The next team challenge came and went, and I, once again, did not win.

Adriana did instead, striding to the finish line as if a pair of Louboutin heels were waiting for her on the other side.

Although she'll never know, her sudden victory was staged. This deep into the camp, I find no activity easier than a run down the beach, more familiar with this sand than the inside of the gym. Towards the middle of the race, I decreased my speed almost a full mile per hour and watched as trainee after trainee charged ahead of me, some even turning their heads around in confusion over my sloth-like pace.

But it was an experiment of sort—assuming that she was behind the notes—to test if finally shining the spotlight on her would calm the flames of her social fury. I'll only know if another one of those stupid fucking notes doesn't invade another private part of my room in a couple of days.

After an uneventful gym workout with Axel, I headed to the door to begin my typical evening routine. A hand on my shoulder halted my plans before I could even grip the door handle.

"Are you in a rush?" Axel asks.

I shake my head. "Not that I know of."

He nods. "Let's talk for a moment, then."

I look to the left and to the right, wondering what this "talk" will entail. No particular emotion washes over his face, which leaves me confused, until we start walking down the hallway towards the hidden staircase. I dart my eyes to the side of his face, but there's still nothing there, even as he leads me down the hall and stops in front of the door of the lounge.

"I don't want to be overheard," he says, holding the door open for me, "so I figured we'd talk here."

He closes the door, and I hear the click of a lock. I take a few steps into the frigid room, the air conditioning blasting more than usual, and wrap my arms around myself. Then, I stop in my tracks, noticing the hint of a smile playing on Axel's lips.

"It's nice in here," I comment. I glance at the abstract photographs mounted on the wall and pretend like I wasn't just here a few days ago. I turn around. "Can I sit down?"

"Sure," he says and crouches down by the mini fridge. He pulls out two water bottles and tilts his head to the side. "I'm always surprised by the number of trainees that never figure out there's even a second floor to this building. It looks like it's two stories, right?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess," I mumble and catch the bottle he throws my way. He didn't bring me up here to talk about architecture of all things, did he?

"Well, except you. Did seeing this place help you figure out we're kind of hypocrites? That cabinet is full of junk food." He lowers himself to the white armchair adjacent to the couch I'm sitting on, still keeping a straight face.

I pause mid gulp and force the rest of the water down. "I-I mean, not exactly. We only stole the drinks, to be clear."

"I'm just messing with you." He leans back into the cushion, legs wide apart. "I'm also now short a few bucks, since I made a bet that no one would figure it out this year."

"How many years have you been working here?"

"If I count this summer, four years. But it definitely doesn't feel like it."

That means at about my age, he was training other people here, not learning how to work out without collapsing a lung in the process. I find him somewhat admirable, or at least the initiative he had to begin a side job that ended up becoming a yearly gig.

"So," I say, pressing my hands into my gray-cotton clad thighs, "what did you bring me here to actually talk about, Axel?"

He pauses and takes a sip of water, gazing at me while drinking. I refocus my eyes on my shoes, feeling more apprehensive than usual. Then, he speaks.

"Every year, Bob asks me and a few other trainers to scope out talent, if you will. All that means is we have to keep a keen eye on the progress of the most promising trainees, then report any potential we see to him." More interested now, I make eye contact, my heart beating a little faster. "Sometimes, it just gives us more meaningless work; other times, something actually comes out of it."

Something...like a job?

"Should I be aware of this?" I ask.

"I'm the one who's supposed to be keeping tabs, aren't I?" He runs his fingers over his stubble and rests them on his chin. "You can think of this discussion as an informal interview, if you want."

"Oh," I murmur, realizing he's serious, "I'll try to answer as honestly as possible, then."

He smiles. "Have you given any thought to what you're going to do once you leave here? There's only about a week left, after all. It's one thing to be motivated to work out in this kind of environment. Creating your own exercise routine is a whole different ballgame."

