You win

Westerman - you wish

I enjoy spending my Saturday nights at home, watching my mom putter around the kitchen. Note the heavy sarcasm; while my sister is out enjoying herself with friends, I find myself sulking pathetically on a Saturday night. It's not that I don't enjoy spending time with my mom, but typically, I prefer doing so under my own volition, not because my father has deemed house arrest the best remedy.

"Have you talked to Dad yet?" I eye my peas, pushing them around the glass plate with my fork; they look like they're having a lot more fun than me right now, or will be having for future references.

"Have you earned that conversation?" My mother glances at me, securing her dark blond hair with a clip.

I remain silent.

"Are you taking care of yourself?" She continues, placing the used dishes in the sink and slipping on yellow rubber gloves with her back turned to me.

"Yeah, I'm taking practice seriously. I hit my fastest running time on Wednesday, and I've been hitting the gym almost every day."

"Other than the gym and practice Stephan, I mean-," Her hazel eyes narrowed at me.

"I know what you mean, and yes."

"I'd be far more comfortable if you told Coach Truman; he wouldn't-"

"I've got it under control. Go put on a movie and relax," I interject, rising to clear my plate and removing her gloves. She gives me a knowing look, but my attempt to change the subject rests successfully as she is now sitting on the L-shaped couch, putting on the most recent season of The Bachelorette.

"After you're done, put some popcorn on." She hollers over, eyes glued to the TV.

"Where's dad?" I ask, scrubbing the grimy glassware.

"Why don't you call and ask?"

"Because I don't hate myself," She lets out a laugh as if she doesn't know it would indefinitely end in an argument. The sound of the front door interrupts us, and in walks Sloan, clad in a too-short black dress and heels.

"What club did you go to, your twelve?"

"Glad to see you've become domesticated, Nice gloves." I flip her off, flicking water in her face, and she retaliates by slapping the running sink water on my shirt.

"You better not be getting water all over my kitchen!" Mom yells out, tearing her eyes from the TV for the first time.

"Oh! How was your date?" Mom gets up, pausing the show, elbows perched on the shortened wall, leaning into the kitchen.

"Date?" The gloves are now off, and my arms rest crossed as I stare at my sister. As much as I would like for her to stay away from guys because I know how many assholes exist—probably 50% on the football team—she's not so much a baby sister anymore.

"It was good..." she answers while eyeing me warily. Leading mom to rise, clapping her hands ecstatically.

"No comment?" She looks at me, arms crossed.

"You're grown up, Sloan," I start, earning her face to screw up. I grab the yellow gloves off the counter.

"So you can have some grown-up responsibility and finish the dishes." I place them on her chest while walking by, and she reluctantly grabs them. "And put some popcorn on for mom."

The door beeps again, and the room falls silent. He's like a sponge, sucking out all the joy and laughter the second he comes into contact. Our eyes meet briefly, and all of a sudden, it seems like a great time to hit the gym.

"Where are you going?" His voice is stern.

"The gym; don't worry, I'll bench press for you." His eyes narrow at me in response.

"Your back by..." And I shut the door.

+++

The gym is fairly empty, unsurprisingly; after all, it is a Saturday night and most people are either at Cherrys or Jab. The second I step foot in the gym, the smell of the rubbery equipment fills my nose, and as distasteful as that sounds, it's comforting.

Completely out of spite, I'll bench press at the end of my workout, if and only if I feel like it. I head straight for the weights, determined to drown out my thoughts with the clanging of metal. As douchebaggy as that sounds it's true.

I place my headphones on to set the pace and drown out all outside problems. I start with a quick warm-up, resulting in a couple sets of chin-ups. I get down, stretching my limbs so I don't pull anything, God forbid giving my father another reason to be down my throat or, better yet, stuck at the house to be taken care of.

"Are you stalking me?"

I turn to see Sofia, her face dull, her hair pulled back in a tight braid, wearing a black Nike sports bra, showing off some cleavage, along with snug biker shorts, revealing her toned stomach and muscular legs. Her tanned skin glistens, resulting from whatever workout she must've been doing. She stands relaxed, sipping on a deep purple smoothie with one foot turned slightly without shoes, revealing her scrunched white socks.

"You wish, Delezar," I reply, turning back around and focusing on the 40-pound dumbbells for lateral raises.

"Shouldn't you be at a bar or something?... Westerman" She settles down on a nearby bench, one leg casually crossed over the other as she stirs her drink, her dark gaze fixed on me.

"I could say the same for you," I retort, keeping my focus on the burning sensation in my arms with each lift.

"Gym's more useful than any bar scene."

"Clearly, you haven't been to the right bars," I counter, placing the weights down for a quick rest between reps.

If you're implying Cherry's a 'right' bar—" She starts, but I cut her off before she can finish.

"Why are you really here, Del? I know it's not to start a friendly conversation," I interject, tossing the weights aside and turning to face her.

"You think so low of me." She places her hand over her chest—not a thread of emotion in her voice, but more of a blunt statement.

"You don't care what I think."

"Touche," She nods slightly placing her smoothie beside her.

"You want to know if the offer still stands?" I'm unable to suppress the smirk that plays on my lips.

She rises from the bench and walks past me, her tone casual.

"You wish."