Again. I was trapped in a real life Groundhog Day. Blood and bruises not optional. Bouncing on my heels, I crossed the jump rope in front of me, going through the reps methodically. In reverse, crisscross, side swing. By two hundred jumps, I was suitably winded and my still raw hand was screaming its displeasure at its latest abuse. It had suffered a lot in the past week. So had the rest of me, my chest most of all. And I wasn’t talking about my pecs. I dropped the jump rope and peeled off the fresh bandage around my palm. Well, it had been fresh an hour ago. Now it was turning a charming shade of pink. “Still running yourself through the grinder?” Slater swaggered across the locker room in a pair of super tight bike shorts that basically put his dick and nuts on parade. The guy had no shame. And no stomach for blood, which was kind of funny considering our profession. He paled the instant his gaze dropped to my oozing hand.
