The California sun baked everything beneath it into submission. Even the bugs had given up, hiding somewhere in the shade while we sweated our asses off in the training field.
"This is actual torture," Belle groaned, her blue hair plastered to her forehead. She'd tied it back in a ponytail, but strands had escaped to frame her flushed face. Her white tank top clung to her curves, soaked through with sweat. "It's Sunday. Why are we here? Why are we doing this?"
I watched her bend over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. The view almost made the heat worth it.
"Eyes up, Monroe," she snapped without looking.
I grinned. "I was just admiring your form."
"You're admiring something," Jordan muttered from where he lay spread-eagle on the grass. "Ninety-two degrees. On a weekend. After we already proved ourselves yesterday. This is a crime against humanity."
