A presence hovers over me, and I stop to see Hush standing tall only a couple feet away looking at me with narrowed eyes.
“Have you been icing them?” The quiet huskiness of his voice vibrates through my body, and I follow his gaze down to my hands. The bruises are large enough so even with tape, they’re visible.
I haven’t been, which I know is stupid, but my focus is to get stronger, not weaker and with my shifts at the diner and my persistence with coming here every day, I guess I haven’t really had the time. “No,” I flatly answer.
Hush takes a small step forward. “You should be icing your hands in between and elevating them. Maybe try soaking them in Epsom salts, too. You can’t expect to keep going at this rate if you don’t give your body time to heal.” His words are stern and somewhat aggressive. Which I find odd because Hush was never in any way aggressive. Not with me. Or with anyone for that matter. That I’ve seen. Even defending me, he’s always calm, cool, and collective.
He sighs and any part of his tense body language fleets. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
Not hard enough.
“I’ll be fine.” I turn my body back toward the dummy and continue throwing punches, wincing at every blow that lands.
Dammit.
I just know he notices that.
I pause, and before he can walk away, I say, “Attackers don’t care if you’re sore. Or if your knuckles are bruised.” My eyes meet his darkened ones, surprising me with the intensity. But then something changes, and they lighten, soften with empathy.
“Resting doesn’t make you weak.”
Maybe he’s right, but how do I tell him that I enjoy the push? Enjoy the soreness it brings afterward. Or how I crave it because it makes mefeelsomething.
After more than an hour, Hush is gone, leaving me to myself. But when my body refuses to let me workout any longer, I leave too, entering the outside with the welcoming of winter air. The coldness soothes my aching hands.
The tiredness takes over considering I barely slept last night. Some nights are worse than others. Which is why I end up here. To let out steam.
I make my way up the short hill to the clubhouse.
“Hey, mommy. It’s the pretty girl from the diner.” A child’s voice I recognize sounds in the short distance, and she sends me an excited wave. I don’t think I’ve seen Chloe since the diner and a warm smile instantly spreads across my face.
Jules carries a dress in one hand while trying to tug a relentless six-year-old with the other. I quickly make my way over to her, offering to take the dress for her. It’s gorgeous with soft material feeling like pajamas.
“Thanks.” Jules lets out a tired sigh but manages to throw a genuine smile at me. “I thought my arm was going to fall off.”
With the dress draped over my forearm I look down at Chloe. “What’s up, cutie? I like your coat.”
It’s pink with faux fur lining the inside.
“Thanks! Are you coming inside for waffle day?”
Jules looks away from her energetic child to me. “Maggie is making her famous blueberry waffles this morning. You should come.”
“Yes! Please. Pretty please. You can sit next to me.” Chloe sprints the two steps to me and grabs my hand. “Please!”
I think about how sweaty and gross I am, really hoping I don’t smell, but how do I say no to a begging six-year-old who looks that adorable. Her big blue eyes peer up at me. The same color as her daddy’s.
“I would but I just got done at the gym and—”
“Say no more. Charger’s old room is vacant upstairs. You can borrow the shower.”
“Mommy lets go so I can save Danika a seat!”
“Okay. Okay.” Jules rolls her eyes in playfulness leading the way inside the clubhouse.
I follow beside her, still carrying her dress. “Mind me asking what the occasion is? This dress is… hot.”
The black material and sexy drop at the chest will hug her full girlies in the most perfect way, and it appears to flare at the waist giving room for her baby bump.
