Pole Position

by Rebecca J. Caffery

I’m not sure why, but I relent. You can’t kick a puppy, after all. ‘Sure.’ I think I catch him off-guard because he fumbles his keycard at the same time he goes to walk through the door, gifting me with the sight of him smacking his head against the wood when the door doesn’t click open.

Instead, I just steady his hand and hold the bottle for him. ‘Sip,’ I command, ‘otherwise you’re going to end up being sick again.’

and my groin definitely shouldn’t be twitching. The man is sick, Kian. Come on.

‘Wow, racing is really queer this year.’

I’ve stepped in puddles with more personality than you.’

‘Worth a try,’ she replies with a saucy look, and I can respect that. God loves a trier.

I’m missing out on so many firsts, and so many lasts.

The duvet shifts and it reveals he’s wearing a pair of my gym shorts and nothing else.

How far would he run if I asked him to be my boyfriend? Would he ever stop running if I got down on one knee?