I blink, running my hands over the smooth surface of the couch. The future hasn't even crossed my mind in that sense, what was left of my brain too occupied with worrying about college.

"Well, I hope I can continue to make exercise a regular part of my day. At least, go to the gym in college or join some sort of fitness class."

"Is your college far?"

I shake my head. "No, about an hour away, in New York."

"You can just say Columbia or NYU," he jokes. I don't open my mouth to tell him which, as those two schools account for all of my immediate family, anyway. "Is there a particular sport you've excelled at in the past that you haven't been able to try here so far? Swimming? Boxing? Anything?"

I snort, making a few droplets of spit fly into the air. Pressing a hand over my mouth in embarrassment, I collect myself and then speak. "No—God, no. When I say I used to consider walking up the stairs a workout, I'm not bluffing."

"Well, that answers that," he laughs and sits up a little straighter. "I guess this brings me to the most important question: would you be averse to taking all this exercise to the next level?"

"Like...right now?"

He shakes his head. "No. In the future. You can be honest."

I shift in my seat, feeling put on the spot, but I suppose honesty is the best policy. "Right now, I'd say yes, because all this crazy exercise somehow gives me a high. But months from now... I don't know if I'll just become the old me again."

I sure hope not.

"It's okay," he says. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. "I'm not asking you to sign your life away right now."

Right now. "Um...are you planning to in the future?"

"No," he chuckles, shaking his head, "but it's pretty analogous to working this job."

I dart my eyes from left to right, wondering how that statement was supposed to convince me to work here—if I've interpreted this tête-à-tête correctly, that is.

He clears his throat lightly. "Now humor me, was your staircase a mile long?"

I blink. "What?"

"No, really. You said you used to classify a walk up the stairs a workout. I'm trying to put myself in your point of view." He says every word with such a straight face that I almost believe he'll be intrigued in my response.

I think for a few moments, realizing I could give him the short answer and say I was just lazy, or explain where that laziness originated. I go with the latter.

"I mean, I started off like any other kid: active, energetic, practically lived outside in the summer. And then middle school rolled around, and I was one of the few girls who didn't have her sport. So, I thought I'd give something a shot. My mom first signed me up for soccer, and I got hit in the head so many times with the ball, she pulled me out to prevent a few inevitable concussions. Basketball and softball went the same way, so I gave up, telling myself I'd get into working out in high school, instead." I sigh and lean back in my seat, staring at the ceiling. "But high school came and went, and I never tried anything...because I let people get in my head and convince me school was the only thing I'd ever be good at. And it wasn't always the 'dumbasses from school' either, to quote you."

He cocks his head slightly to one side. "Who made you think that way, then?"

"My dad," I say but then bite my tongue. "N-not in the way you think, though. I grew up with an older sister who excelled at everything. Not just school, but lacrosse, track, and then archery of all things. Throughout my childhood, my dad... God, his face would light up when she won a championship or a race, and he'd always use those precious few hours he had to himself on the weekends to play a game of tennis or a round of golf with her." I toy with the strings on my pants, trying not to look into his intent eyes. "It's not that I was very different from her, since we'd both collect academic awards at the end of the year, but she also had banquets, trophy ceremonies, endless praise from her coaches—more things that could connect her, not me, to our already detached father."

His jaw is tenser than it was when I first began talking. Maybe he's caught up thinking about his own father, who was dead, not just emotionally absent. I suck in my cheeks and lower my eyes.

He blows out a small breath. "Did you ever confront him? You seem to have wanted his attention."

I shake my head. "What was I supposed to say? 'I hate you Dad, because you spent all of my childhood working to provide for me and then tried to make up for your absence with at least one of your daughters by bonding over a shared hobby?' Shit, I had no case." I swallow that hard lump in my throat and blow out a breath, my words painful but true.

He shrugs, unmoved by my emotion. "Maybe not phrased that way. But some way." He runs his fingers over the material of his sweatpants and plucks out a piece of fuzz. "Either way, you still have a chance now, Whitney."

