wide eyes, he continued, “Don’t worry, you’ll have a trainer who knows you’re both competing soon. Injury prevention is key.”

  Both of them nodded, glancing to one another with excitement once they realized it wouldn’t be too bad.

  “What about me, Coach?” Lexi said, waggling her brows.

  “Ballet.”

  Her face fell. “Ballet? That’s not really my thing.”

  “Exactly. I think a ballet class will balance you out. A little grace never hurt anyone.”

  She mumbled under her breath as Erik’s gaze turned back to me. The weight of his attention was almost too much to bear. I wanted to turn away or glance down, but I held his piercing gaze and tried not to cower. My lips were dry, but I didn’t lick them; I didn’t want him to think I was inviting him to kiss me or something. Instead, I locked my arms tighter around my knee as he spoke.

  “Brie, will be taking a yoga class.”

  I furrowed my brow. Yoga? What was that supposed to teach me? How to become one with my chakras?

  “Sounds good,” I said, turning away just as he finished wrapping my ankle.

  “No argument?” he asked, standing to tower over me. He tossed the tape down and it rolled against my thigh.

  I smiled a private smile and shook my head. “I could use the peace and quiet. Last night kind of wore me out.”

  There.

  It was out.

  If he wouldn’t bring up the previous night, then I would.

  A devilish smirk was the only reply I needed. He most definitely remembered. Even if he was putting on a show for everyone else, there was still a war waging on inside him.

  Good.

  It only seemed fair that we were both going insane.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Brie

  Sleep became elusive those last few days before Rio. I’d stay up late, switching positions and telling my body I was comfortable, and then I’d wake up at the crack of dawn feeling as if I hadn’t slept at all. My mother called often, more nervous than ever, but I screened them, opting for replies through text messages whenever I could.

  I didn’t want her to know I was starting to crack, and I knew one word spoken over the phone was all it would take for her to know the truth. She would insist I was carrying too much weight on my shoulders, that I needed to relax and have fun. All the while, I’d have to ignore how tired her voice sounded, ignore the shrieking babies and blasting car horns from around the apartment complex. My mother was hopelessly compassionate; it was why she’d gotten into social work in the first place. It definitely wasn’t for the money. She wanted to be someone’s voice when they were beaten down, lost, forgotten—but now it was my turn to stand up for her. She deserved a better life and I wouldn’t let myself rest until I gave it to her.

  Birds chirped through our bedroom window and I stretched my arms overhead, staring up at the bottom of Molly’s bunk. She was still snoring softly, lost in sleep. For a moment, I tried to will myself back to sleep as well, but I knew it was no use. Instead, I pushed the blankets aside and got up out of bed. Usually, I’d throw on my sneakers and go on a run, but we’d had a hard workout the day before and I knew we’d have another one later. Instead, I padded down the stairs in search of my favorite distraction: baking.

  I pulled a few ingredients from the cupboard and carefully set them up in a line. Without an oven, I didn’t have many choices: no-bake peanut butter cookies or some fresh granola. I sighed. Neither of those would satisfy my baking bug. I wanted to slip something into the oven and wait for the delicious smell of rising bread to fill the air. It was like an adult security blanket.

  I thought about sneaking into Erik’s kitchen again, but I’d kept my distance from him the last few days. Safer that way. Still, I needed an oven, and his was only a few yards away.

  I pulled my phone closer to me on the counter and pulled up his number, opting for a benign text over a more invasive phone call.

  Brie: Hello. May I please use your oven?

  There. He couldn’t say no to me when I asked that politely. I nearly jumped when he replied a minute later.

  Erik: I’m out on the trail. You have an hour. Clean up after.

  I rolled my eyes. He didn’t need to say that. I’d cleaned up his entire kitchen the first time, even reorganizing his spice drawer so it made more sense. Had he thanked me? No.

  With a giddy smile, I swept up my ingredients in my arms and headed for his house. An hour of uninterrupted kitchen time sounded heavenly. I could put some music on and whip up anything I wanted. Croissants? Scones? Quiche? I got lost in the possibilities as I pushed open his kitchen door. For a moment, I paused, bracing myself for his presence even though I knew he was gone. The house was quiet and clean. I smiled at the big kitchen island, bare and begging for my use.

  Last time, it’d taken me nearly an hour just to find all the equipment in his kitchen. I’d had to hunt down his muffin tins and scrape away rust from his whisk. This time, everything was exactly where I’d left it. I put on a playlist and started swaying my hips as I pulled out his mixing bowls and baking sheets.

  I was lost in the calm of the kitchen when his phone rang on the kitchen wall. It was one of those old wall-mounted phones that were a staple in 90s TV shows. The ring was loud, vibrating the headset against its base. I paused my music and listened to it ring, wondering if an answering machine would pick up after.

