I push inside anyway.
Noise wraps around me—music, weight stacks slamming, shoes squeaking, guys yelling reps and trash talk and jokes that used to feel like the oxygen I loved to breathe.
A few heads turn.
Some do a double take.
Then recognition hits, and it rolls through the room in a wave.
“Brooks!”
“Yo—Logan!”
“Back from the dead?” someone calls.
“Unfortunately,” I call back automatically, and it earns a few laughs.
It should feel good. It should feel normal.
Instead, it feels like standing in front of a mirror that shows you who you were and who you are now at the same time.
Beck’s voice cuts through the noise from across the room. “Look who decided to show his pretty face.”
He’s posted near a squat rack like he lives there, hoodie on, sleeves pushed up, looking like the definition of healthy and whole. He crosses toward me with that easy grin that usually pisses me off—in a comforting way.
Then his eyes flick down to my leg.
The grin dulls just a fraction.
He claps my shoulder anyway, carefully. “About damn time.”
“Miss me?” I ask.
Beck snorts. “I missed having someone to listen to. No one runs their mouth quite like you do.”
I huff a laugh, but it comes out thin.
Beck studies me for a beat. “How’s it feel?”
I glance around, swallowing hard. “Like I’m trespassing.”
Beck’s brows lift. “You’re literally on scholarship.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Still feels like I’m…behind glass.”
Beck nods once like he understands more than I want him to. “Nah. You’re just not used to being the guy who has to fight to come back.”
The truth lands clean.
I don’t respond because my throat is tight, and I don’t trust my voice not to betray me.
Beck jerks his chin toward the office. “Coach is in there. Go.”
My stomach tightens. “You coming?”
Beck smirks. “Nope. This is your emotional moment. I’ll wait out here and pretend I don’t care.”
I flip him off, then limp toward the office door.
