So much for Clifford’s epic birthday present. That greaseball fucker can’t even kiss her now. At least…not on her lips. Motherfucker!
“We know you’re clean.” Jonah pops up from the bench next to mine, dropping his weights to the mat and wiping a towel over his face. “But your gains are impressive.”
Six days a week in the gym, two-a-days on Saturday, times that by three years…what the fuck did they expect? They dangle UFL dreams in front of me. I’m not the kind of guy to brush that shit off. Hell, I’ve been the UFL’s biggest fan since I was sneaking in my living room to watch the fights from behind my dad’s La-Z-Boy.
“Thanks…?” I move to the heavy bar and drop down beneath it, bracing my hands for the optimal position.
“He’s been holding his own with Rex lately too,” Blake says to Jonah, like I’m not even here.
I blow out three quick breaths then push the bar off the rack.
“No shit. And Cam said Kill’s ready for a fight.”
My arms wobble. A fight?
“Heard Webb is ready.”
I drop the weight to my chest and push it back up, all while eavesdropping pathetically on Jonah and Blake’s conversation.
“Kill would destroy that cocky asshole.”
“Cam said by the end of…”
The rest of his words are mumbled, and I lean to grab even a hint of what he’s saying, which sends the bar careening to the side.
“Oh shit!” Jonah’s closest and jumps up to spot me. “You okay?”
I grunt and accept his assistance in getting the bar back to the rack. “I’m good, just”—I’m breathing heavy, excitement and exertion squeezing my lungs—“fatigued.”
“No fuckin’ way.” The sarcasm in Blake’s voice is more than obvious. He shoves my legs aside, and I sit up on the bench, staring into his overly surprised expression. “Can’t imagine why you’d be fatigued.”
I shake my head and move to grab a swig of water before hitting the treadmill.
“Go home, kid.” Jonah crosses to me with Blake on his heels.
“Fuck that. It’s Friday night. Go have a beer, get laid, then go home.” Blake grins.
“Can’t.” I hop on the closest treadmill. “I wanna fight. I wanna be the best.” I have to be.
Jonah tilts his head, studying me. “Not a doubt in my mind you won’t get that, but that doesn’t mean you can never take a break.”
I turn up the speed on the treadmill to a jog. “I’m good.”
“When Jonah and I were your age, we went out almost every night after training, and it didn’t hurt our game one fuckin’ bit.” Blake leans over my treadmill and pulls the emergency stop.
“Oh, come on—”
“Go!” Blake points to the door. “Boss’s orders.”
“You’re not my boss.” But he knows I’d never argue with him or Jonah or any of the guys here. I owe them everything.
“Alright, how ’bout this…” Jonah checks the time on the wall. “It’s eight o’clock at night, which means Sadie’s been put to sleep. It’s Friday night, and my wife always has a couple glasses of wine in front of the TV on Friday night, so I’d like to go home and take advantage of that.”
Blake raises a hand. “I second that.”
Jonah shoves him. “Fuck you.”
“Not your wife, asshole! Mine.”
“Alright!” I swear if I didn’t break them up they’d continue bickering for hours. “I got it. I’ll call it a night.” I step off the machine and grab my gym bag. My stomach rumbles. Damn, I need to eat.
“And we don’t want to see your face here tomorrow,” Blake says from behind me.
“But—”
He holds up a hand. “No buts. One day off. Eat the shit out of tomorrow, rest, come back refreshed. Understand?”
“Yeah.” I sling my duffle higher on my shoulder.
“Good.” Jonah slaps me on my bicep. “Now go act your age, for fuck’s sake! Go have some fun.”
Right. There’s only one place I can go, but it’ll be far from fun. At least if I show my face at the party, I’ll have evidence I went out, and it’ll get these guys and Ryder off my ass.
Two birds, one stone, and the love of my life in the arms of someone else.
Yay.
*
Axelle
The music at this party is painful. Not in a so-bad-it-hurts-my-inner-music-critic kind of way, but in an actual rubbing-my-temples-and-begging-for-mercy kind of way.
I get it. It’s screamo, which as far as I understand means it’s emotional screaming—as if there’s any other kind—but to me, it’s just a lot of whining and screaming. It’s like, if hell had a sound, it would be screamo.
I try to ignore it and focus on downing my drink so I can tolerate my roommate Mindy as she gives me the play-by-play of her most recent hookup. A football player, or was it baseball? I wasn’t really paying attention, but there were balls involved, mostly in Mindy’s mouth.
“…do I call him, or wait to see if he calls me?” Her eyebrows pop above her light brown eyes.
I squint one eye and lean in. “The music… I can’t…” I point to my ears and strain with what little hearing I have left. “Say again?”