  It rang four more times and then it went silent.

  I frowned and got back to work, making a mental note to let Erik know someone had called. There probably weren’t many people with the number to his landline; I couldn’t imagine he gave it out very often.

  I cracked three eggs into a large mixing bowl and then added a touch of vanilla extract and milk. I reached for the whisk, ready to whip the wet ingredients together, but the phone started ringing again. It seemed even louder this time, as if annoyed I’d ignored it the first time.

  I stared over at it as it rattled on the wall.

  RING. RING. RING.

  Whoever was trying to reach him wasn’t going to give up. I glance
d out to the driveway, praying I’d find Erik home early, but he was nowhere to be found and the ringing wouldn’t stop. I sighed and reached for it, wedging it in the groove between my shoulder and ear as I started whisking the ingredients in the bowl.

  “Uh…hello,” I said into the receiver, unsure of what I should say. “Erik Winter’s residence.”

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” I tried again. “Can you hear me?”

  The voice on the other end of the line chuckled, low and raspy.

  “Of course I can, I’m just surprised. May I ask, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  The man sounded much older than Erik and I braced myself, hoping it wasn’t his father.

  “Brie Watson. I’m one of Erik’s—”

  “Ah, the gymnast! Brie. Hello!”

  I scrunched my brows together and pulled the phone away from my ear, realizing a second too late that the old style phone didn’t have caller ID.

  “Who is this?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Niklas Winter.” I could hear a broad smile in his voice. “I’m Erik’s grandfather.”

  “O-oh,” I stammered. “I’m sorry, Erik isn’t home right now. He went on a run, but I could leave a message for him?”

  “The boy gets enough messages from me. I would much rather talk to the girl that is answering his phone so early in the morning.” He laughed.

  My gaze took in the ingredients spread out in front of me. “It’s not what you think! Your grandson didn’t give us an oven, so I had to beg to use his.”

  He chuckled. “What a miser! Tell me he’s given you a toilet, at least.”

  I smiled. “Thankfully, yes. But…maybe you can talk some sense into him…”

  I’m not sure how it happened—and if I had to repeat our conversation, I wouldn’t be able to—but for the next hour, I whipped around the kitchen, adding ingredients and slipping things into the oven while I spoke to Erik’s grandfather. He told me where he lived in Sweden, that he had goats and cows on his property, and that recently, a new neighbor had moved in across the street.

  “Is he friendly?”

  “It is a she, as luck would have it.” I hummed, encouraging him to continue. “And I haven’t the slightest clue as to her nature, since I haven’t introduced myself yet.”

  All men around the world must be the same. I wondered how many great romances over the millennia had never come to fruition because of male shyness.

  “You should,” I said, measuring out a volume of sugar. “Ask to borrow a cup of sugar.”

  “What is it with Americans and sugar?” he bellowed, laughing deeply. “Erik suggested the same thing. You’d think there was a shortage!”

  I smiled.

  “Do you think she’s married?”

  “I’m not sure. She lives alone.”

  “How do you know that if you haven’t introduced yourself?”

  He stammered. “W-well, my dog enjoys sniffing her azaleas. Sometimes he lingers there and I sort of—”

  “You spy on her!” I filled in for him.

  “No, no, not spying. Observing.”

  “Well if you won’t ask for sugar, you should offer it. You could take her some cookies or something.”

  “Cookies?”

  “Yes. Cookies. Or meatballs. Don’t they have those in Sweden?”

  I was teasing him, but he didn’t mind. We’d become fast friends.

  “I guess I could pick up some cookies at the shop around the corner. They have these buttery ones I like.”

  I frowned. “You should make them yourself. She’d like that.”

  He tutted. “I haven’t used the oven in ages. I doubt they’d turn out edible.”

  “What is it with you and your grandson? Does everyone in your family have something against kitchens?”

  As if on cue, the door to the kitchen opened and the devil himself strolled inside, t-shirt stuck to his broad chest, sweat dripping down his biceps. He was breathing hard and eyeing me with a furrowed brow as he dropped his cell phone on the kitchen counter. He was in pursuit of water, I think, when he caught sight of his house phone against my ear and paused.

  “Time’s up,” he said, still catching his breath. “Wait, who are you talking to?”

  “I have no idea how to bake, of course,” his grandfather admitted, continuing on with our conversation, oblivious to the tornado that had just rolled inside on my end of the line. “I think I’ve got a dusty recipe book lying around somewhere.”

  “Brie.” Erik sliced across the kitchen, trying to pry the phone from my hand. “Hang up.”

  “Is that Erik?” Niklas asked, happy to hear trickles of his grandson’s voice through the receiver.