"I'm sorry," I say softly, wishing I gave him some bullshit answer instead of the truth. "I can't even compare my situation to yours."

He shakes his head and grips the armrest a little harder. I have to rip my gaze from his dead eyes, almost feeling like his cold stare is directed at me. As I sit in a couple more seconds of silence, I regret revealing thoughts that have always been private—unbeknownst to even my mother—unaware it would lead this conversation in the wrong direction.

I sigh and stand up slowly. "Look, Axel, I hope I answered your questions, but I should get going. I don't think you'll be interested in the thorny parts of my personal life, and I don't want to make you more uncomfortable than you are right now."

He grips both armrests, seeming like he's about to stand up as well. "I'm the one who asked in the first place, didn't I? Didn't think I would appreciate the honesty?"

I open my mouth to respond coherently, but a few stuttered words come tumbling out. I clear my throat. "C-come on, Axel, I shouldn't even be here."

"Why not?"

I rest my hands on my hips. "This is supposed to be a professional relationship, right? You teach me how to exercise, and I learn from you. That's it."

He rests his knuckles under his sharp jaw, still seated. "And what in my half of that relationship haven't I satisfied?"

I press my lips into a firm line, words escaping me. I take a moment. "You're right. You haven't slacked in that regard. Actually...you've gone above and beyond. But maybe you've done so"—I lean down slightly, my face closing some of the gap between us—"in the wrong way."

He drags his eyes from my reddening cheeks to my parted lips and then down my chest. "Do you ever wonder, Whitney, if it's all in your head? When have I ever done something you didn't want?" He smirks and adds, "Well, apart from throw you into the ocean."

A puff of air escapes my nose. "Very funny. But this isn't about wants, Axel. It's about...professionalism. Yeah..."

He swallows and licks his lips, his eyes somewhere else. Then he slowly rises, first reaching my height, then towering over me. I take a step backwards and then one more, my back growing closer to the wall of abstract art. I suck in a breath as he narrows the gap, his aura more domineering than usual, but my mind and body still betray me—not just the primal parts, but the affectionate part of my brain that wants all of him.

"Since I'm so unprofessional," he says, resting his palm on the wall beside my head. He dips his head down to my ear, breath hot against my flesh. "Let's play a quick game." He grips a lock of my hair and runs his fingers down the smooth strands. He tugs lightly and adds, "Games have no room in the workplace, right?"

"Right," I whisper. I stare straight into his chest, watching it rise and fall with his steady breaths.

His other hand hovers by my side, fingers just an inch away from the sliver of exposed skin. "If I did this"—He connects his four fingers with my skin, and they travel up my loose shirt, while his thumb brushes over my front—"would you stop me?"

My breath escapes halfway down my airway, and I can't breathe for a moment. I part my lips but don't say anything, wanting him to lead this game.

He continues. "Or how about this?" The hand planted on the wall moves to my face and grips my jaw tightly. His thumb tips my chin up and forces me to make eye contact with him. "How do you feel now?"

My still hands awaken, and one warily rests in the middle of his chest. I feel the beginnings of his hard ab muscles and drag my fingers downward. I retract my hand from his body when they meet the hemline of his pants, like it's made of fire.

He goes a step further. His face closes in on mine, until his lips are a millimeter from my own. The hand on my waist moves a few inches to my lower back and pushes me closer to his front. My heart skips a beat again.

One more movement of his lips, and they'll touch mine. "What about...this?"

"I—" It's hard to speak with him this close to my body, but it's not just the physical proximity suffocating me; it's how deep he's gotten into my psyche. I lock eyes with him and utter a shaky yet clear response: "N-no. No."

He lets me go with a small shove and backs up several feet.

"I wasn't wrong, then," he says, voice low. "I've never done anything you didn't want, Whitney."

"You're correct," I assent and walk to the door, heart still thumping at how in control he was. I grip the handle and then turn around, adding, "But maybe it's not all in my head, Axel."