CHAPTER TEN
Tristan
I’m at the athletic complex before the sun.
5:03 a.m.
The sky outside is still that flat gray-blue that feels unfinished. The building hums quietly—HVAC, distant ice machine, nothing human yet.
Good.
I need empty.
The weight room lights snap on overhead.
Cold.
Sterile.
I load the bar heavier than programmed.
No music. No headphones.
Just metal sliding against metal.
The first set is clean.
The second grinds.
By the third, my shoulders are trembling but I don’t rack it. I force it up anyway, teeth clenched, vision narrowing.
Clank.
The bar slams into place hard enough to rattle the rack.
The sound echoes.
Doesn’t fix anything.
I move to deadlifts.
Then sled pushes.
Then medicine balls against the wall until my lungs feel scraped raw and my palms sting.
None of it drowns out the image of Stella’s face last night.
The way her smile disappeared when the whispers got loud.
The way she shrank.
I grab a ball and throw it harder.
It rebounds off the wall. I catch it and fire it again.
Harder.
By the time I strip the plates, my shirt’s soaked through and my pulse is still elevated.
