CHAPTER 3

Oliver shoves his hands into his sweatpants pockets as they cross the manicured lawn dusted with snow, his face tilted towards the bright sun. The subtle warmth will melt the minuscule dusting of snow they had last night before lunchtime rolls around, but it's only a matter of time before the snow sticks and they have that winter wonderland Elena wants for the wedding in a few weeks.

Oliver exhales, and tiny wisps of clouded condensation form in the air; Ethan rolls his eyes and scrunches up his nose. Oliver either does not notice the tension building inside him or is using the lack of words to needle Ethan, trying to put him on edge.

Who is Ethan kidding? Of course it's the latter. It's what Oliver does.

He just knows. He knows what makes others tick and knows how to get people to do what he wants. It's how he lured Ethan into all these stupid bets over the years, before Ethan learned betting against him on anything is the worst idea ever. It's how he knew the only way Elena would give Adrian a chance was if she saw how important she always was to him, as opposed to being told how important she was to him.

And now, he's trying to get Ethan to acknowledge his failing, his shortcoming, trying to get him to admit that he once again lost a bet. He'll be all silent and smirky and smug, never saying it out loud but thinking "I told you so" beneath the gleam in his eyes.

Well, two can play that game. If he's not going to bring it up, Ethan won't either. Oliver thinks his silence will annoy Ethan, will make him blurt it out and fess up, and beg him to let him off the hook.

But Ethan is not going to let it get to him. He'll just ignore him and his dumb face and his superiority. It will be the fuel for his workout. He'll make Oliver be the one to talk first instead of the other way around.

They reach the gym and change in silence, neither of them breaking. Oliver is waiting for it. Waiting for Ethan to give in to the pressure he's putting on him. His keen eyes watch Ethan when he thinks he won't notice. Ethan yanks the laces on his shoes harder than normal, and Oliver's lip twitches but Ethan continues on his merry way over to the indoor track.

Through all his stretches, Oliver does not say a word as he keeps watching him. Ethan clenches his teeth and is sure the vein in his forehead is as big as a thick cable, but he holds out.

Ethan is tempted to start his run without a warm-up, but the importance of stretching before a workout is too engrained in him, too much a part of his routine to skip it. They may be successful executives, but that doesn’t mean they’re immune to stress-related illness and injury. Just like their wealth doesn’t mean they are invincible. They can still fail. They can still be ruined.

This is a reality Ethan knows all too well.

“Run or spar first?” Oliver asks once their warm-up is complete, breaking the silence between them.

Ethan stands there, hands on his hips, eyes pointed at the turf on the floor of the gym, waffling between the two. Does he want to pound his face first or kick his ass in a race around the track first?

Both sound appealing and both will bring him satisfaction, especially with the knowledge of what is coming. But if they race and then spar, he’ll get the extra enjoyment of ending his workout with a sparring pin, which at the moment sounds much more exciting than ending with a racing win.

"Run first," Ethan grumbles, and Oliver's lips twitch, making that vein in his forehead pulse again. "Last one to finish five miles buys lunch," he says, taking off ahead of Oliver before he can say anything or get himself ready.

Too late, Ethan realizes his mistake. Too late, he realizes he should not have uttered the words. But apparently, he never learns. That, or he's a glutton for punishment. Or both.

Oliver catches up to him, rather effortlessly, not even sweating, using a speed Ethan hasn't seen him use in nearly fifteen years. The speed he had used that day he had raced Adrian before Adrian took over as COO six months before he should have.

“Goddamn it,” Ethan mutters under his breath, quickening his pace to keep up with him.

How did Ethan forget that Oliver is a master deceiver? That he puts out the barest amount of effort needed for every workout or training or sparring match, but in truth, he is much stronger and more powerful than he lets on?

Ethan knows how. Because he is too fucking cocky sometimes, that's how.

He does his best to stay with him, but after the third mile he has to tap out, slowing his pace. He's fuming by the time he finishes mile five and joins Oliver at the water station. It's his own damn fault, but that doesn't make him any less mad. It just makes him more mad.

He chugs his water and then crunches the cup in his fist, feeling the satisfying crunch of the paper and the sound it makes as it collapses in his hand. His face is dripping with sweat, a river of it running off the tip of his nose, but Oliver is fresh as a motherfucking daisy, his forehead barely glistening with moisture.

“Still want to spar?” Oliver asks, chuckling as he sips his water, his eyes flicking to the crushed cup in Ethan’s hand.

No.

"Yes," Ethan says through his teeth as he moves to wrap his hands in preparation for sparring.

As he said, they have great insurance, but Ethan doesn't particularly enjoy having bloody, bruised, and broken knuckles all of the time.

He won't win. Not against Oliver. Not when he's giving it his actual best. But he is sure he can get some good hits in, so he can at least get some fulfillment from the feel of his fist meeting his face. Especially since Oliver is still giving him those smug looks, waiting for him to cave and bring up the bet.