Provoked.
That’s what they’re calling it now. Not ‘unhinged.’ Not ‘psycho.’
I shrug one shoulder, rolling the tension out. “I’m fine.”
The lie fits so well it may as well be scripted.
Dante watches me for a beat like he wants to push. Then he lets it go and reaches for the bar again. “Good. Because if you ever let the backup start a playoff game over something Rylan said, I’m bruising your other hand myself.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at my mouth. “Understood.”
The guys drift back to their racks. Conversation drops back into reps and numbers. The lines have been drawn; everyone knows who’s on which side.
Rylan wanders over, swaggering on a weak foundation. “Yo, captain,” he says to Adrian, too loud to be casual. “Great win last night, right? We’re good?”
Adrian’s jaw ticks. “We’re at the gym, Rylan. Focus on your set.”
Rylan laughs like that was a joke, but his eyes are tight. He looks at me, testing, daring. “Right, Reid? We’re good?”
I stare at him, expression blank. “Rack your weights.”
He opens his mouth again. Gio slams his bar into the rack, metal ringing, and looks over with a stare that could cut through plexi. “He said rack them.”
For once, Rylan listens.
He slinks back to his station. The air leaks out of him like someone punctured the bravado with a pin.
I put my Beats on. Blessed silence drops over the room, the music swallowed.
I load the bar heavier than I need. Get under it.
The weight settles across my shoulders like something I deserve.
I lift.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
Each rep is clean pain, the kind I choose. It’s not my father’s cold disgust or Beatrice’s sticky laugh. It’s not the look on Talia’s face when she realized what I’d done in the locker room—
And it’s not the memory of Wednesday. I remember the lecture hall. She let me anchor her when the noise spiked. The ghost of her forearm was under my hand, warm and trembling, then steadying.
The smell of peppermint cutting through the classroom air.
Up. Down.
This is simple. You either get the bar up or you don’t.
Spots of light creep at the edge of my vision. My lungs burn. Sweat runs into my eyes, stinging. One more rep. One more. One more.
When I rack it, my arms are shaking and my legs feel like they’re filled with wet cement.
Good.
I strip the plates, metal clanking dull and distant through the noise I’ve blocked out. Toss my towel into the hamper, grab my bag, and walk out.
The moment the gym door shuts behind me, the chilled air of the concourse cuts through the humidity like a blade. I breathe easier.
I should go back to my apartment. I don’t.
