I nod, tugging the mask tighter against my face. Can’t really talk with this shit on, not with the tube pulling at my jaw.
Maggie’s standing just behind him with her arms crossed, her eyes already dissecting me. “And stand taller, Maverick. Your posture looks lazy. Cameras see that? They’ll think you don’t take this seriously.”
I roll my eyes and begin jogging, my chest relaxing as my legs find a steady rhythm. JP whistles softly from the bench. “Look at him, hooked up like Frankenstein.”
Pierce grins, tossing a stress ball up and down. “Bet he keels over before stage four.”
Coach shoots them both a glare. “Shut it. Hayes—focus.”
The belt ticks faster.
Two minutes have already passed. Speed increases. My quads burn hotter, and my lungs work harder behind the hiss of the mask. Every few strides, a tech pricks my finger for blood lactate, wipes it clean, and logs the results. My heart rate flashes on the monitor.
One hundred and sixty-five, one hundred and seventy-two, one hundred and eighty.
Coach leans in, shouting over the belt. “Stay locked in, Hayes! This test shows me how efficient your damn heart and lungs are. You want to burn out in the fourth quarter against Kentucky? No? Then keep going!”
I grit my teeth and push my knees higher as the incline grows steeper. Sweat streams into my eyes, burning, but I refuse to slow down. The mask intensifies everything—every ragged inhale, every desperate exhale, the sound of me falling apart.
“Push it, Mav,” JP calls out, mocking. “Smile for the cameras!”
Maggie jumps in more sharply. “Exactly. Keep your jaw relaxed, Maverick. You look angry. That’s not your image. You’re supposed to be approachable, charming, the golden boy, remember? No brooding.”
Her words make my chest tighten more than the treadmill ever could—my heart rate spikes. Oxygen consumption nears its peak. The tech nods at Coach, whispering something about VO2 nearing a plateau.
I push harder, legs pumping. My lungs burn, my vision narrows, and the mask suffocates me.
And all I can think about is Amelia.
Georgia, her dream ring, and how I opened my feelings up to her.
And now, she’s pulling away. Her kisses are shorter, her texts are clipped, and her warmth slips through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold on.
“Final stage!” Coach roars. “C’mon, Hayes, I want max effort! Show me you’re still the goddamn QB we built this team around!”
I dig until my calves scream, until my chest feels like it’s splitting open, until my oxygen numbers plateau on the screen. VO2 max hit. They’ve got the data.
I can’t take another second.
Slamming the stop clip, I stumble to the side rails and rip the mask off with trembling hands. Air rushes in raw and unfiltered, burning my throat. I’m drenched, everymuscle trembling, sweat dripping down my arms onto the treadmill belt.
Coach scribbles numbers while barking at the intern. “Peak VO2, sixty-four milliliters per kilogram per minute. Not bad. It could be better. He’s got room to improve before Kentucky.”
JP claps slowly. “Congrats, Hayes. You didn’t die.”
Pierce smirks. “Barely.”
I flip both of them off, gulping water. My chest still heaves, lungs aching.
Maggie’s voice hits harder than the treadmill ever could. “You look like hell. Fix your hair; it’s media day in a couple of hours, so don’t let them see you like this. Sweaty, red-faced, miserable—that’s not what we’re selling.”
I’m still gulping air like I’ve been drowning when Maggie steps closer, voice sharp enough to cut through the ringing in my ears.
“You need to wipe your face now,Maverick! God, you’re dripping everywhere!”
I slam the towel down on the bench, stand up so quickly the water bottle tips over, and glare at her, chest still heaving.
“You think I give a fuck about a haircut right now?” My voice rips through the room, hoarse but loud enough to echo. “I just ran until my lungs were bleeding, and you’re worried about how I look?”
