Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
LUKAS
The weight room is already in full swing when I get there.
Music thumps low through a battered speaker in the corner, barely cutting through the clatter of plates and the squeak of trainers on rubber flooring. Someone’s already dropped a bar too hard, and Coach hasn’t even walked in yet.
I toss my bag down by the wall and roll my neck once, loosening up as I scan the room.
Brennan is on the bench press, steady and controlled, with his spotter quietly counting. Ryan is at the squat rack, in the middle of an argument with Isaac about something that seems to have been going on longer than I’ve been in the building.
“I’m telling you that depth doesn’t count,” Isaac says, arms folded.
Ryan drops into another squat anyway. “It absolutely counts.”
“It does not. Your thighs weren’t parallel.”
“They were close enough.”
“That’s not how it works.”
I step in beside them, glancing at the bar. “He is right,” I say, nodding toward Isaac. “That was not full depth.”
Ryan exhales hard as he racks the bar. “Oh, come on.”
“You are cheating,” I add helpfully.
“I’m not cheating,” he says, grabbing a towel. “I’m conserving energy.”
Isaac snorts. “For what? Lifting less weight?”
Callum appears out of nowhere and claps Ryan on the back. “He’s pacing himself. It’s a long season.”
Ryan points at him. “Thank you.”
Callum looks at me. “You, on the other hand, look as if you’re about to do something stupid.”
“I am about to train,” I reply.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I ignore him and grab a resistance band, stepping back to stretch my shoulders. The pull settles me quickly, muscles waking, the familiar tension easing into something sharper.
“Alright,” Isaac says, clapping his hands once. “Let’s actually work, yeah? Not just talk about working out.”
“Speak for yourself,” Callum mutters. “Talking is half my routine.”
“Explains a lot,” Ryan says.
I move to the squat rack, duck under the bar, and settle it across my shoulders. The weight feels solid, familiar, exactly where it should be.
Callum leans against the frame beside me. “What are we doing today?”
“Legs,” I say.
He grimaces. “Hate that.”
“That’s because you’re weak.”
“I am not weak.”
“You complain before you even start,” I point out.
“That’s mental preparation.”
I drop into the first squat, slow and controlled. The room fades a little around the edges as I focus on form. Down. Hold. Drive up.
“Depth,” Isaac calls from across the room.
“I know what depth is,” I reply.
Ryan steps up beside me, loading more plates onto his own bar. “What are we saying then? Who’s hitting PBs today?”
“Not you,” Isaac says immediately.
Ryan glares at him. “Why is everyone against me?”
“Because you lie about your numbers,” Callum says.
“I do not lie.”
“You absolutely lie.”
I rack the bar after the set and step back, rolling my shoulders again. The burn settles in quickly, spreading through my legs in a way that feels earned.
“Two plates,” Ryan says, nodding toward my bar. “That it?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You want to go heavier?”
“Always.”
“Then load it.” Challenge accepted. I don’t duck out for anyone.
Isaac grins like he’s been waiting for that. “Gladly.”
Callum watches him add weight with growing concern. “If he snaps in half, I’m not helping.” The room erupts into childish laughter as Isaac scowls.
“You would not be able to help anyway,” I say.
“That’s just rude,” Callum smirks as he checks the weights on my bar.
I step back under the bar and lift again, the extra weight dragging slightly more, forcing everything tighter, more deliberate.
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “That’s better.”
“Try and keep up,” I reply.
He laughs as he answers, “In your dreams.”
We move through sets, pushing and mocking, counting each other’s reps as though it matters more than it should. Brennan finishes on the bench and moves over without a word, swapping in like a machine.
“You’re up,” he says to Callum.
Callum sighs dramatically. “I just sat down.” Brennan throws him a questioning look, and Callum pushes to stand. “Yes, captain.”
Brennan glances at my bar, then at me. “Good weight.”
I nod once. “Feels right.”
“That’s because you’re doing it properly,” Isaac says. “Unlike some people.”
Ryan flips him off, and we rotate through the stations after that. No one stays still for long. By the time I reach the deadlift platform, my shirt’s already sticking to my back. I roll the bar forward with my foot, then bend to grip it.
“Don’t rush it,” Brennan says as he steps past.
“I never rush,” I reply. He hums like he doesn’t quite believe me, and I lift anyway.
The pull is clean. Heavy enough to demand everything, but not enough to slow me down. Up. Down. Reset. Again.
