The sweat slides down my brow, a drop of the salty liquid breaching my lashes and burning my eye. My chest is heavy, my breathing fast, shallow and labored. The lactic acid in my muscles exceeds my body's limits, and my aching hamstrings and quads beg for a break. But I still don't stop.

I run far past my five mile goal. I run past the half-hour limit on the gym's treadmill. I run in an attempt to escape the tension that has taken residence in each of my muscles and to tame the herd of thoughts stampeding through my mind. But it's not enough. So I don't stop.

I switch playlists and turn the volume all the way up. I run as hard as I can, trying to lose myself in the beat, but it doesn't work. My body is exhausted, but my mind is still racing. Running is too easy; I need something that takes focus.

I move to the punching bag, carefully wrapping my hands before I start methodically striking the leather-covered sandbag hanging from the ceiling. I focus, starting out with a simple 1-2 jab-right cross combination. Then a jab-jab-cross, followed by a jab-cross-left hook. After a brief warm up, I add uppercuts and move on to more complicated combinations.

My mind starts to wander and I imagine Blaise in that tiny skirt and knee socks. I shake my head and focus on my footwork in an attempt to remove her from my thoughts. I take care to move my feet between each combination, but for no more than three seconds before I punish the bag again. I remind myself to stop and plant my feet before I throw the next combination of punches. I practice several more times. Move, plant, punch, punch, punch. My muscle memory takes over, and my mind starts to wander again.

What if I had said yes? What if I had kissed her? What if I had stayed? Would she still be in my head?

I'll probably never know now. She has avoided me all week, coming into the office late or calling in sick to deal with a "personal emergency", and I don't know if it's because she's embarrassed after Friday night, if she's purposely distancing herself, or worse, there's something seriously wrong.

My fists hit the bag with a thud, letting me know I'm distracted, growing tired and lazy. I'm pushing with my shoulders more than punching with my fists, so I focus on my form. I relax my shoulders and strike quickly, the collision of my fist with the heavy bag now snapping instead of thudding, and smile in satisfaction.

I continue until the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and a tingle races up my spine. I get the feeling I'm being watched, so I turn and my gaze immediately crashes with hers.

Lightening.

It's like an electric current moves between us. I can barely see her face under the shadow cast by her baseball cap, but I can see enough to notice her blue eyes widen. She hesitates and takes a quick look over her shoulder, like she's considering turning back, but after a moment sighs and nods her head toward the bag hanging next to mine.

"You want some company? I really need to kick the shit out of something." It's the last thing I expect her to say.

She pulls out a roll of tape, sits on the floor, and methodically wraps her hands. I watch her fingers work as she slowly wraps the tape around her left wrist. The confidence and competency of her movements suggest she's done this before.

"You box?"

She looks up at me and grins and my heart stops again. Fuck. This is stupid. I should leave.

"A little." She stands and turns to drop the tape back in her bag, and I notice the black spandex leggings for the first time. Maybe I can stay a few minutes.

"What are you working on today?"

She shrugs. "Nothing in particular. I just want to hit something." She turns and executes a nearly perfect jab-jab-cross-uppercut combination. She takes a step back and finishes with a powerful roundhouse kick. The strike of her heel on the bag causes a small cloud of dust to disburse in the air. I whistle.

"So not an amateur. Noted."

The side of her mouth turns up, but she doesn't turn to me.

"Nope."

I'm encouraged by that small hint of a smile. I turn to my bag and execute a Jab-Cross-Left uppercut-Cross, then look back at her and raise a eyebrow in challenge. She rolls her eyes and mimics my 1-2-5-2 combination with ease. And near-perfect form.

"Alright." I nod my head and rub my hand across my jaw. I turn back to the bag and throw another series of punches, this one more complicated. She once again copies my movements. We do this for a few minutes in silence before I broach the subject of her recent absence.

"You feeling okay? You've called in sick all week."

"I'm fine. I've just been distracted and not sleeping well." Shit, I know the feeling, and I hate that my lack of discipline is causing her actual, physical illness.

"It's the boyfriend," she continues "He's going through some heavy shit right now." God, I'm such a cocky bastard. This isn't about me at all. She probably doesn't even remember Friday night.

"And to be honest, a little because of the fool I made of myself last weekend. I'm sorry. I should have never put you in that position," she whispers. My eyes flick to the open door. I take a step toward her and lower my voice to avoid being overheard.

"How much do you remember?"

She hangs her head. "Enough to be mortified."

"Well, you shouldn't be. I told you to call if you needed anything. There's nothing wrong about calling a sober friend for a ride home."

"What's the general consensus on hitting on your boss? Because I'm pretty sure I did that, too."

