I sighed. “What now?”

He jerked his chin toward something behind me. “You see that girl over there?”

I didn’t turn. “No.”

“Okay, well, she’s been looking over here every five seconds.” He winked. “I think she’s about to make her move.”

Jamal’s brows lifted. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Scott put a hand on my shoulder, mock serious. “Blake, buddy, you do know how this works, right? When a cute girl asks you for help, you flirt back.”

“No, no. Blake doesn’t flirt,” Jamal said. “Blake exists, and girls just suffer in silence.”

I ignored both of them, wiping more sweat off my face with my towel, but sure enough, footsteps approached.

“Hey,” a voice said, soft but confident.

I exhaled slowly before finally turning.

She was petite, toned, with brown hair tied in a high ponytail. There was a light sheen of sweat on her neck, like she’d been here long enough to be serious about her workout. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her name.

“Hey,” I said flatly.

She smiled, shifting her weight slightly. “You’re Blake, right?”

Jamal coughed loudly, like he was trying not to laugh.

I ignored him. “Yeah.”

Her smile widened. “I thought so. You were in my English class sophomore year. I’m⁠—”

“Sydney,” Scott supplied, grinning.

She gave him an amused look. “You could’ve let me introduce myself.”

Scott shrugged. “I like to help.”

I glanced back at Sydney, who was still smiling at me, and I already knew what this was. Her eyes kept flicking to my arms, my shoulders—assessing, but not in the way people did when they were picking apart my form.

I could feel Scott and Jamal watching, waiting for me to engage. I was already exhausted.

“So,” Sydney started, her voice casual but with an edge of playfulness, “I was wondering if you could help me out.”

Here we go.

“With what?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

She gestured toward the dumbbells. “I want to start lifting heavier, but I’m not sure I have the right form.”

Scott grinned. “Oh, Blake is your guy.”

I shot him a glare.

He smirked.

I glanced back at Sydney. She was watching me expectantly, lips curved slightly, waiting for me to respond.

I want to start lifting heavier.

That was bullshit. She knew it. We knew it. But I was supposed to play along with it. I was supposed to lead her to the weight rack, stand behind her, place my hands on her waist, hips, ass—wherever. It was supposed to be one of those charged moments, dripping with tension, leading straight to a bathroom stall where she’d moan my name before forgetting it entirely. I’d seen it play out before. Hell, I’d seen it plenty of times. I knew the script.