“Better than yesterday,” Ryan says from somewhere behind me.
“I am always better than yesterday.”
“That’s the attitude,” Callum says. “Completely unbearable.”
“Jealousy is not attractive,” Callum and I have become firm training partners during my time with the Panthers. We don’t take ourselves too seriously, but the competition between us is always there beneath the surface.
“Neither is your ego.”
“Yet, here we are.”
Isaac laughs as he walks past with a stack of plates. “You two should just fight it out.”
“I would win,” I say with a wink in my teammate’s direction.
Callum snorts. “You would not. You’d cry and give up.”
“I have never cried in my life.” I’m indignant at the accusation. “Name one time.”
“You look like someone who cried when they lost a game as a kid.”
“I did not lose. Ever.”
That gets a round of laughter, and I rack the bar and step back, grabbing my water bottle. The room feels hotter now, heavier with effort, the kind of energy that builds when everyone’s pushing at once.
“Alright,” Ryan says, wiping his face. “Conditioning next?”
“Don’t say that word,” Callum mutters.
“Why?” Isaac asks. “You scared?”
Coach finally appears in the doorway, arms folded, and we all straighten a little. “You finished chatting?” he asks as his eyes scan each and every one of us.
“Almost,” Brennan says.
“Good. Because you’ve got sled pushes in five.”
Callum drops his head back. “I hate this place.”
“You love it,” Ryan says.
“I absolutely do not.”
I shake my head, laughing at the two of them, then grab my phone from my bag while we’ve got a minute. The screen lights up, blank and quiet.
For a second, I just stand there. Then I move to the side, out of the way of the chaos that’s building again, and open the browser.
I type in the name of the school Kate works at; the web address appears at the top of the search list. With a quick glance around the room, I check nobody is taking any notice of what I’m doing, and I click on the link.
It takes less time than it should to load, and I tap the link listing the staff members and their roles. I scroll through the list, and then I see her.
Kate Matthews.
I pause and take a second to study the screen. There’s a small photo of her. She’s wearing the same expression as when we did the outreach visit, and the kid had thrown the chair across the room. Calm.
Underneath her photo, there’s an email address. The listing is simple and professional. Exactly the kind of thing I can use.
Callum jogs past me, dragging a sled behind him. “You hiding over there?”
“I am resting,” I reply without looking up.
“Skiving.”
He narrows his eyes but keeps moving, leaving me to my stalking. I tap the screen and open a new email. The noise around me fades just enough to focus, and I don’t overthink it. I don’t rewrite it ten times.
I just type.
Subject: Friday Night
Bonjour Kate,
I hope this is not too strange. I promise I did not spend hours searching the internet like a creep (only a few minutes).
We have a home game this Friday night. I thought of you when I realised, mostly because you “notice patterns”, and I am now curious what you would see the second time.
If you and Hudson would like to come, I can arrange tickets. Good ones. No nosebleeds in the cheap seats.
No pressure. Just an invitation.
I promise not to be too distracting on the ice.
Lukas
P.S. I will try to score again, but I cannot guarantee perfection.
I read it once, it’s good enough. Not too over-the-top, casual and easy tone. Nothing out of the ordinary. I hit send.
“Lukas!” Brennan calls. “You’re up.”
I slide my phone back into my pocket and jog over, grabbing the sled handles.
“About time,” Ryan says, already breathing hard.
“You are slow,” I tell him.
Callum leans against the wall, hands on his knees. “If he beats me on this, I’m retiring.”
“You should retire anyway,” Isaac says.
I dig my boots into the floor and drive forward, pushing hard. The sled resists immediately, weight dragging, legs burning as I force it across the floor.
“Go!” Ryan shouts. “Faster!”
“You come do it!” I shout over my shoulder in his direction.
“Not a chance!”
The room erupts again. There’s shouting, laughing, and someone swearing as their sled veers off line. I push through the burn, through the resistance, until the line hits and I finally let go, stepping back, my chest heaving.
“Not bad,” Brennan says with an approving nod.
“Better than Callum,” I reply.
“Everyone is better than Callum,” Isaac says.
“Shut up,” Callum mutters as he wraps a towel around his neck.
I grab my water again, tipping it back, letting it cool the heat in my throat. The session rolls on, relentless and loud and exactly what it should be. But underneath it all, there’s something else now.
A message sent.
A line drawn.
And Friday sitting just ahead, waiting to see what happens next.