"Technically I'm your boss's boss. And I'll tell you what, if it makes you feel any better, I promise I'll never mention it again."

"No awkwardness?" she asks.

"Zero awkwardness."

She smiles and exhales. We continue to spar with our respective heavy bags, but she doesn't fully relax. She still seems distracted and aggressive. She throws a combination of punches against the bag, then rubs her thumb down the middle of her right hand and winces.

"You want to talk about it?"

"About what?"

"Whatever is clearly still bothering you."

She rubs her right palm again. "Just a problem I've ignored for too long. I should have quit when it started hurting."

"I'm not talking about your hand."

"Neither am I." She hangs her head. She's being frustratingly cryptic.

"Maybe it's the bag. Maybe you just need to change strategies." I gesture toward the mitts on the rack against the wall. I retrieve the mitts and slip them on. I stand in front of her and hold my hands up, ready to block. "Here, try me instead."

She must find that amusing because she chuckles, just briefly, but at least it's not a scowl. I call out combinations, and she attacks me instead of the bag. She's quick and sharp, so I have to pay attention to defend. She seems to enjoy the distraction as much as I do, because she finally smiles.

I call a simple 1-2-3 combination. She executes the jab and cross when her cell phone rings. I turn my head toward the sound right when she throws her left hook. She nails me right on the cheekbone, and my head snaps to the side with unexpected force.

"Oh my God I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

I work my jaw back and forth.

"You can throw a damn punch, but I think I'll survive it." She stands on the tip of her toes and studies the side of my face.

"It's swelling. Sit down."

I take the mitts off and sit as instructed. She retrieves an ice pack from her oversized bag and cracks it as she walks back to me. I'm amused by the fact she carries an ice pack with her. She stands over me and holds my chin, moving my head from side to side. I hold my breath looking up at her, watching the way her eyebrows scrunch together when she concentrates and her eyelashes flutter against her cheekbone when she looks down. Her fingertips burn through everywhere she touches, but she seems oblivious to her affect on me as she examines my cheekbone.

"I don't think it'll bruise too bad, but that's going to hurt. I probably have some Tylenol in my bag." Of course she does. I wonder what else she hauls around in that massive thing.

"I think I'll survive." When I smile at her, she exhales and returns a smirk. She extends her arm. Her hand grasps mine to pull me up, and the same familiar current passes through my palm the second we touch. I stand, looking down at her. She's so close. Too close.

Her phone rings again. "Oh for fuck's sake," she grumbles as bends and digs through her bag. I chuckle as she pulls out a sweatshirt, keys, notebook, pair of flip-flops, headphones, water bottle, and sunglasses before she finally finds her phone. I place everything back in her bag for her, then toss in the ice pack.

She answers the call and I try not to eavesdrop, but it's impossible in this small space.

"Yes," she says into the phone, her eyebrows scrunch together.

"Oh, yes, of course." Her eyebrows shoot up and her eyes round.

"That should be fine. Let me check my schedule." Her smile widens. She puts her hand over the bottom part of the phone and mouths "O.M.G." my direction. She stands there silently for a few more moments before returning the phone to her mouth.

"Yes, that should be fine. Thank you I look forward to it." Her tone is polite and professional, but her whole body seems to be vibrating with an electric energy.

She simultaneously throws the phone on her bag, squeals, and runs my direction. I catch her as she throws herself in my arms.

"I got an interview!"

I squeeze her tighter before putting her on her feet.

"The externship?" She nods. "That's amazing? When?"

"Not until December, after finals. They've got it narrowed down to three finalists. Three! And I'm one of them."

"Of course you are."

"There you are!" A deep voice fills the room. I turn to see Charlie striding toward us. His eyes light up as they pass between Blaise and I. She's still holding onto my forearms and my hands are still on her hips.

"You forget about our game?"

We both quickly release each other and take rushed steps back, which probably only makes us look more guilty. I shake my head and glance at the clock on the wall. I did forget about our basketball game, actually. This girl is entirely too distracting.

"You're late." Charlie laughs and turns toward Blaise.

"Don't worry about it. I'm always late. You joining us?"

"No, I've done enough damage for one day." She points at my jaw. "Get some ice back on that if it swells."

We walk Blaise out on our way to the court. As soon as we're alone, he turns and laughs.

"Dude."

"Don't." I hold up a finger, and he laughs again.

He studies my jaw. "What's wrong with your face?"

"What's wrong with your face? I'm injured. You were just born ugly." He laughs and throws the ball at my head. I duck, and it flies past my left shoulder. I turn and he's still staring at my jaw.

"I dropped my guard for a second and Blaise knocked me on my ass."

He smirks. "Well if that ain't a metaphor."