The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

Chapter 290: 290 | Resistance Training And Other Forms Of Foreplay [CASTLE BONUS]

The obstacle course loomed before us, a sprawling construction of walls and ropes and balance beams and climbing structures that looked like it had been designed by someone who believed suffering built character. Steele began sorting students into groups, directing traffic with the efficiency of someone who had done this exact routine thousands of times before.

I ended up in a group with Felicity, Marco, and three students from 1-A whose names I made a mental note to learn. The rotation was simple enough: complete the course, rest while the next group ran, repeat until Steele decided we had suffered adequately. The obstacles themselves ranged from straightforward to genuinely challenging, with climbing walls that required upper body strength, balance beams that required coordination, and a rope traverse that required not falling twenty feet onto crash mats that looked softer than they probably were.

Felicity went first.

She moved through the course with an easy grace that suggested either natural athleticism or years of training or both. Her body twisted and turned and climbed with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was capable of. When she swung across the rope traverse, her compression shirt rode up enough to show a strip of tanned stomach, and I caught myself watching the way her muscles flexed with each movement before I remembered I was supposed to be focusing on the course layout rather than my classmate’s body.

The Demigod trait was making certain aspects of morning conditioning significantly more distracting than they should have been.

My turn came after Marco, who completed the course with theatrical flair and unnecessary backflips that earned him a sharp look from Steele and appreciative laughter from the watching students. I approached the first obstacle with the detached focus of someone who had much bigger things to worry about than a training exercise.

The course was hard. The course was supposed to be hard. But my body moved through it with a competence that still surprised me, the enhanced physical capabilities translating into climbing speed and balance and coordination that the previous version of me would never have possessed. I scaled the wall in under fifteen seconds. I crossed the balance beam without hesitation. I swung across the rope traverse with enough control to make the landing look easy.

When I finished, Steele’s eyes followed me back to the rest group with an expression I couldn’t fully read.

The partner exercises came last.

Steele paired us off with clinical efficiency, assigning matches that seemed designed to create useful friction rather than comfortable partnerships. Caden got paired with someone from 1-A. Marco got paired with Theo. Felicity got paired with Lyra, which produced an interesting expression on both their faces.

I got paired with Camille.

Because of course I did.

She stood across from me with her arms crossed and her expression locked in something between hostility and complete refusal to acknowledge my existence.

Her gym uniform was damp with sweat from the run and the obstacles, the compression fabric clinging to her body in ways that my brain helpfully cataloged despite my best efforts to maintain focus.

Her two-tone hair had escaped its tie slightly, blonde and brown strands falling across her face in a way that made her look slightly less intimidating and significantly more beautiful.

"Partner conditioning," Steele announced to the assembled pairs. "Resistance training. One partner provides resistance while the other works against it. Switch on my signal. No actual combat. No Aspects. Pure physical coordination. Begin."

Camille moved first.

She grabbed my wrists and pulled me toward her with enough force to make clear she wasn’t interested in making this easy. Her grip was strong, her body position suggesting someone who had done resistance training before and knew exactly how to make it hurt. Her brown eyes met mine with an intensity that had nothing to do with the exercise and everything to do with what had happened last night.

"Push," she said, her voice flat.

I pushed. She resisted. The exercise was simple in concept and significantly more complicated in practice when the person providing resistance was actively angry at you and channeling that anger into physical force. My arms burned within the first thirty seconds. My shoulders protested by the first minute. Camille’s expression never changed, locked in the same aggressive neutrality she had carried all morning.

"You could talk to me," I said, keeping my voice low enough that only she could hear.

"I don’t have anything to say to you."

"You had plenty to say last night."

Her grip tightened. "That was a mistake."

"Was it?"

"Obviously."

"Didn’t feel like a mistake when you—"

"Don’t." Her brown eyes flashed with something that might have been anger or might have been something else entirely. "Don’t say it. Don’t bring it up. What happened was a temporary lapse in judgment caused by adrenaline and proximity and the fact that you kissed me in a training exercise like some kind of romance novel protagonist. It didn’t mean anything. It’s not going to happen again."

"You came to my room at midnight wearing lingerie."

"It was sleepwear."

"The distinction between sleepwear and lingerie is approximately two inches of fabric."

Her face flushed, color spreading across her cheeks and down her neck in a way that the gym uniform did nothing to hide. "Shut up."

"Make me."

Steele’s signal interrupted whatever response Camille had been about to deliver. We switched positions, Camille now pushing while I provided resistance, and the physical dynamic shifted in ways that brought us closer together than the exercise technically required. Her chest pressed against my arms as she pushed. Her breath came fast and warm against my face. Her body generated heat that I could feel through the thin compression fabric separating us.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"No you don’t."

"I could. I could absolutely hate you if I decided to."

"But you haven’t decided to."

Her eyes met mine again, closer now, brown and warm and conflicted in ways that her voice refused to acknowledge.

"You’re infuriating."

"I know."

"You’re arrogant and impossible and you think you can do whatever you want just because you’re pretty."

"I also think I can do whatever I want because I’m capable."

"That’s worse."