“The more you talk, the more I realize I should use you as my human punching bag. Put yourself in my shoes, Grayson. How would you feel if your reputation was crumbling before your eyes?”
“You’re being dramatic. The stuff they’re saying about you isn’t all that bad. It’s lessened significantly.”
I deadpan—we’re clearly living in different worlds.
“Seriously, I haven’t heard anything major recently,” he reassures, crouching to search through his bag. He settles on a black device that I recognize as his pager. Poor thing has forced him out of bed countless times.
“Is it because you’ve been living under the hospital roof for three days in a row or because they’ve truly stopped talking?” I say, ripping off a boxing glove and aiming straight for his crotch.
Unfortunately, he catches it.
“You willing to bet?” He walks to the other end of the modern gym to grab the TV remote.
With the click of a button, the black screen turns on. Grayson flips through a dozen channels, deliberately skipping those with blown-up pictures of my face, before settling on a suited man delivering the weather forecast.
“See, absolutely no one is talking about you.” I raise a brow at him as he takes a bow. “You areverywelcome. You can now sleep soundly at night. Maybe even remove the stick up your ass. If it’s still there in a week, don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to my buddies at the hospital and squeeze you in for a rectal foreign object removal. Free of charge.”
I let out a loud and genuine laugh, forgetting about the problems that plague my mind.
Even with the decades we’ve been friends, Grayson’s sense of humor never gets old. He somehow always finds a way to make any situation better, and for that, I’m grateful.
That lighthearted feeling doesn’t last long, though, when the forecast reverts to its original broadcast. The one thing that immediately stands out? A picture of me on stage at the event where everything went to shit.
My smile falls as quickly as the TV turns black.
“Turn it back on.” I glance over at Grayson, who’s caught red-handed as he hides the remote behind his back.
“Would you look at that! I guess the power went out. Isn’t that so, so weird?”
“Turn. It. Back. On,” I grit out through my teeth.
“Not possible when the power is out. You should know that. You’re an engineer, after all,” he states like it’s obvious.
The only issue is that the lights across the gym were very much still on. So, unless someone specifically tampered with the ones hooked to the television, his lie wasn’t going to pass.
I take a step toward Grayson, determined to hear what new shit they’re saying about me, when he bolts across the training hub.
I’m on the move before I can think.
“Give me the damn remote,” I snarl when I find myself in the changing room, circling the long wooden bench that separates us.
We’re lucky that our good friend Griffin, owner of The Forge—one of the hottest gyms in the city—let us rent out the space in light of my newfound circumstances. I more than appreciate the privacy, and now, the lack of complaintsandheadlines that we’d get over our stupidly childish behavior.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Grayson replies.
“I need to know what they’re saying.”
“They’ve been teaching us to prioritize mental health at the hospital. One key point they emphasize is recognizing when to step away from social media. So far, you’re failing miserably. Do you want to be considered a disappointment?” he taunts, eyes gleaming with rebellion as he bounces on his feet.
I roll my eyes at his efforts to provoke me, circling my way closer to him.
This time, I’m pleasantly surprised when he stays rooted in place. I’m inches away from grabbing the remote out of his hand when he leaps onto the bench.
I stare up at him in a daze—my look of surprise reflected on his face.
“Never let them know your next move.” Grayson winks before he runs across the bench, drops to the ground, and disappears behind a row of lockers.
A low grumble escapes my throat as I follow him.
