Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [43]
Normally, the gymnasium was quiet at this time of day—which was one of the reasons Riker chose this hour to work out. He was a social enough being in every other aspect of his life, but he’d learned something long ago: If you came to the gym to shoot the bull, all you’d end up exercising was your mouth.
Unfortunately, the gym wasn’t as deserted as he would have preferred. As the doors to the room parted, he could hear the sound of heavy breathing, amplified by the echoing gym walls.
Entering, he saw that someone was on the horizontal bar—someone slender and female, her hair bound tightly behind her head, moving too quickly to be easily identified. For a moment Riker stood there, silently appreciating the grace with which each intricate maneuver was performed—not to mention the streamlined form that was doing the performing.
The gymnast, on the other hand, seemed not to have noticed his presence. Nor was that difficult to understand, given the concentration she must have had to apply.
This had to be someone new to the ship, he told himself. Nobody he knew was capable of those kinds of moves.
As he watched, the woman extended herself full-length, swung around the bar a couple of times, and then leapfrogged over it. The momentum she’d built up carried her almost half the length of the gym before she landed on a mat. A little stumble at the end marred what otherwise would have been a perfect routine.
Riker had already begun clapping before he realized whom he was clapping for. Then the gymnast turned around, a little startled—and he found himself staring at Tricia Cadwallader.
“Criminy!” she said, her hand resting on her breast. “You could have let me know you were there!”
He shrugged. “Sorry. I was too dazzled to think straight.”
Cadwallader blushed through her light sprinkling of freckles. “I wasn’t that good. You should have seen me back at the Academy.”
Riker tried not to gape at the way she filled out her cutout tank suit. What was it about Starfleet uniforms that made women look like boys? “If I told you,” he began, “that I can’t imagine you performing any more beautifully anywhere…it would probably sound like a line, wouldn’t it?”
She smiled as she thought about it. “I’m not sure. Why don’t you try it?”
He nodded. “All right—I will.” He approached her, taking her hand in his, and gazed into her deep green eyes. “I can’t imagine you looking any more beautiful anywhere—not at the Academy or anywhere else.” He hung on to her hand. It was soft and warm and just the slightest bit damp with perspiration. “How was that?”
Cadwallader’s smile became a smirk. “Pretty good—except you got some of the words wrong. The first time, you said ‘performing’—not ‘looking.’”
Riker feigned confusion. “Did I? I guess it just came out that way.”
She rolled her eyes. “Now, that,” she said, taking her hand back with a flourish, “sounds like a line.” Crossing the room, she headed for the towel rack.
“Listen,” he called after her, “I wouldn’t have to resort to such ploys if you’d have dinner with me.” His voice echoed from wall to wall.
Cadwallader turned around. “Are you asking?”
Riker straightened. “I’m asking.”
She chuckled. “All right, then. But not tonight. I have a prior engagement.”
He watched her go to the rack and take down a towel. “Oh?”
“That’s right,” said Cadwallader, using the towel to dry her hair. “And so do you.”
Riker didn’t understand. It must have been evident in his expression, because she went on to explain.
“Captain Picard’s feast,” she said. “Hasn’t he told you about it?”
Riker shook his head. “No, I don’t believe he has.”
Cadwallader shrugged. “It’s at 1800 hours. I’m sure he wouldn’t assemble all his officers and leave you out.” She paused. “Would he?”
“I’ve been a little busy lately,” he said, trying not to sound defensive.