Literally anything else.

But instead, you’re perched on Zook’s back while he does pushups in the middle of the practice field, sweat glistening down the back of his neck.

“This is not how people train,” you mutter, trying not to laugh as he dips down again. “This is borderline ridiculous.”

“Correction,” Zook grunts, voice low and strained in that cocky way of his. “This is resistance training. And I’m resisting the hell out of kissing you right now.”

Your jaw drops, then clamps shut as you try to play it cool, even though your cheeks heat instantly. “Zook.”

“What?” He dips down again, biceps flexing with every motion. “You said you wanted to help me train.”

“I meant passing drills. Not using me as a human dumbbell.”

He glances up, face flushed, breathing slightly heavier now. “You weigh like… nothing. This is light work.”

“Say that again and I’m getting off.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” He smirks.

You shift your weight slightly, just to test him. His arms buckle for half a second, and you hear him growl softly under his breath.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Maybe not nothing. But you’re the best motivation I’ve ever had.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move. Truthfully, the view from here is kind of perfect—his muscles tight and trembling, the warmth of his back under your thighs, the way he keeps glancing up at you between reps like you’re the finish line he’s racing toward.

“You’re seriously into this, huh?” you tease.

He exhales through his nose, pushing through another set. “I’d bench press you every day if it meant you’d stick around.”

You laugh, leaning down so your face is closer to his. “Zook Haythe, are you flirting mid-pushup?”

“I multitask.”

Another pushup.

Another glance at you.

And even though your heart’s racing for reasons that have nothing to do with exercise, you stay exactly where you are. His personal weight. His cheerleader. His motivation.

And maybe—just maybe—something more.