By the time I get there, he’s already deep into his circuit, sweat turning his shirt see-through, arms shaking on the last set of overhead press.
I watch him from the entryway, the way his shoulders bunch and the veins stand out on his forearms.
He looks so alive, so much more than he ever did at practice or in the locker room. I stand there too long, staring.
I walk over. He sees me, grins, and it’s the secret kind, the one that’s just for me.
“You stalking me?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sue me.”
He laughs, but just as I’m about to make a joke about his form, someone behind me claps me on the shoulder. It’s O’Doul.
“Webb!” he says, voice way too loud for the gym. “Didn’t peg you for a weekend warrior.”
I stiffen, a kneejerk reaction. Ash freezes too, for a split second, then goes back to reracking his weights, pretending nothing is off.
O’Doul’s talking at me, but my brain is running a thousand calculations, how close did he see us standing, was my face flushed, did I look at Ash the way I wanted to, is this the day everything blows up?
Ash saves me. “Hey, O’Doul, you coming to poker night?”
O’Doul grins, already distracted, and launches into a story about how he’s going to bankrupt the whole team, how last time Ash ended up owing him three Red Bulls and a ride to SeaTac.
Ash plays along, and I do my best to laugh at the right spots, but my heart’s still slamming, my hands a little shaky on the dumbbells.
O’Doul leaves, eventually, and the air in the gym clears. Ash glances at me, a flicker of worry in his eyes.
“You good?” he says, same as under the bridge.
I nod, but I’m not. Not really.
“Maybe we should—” I start, but he cuts me off, quiet.
“I don’t care, Darius. Not about him, not about any of them.” He’s not smiling this time. “You’re the only one I give a shit about.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong. I want to say, “The team matters,” or “This is bigger than us,” but I can’t. Not when he looks at me like that.
“Okay,” I say. “Me too.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, just for a second, just long enough for me to feel the electricity.
Then we go back to the lifts, pretending we’re just two guys trying to out-bench each other, and not the center of a secret that could break the city in half.
———
I start sleeping again.
Not a lot, but enough that I don’t wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, mouth dry, replaying the shooting in a loop of violence and panic and aftermath.
Dr. Sharma notices right away.
“Your blood pressure is down,” she says, eyes bright over the rim of her glasses. “You’re answering questions before I ask them.”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m getting better at this.”
She smiles, but it’s the kind that says she knows I’m hiding something. “Or maybe you’ve found something worth staying for.”
She doesn’t push. She never does. Instead she asks about the team, about practice, about my mom, about the shooting. When I mention Ash, I almost catch myself, but I just say, “He’s good. He’s getting better, I think.”
