#brant goodleaf

You're not entirely sure how you ended up here—flat on your back on the living room floor of Shoresy's apartment with him hovering above you in plank position—but you're not complaining. You just knew you'd gotten bored watching TV as Goody worked out beside you and decided to give him some encouragement.

"You ready for this, bud?" Goody grins down at you, his arms locked straight, dark hair falling forward. "Gonna crush a hundred easy."

"A hundred?" You raise an eyebrow, the hardwood floor cool against your back, a relief from the sudden hot weather Sudbury was having. "Pretty confident there, Goodleaf."

"Oh, I'm motivated." His eyes sparkle with mischief. "Got the best view in Sudbury right now."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. The apartment's quiet—no roommates. Just you two and the afternoon light streaming through the windows. "Just do your push-ups, you beauty."

He lowers himself down slowly, and when his face gets close enough, you tilt your chin up and catch his lips with yours—just a quick peck, but enough to make him pause.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" Goody's voice drops lower, rougher. "You're gonna make this real hard for me, eh?"

"That's the point. Gotta stay up if you want another one."

"Fuck, you're good." He pushes back up, arms flexing. "Alright, let's go. One."

Down he comes again, and you deliver another kiss, this one lasting a half-second longer. His breath hitches.

"Two," he manages, pushing back up with renewed determination.

You watch his biceps strain, the way his shoulders bunch with effort. He's showing off now, taking his time on the way down, hovering just above you long enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him.

"Three." Kiss. "Four." Kiss. "Five—oh fuck, you taste good. Is that new Chapstick?"

"Focus, Goody."

"I am focused. Super focused. Most focused I've ever been." He drops down for number six, and this time when your lips meet, he lingers, nearly losing his form before catching himself. "Jesus Christ."

"Getting tired already?"

"Tired? I could do this all day." But you can see his arms starting to shake around rep twenty. "Okay, maybe not all day, but like... a good portion of the day."

"Uh-huh."

By thirty-five, there's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. By forty, his breathing's getting heavier, echoing slightly in the quiet apartment. By forty-five, each push-up is slower, more deliberate, like he's fighting gravity itself.

"You got this," you encourage, reaching up to brush your fingers along his jaw when he comes down for forty-six.

"Yeah, I got this. I definitely got this. This is—" His left arm wobbles. "Oh no."

"Goody—"

"I don't got this."

His arms give out completely, and suddenly, all one hundred and eighty-some pounds of hockey player crashes down on top of you.

"Oof!" The air rushes out of your lungs as Goody's full weight pins you to the hardwood. "Goody!"

"Can't... move..." he mumbles into your neck, completely limp.

You try to squirm out from under him, arms flailing, legs kicking uselessly. "You're crushing me, you loser." You're laughing despite being thoroughly smushed, smacking at his shoulders. "Get off!"

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, grinning like an idiot. "But you're so comfortable."

"I'm gonna be a pancake!" He steals one more kiss before finally rolling off you with a groan, sprawling on his back beside you on the floor. "Worth it, though."

You gasp for air, turning your head to look at him. "Forty-six push-ups? That's what took you out?"

"forty-six distracted push-ups. There's a difference." He reaches over and laces his fingers through yours. "Same time tomorrow?"

Despite yourself, you squeeze his hand back. "You're buying me dinner first if you're gonna use me as workout equipment."

"Deal. You like chicken?"