  “Yes. He just got home.” I turned and held a finger up to Erik. His eyes widened in shock and I knew I had a minute, maybe two before he went off the rails.

  “Well I suppose you should put him on, and I’ll ask for his opin—”

  A loud dial tone cut off his sentence and when I turned, I saw Erik standing at the wall with his hand covering the wall mount, having ended the call for me.

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked, tossing the phone at him. He caught it without trouble and dropped it back onto the mount with a flick of his wrist. “Now he’s going to think I hung up on him.”

  “Why were you talking to my grandfather?”

  I turned back to the oven and bent to check on the croissants. Fortunately, they looked done.

  “The phone kept ringing while you were gone and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t an emergency.”

  “And then what?”

  I opened the oven door and pulled out the croissants. They smelled divine, warm and flaky and golden brown.

  “Brie,” Erik demanded, pissed that I was ignoring him.

  “And then I talked to him.” I turned to shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “I don’t understand what the big deal is. Unlike you, he seems to actually like me.”

  The phone rang again, piercing the silence with its shrill sound. Erik groaned and pulled it off the wall. I didn’t have to listen long to know it was his grandfather calling back.

  “No. I can’t put her back on,” Erik answered, turning toward the mount. “She’s just leaving.”

  I hid my smile.

  “I’m not kicking her out. She has to go get ready for practice. She’s an Olympian, remember? It’s what they do.”

  With my back turned to Erik, I slid the croissants onto a platter, plated a few for him (though he didn’t deserve their flaky goodness), then scrubbed the dirty dishes in the sink with lightning speed. Erik wanted me out of his space and I didn’t want to lose oven privileges—though by his reaction, I feared taking his grandfather’s call had already ruined any chances of him letting me back into his house any time this century. With the supplies gathered into my arms supporting a precarious croissant tower on top, I rushed out of his kitchen as fast as I could.

  He was still speaking on the phone as I slipped outside. I walked slowly back to the guesthouse, realizing that before he’d stormed in and ruined it, I’d had a very relaxing morning. Talking to his grandfather while I baked had helped clear my head, and best of all, I still had an hour before practice—plenty of time to sit and enjoy the fruits (carbs) of my labor over a cup of coffee.

  Later that night, while I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, Lexi knocked on my bathroom door and told me I had a package waiting for me out on the front porch. I scrunched my eyebrows, confused. I wasn’t expecting anything from my mom. She had the address to Erik’s house, but that was really only so she would be able to point investigators to the most likely location of my body after Erik killed me.

  I finished brushing my teeth before heading down the stairs two at a time. Even if it wasn’t much, the idea that I had mail was too exciting to resist.

  I whipped the door open and glanced down, my smile slowly fading as a pink and white box came into focus at my feet.

  Easy-Bake Oven was
printed across the side of the box in pink cursive.

  “What the—”

  I leaned forward and ripped off the yellow post-it note stuck to the top.

  Stay out of my house was scrawled out in thick black Sharpie.

  I looked up at Erik’s house, prepared to march over and throw the Easy-Bake Oven at his head, but then I caught sight of him in his kitchen. He was sitting at the island, hunched over a paperback, reading. One of my croissants was in his hand and I watched as he brought it to his mouth and took a giant bite before turning the page. Bastard.

  I looked back down at the pitiful play-oven. It looked like revenge, if any was to be had, would at best be served half cooked and chewy.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Erik

  In the last two days, my grandfather had called three times looking for Brie. He pretended like he didn’t mind talking to me, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Ten minutes in, after I’d pushed away talk of my father or the impending Olympics, he’d move the conversation on to his next favorite topic: Brie.

  “She seems really nice.”

  She’s not.

  “She was going to send me a recipe. Will you get it from her?”

  No.

  “I took a picture of my garden. Could you pass it along to her?”

  Yeah, let me get right on that.

  The morning after I’d dumped the Easy-Bake Oven on the guesthouse porch, I’d walked out of my front door and nearly tripped on the box on the way to my truck. She’d returned it with a butter knife sticking through the side, and despite myself, I smiled.

  I wasn’t an asshole with everyone in my life, but Brie pushed my buttons like no one had before. If I gave her an inch, she took a mile. An hour spent in my kitchen and she was answering my phone and laying claim to my personal life. My grandfather was off limits. My home was off limits. Brie needed to learn that I had boundaries. She couldn’t bulldoze through the rules I’d set out for her and expect me to be okay with it. For the next few days, I kept my distance as much as possible, trying to redefine my personal space and ensure she was far, far away from it. I ran the trail before she woke up and didn’t spare her an extra glance unless she was working through a routine. Even then, I watched her as a coach would watch a gymnast.