37. Raw Edges
37
RAW EDGES
The next morning, Ronan stared at his reflection in the bedroom window, hardly recognizing the man looking back at him. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, testament to another night of broken sleep. The nightmares had been worse than usual—Maya on that ledge, but this time she fell. Maya in that alley where her partner died, but this time he couldn’t reach her in time. Maya bleeding out while he watched, helpless, useless ...
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Even awake, he couldn’t escape her. Everything circled back to those moments of connection, that easy synchronization, the way she fit into his life like she’d always been there. And that was exactly the problem.
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t watch her walk into danger day after day, knowing each mission could be her last. Her partner’s execution had only confirmed what he already knew—law enforcement, intelligence work, it was all a game of Russian roulette. Eventually, the chamber wouldn’t be empty.
A knock at his door interrupted his brooding. “Go away.”
Axel pushed in anyway, bearing coffee and what smelled like Victoria’s cinnamon rolls. “Thought you might need breakfast.”
“What I need is to be left alone.”
“Yeah, because that’s working out so well for you.” Axel set the offerings down with exaggerated care. “You look like hell, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Ronan’s tone could have frozen lava. “Anything else?”
“Just trying to help, man.”
“I don’t need?—”
Another knock cut him off. Christian this time, already dressed for working out. “Gym. Ten minutes.”
“Pass. Got a headache.”
Christian’s expression hardened into what Ronan privately thought of as his commander face. “That wasn’t a request, little brother. Team’s waiting. And check the attitude, dude.” He paused in the doorway, eyes glinting. “Make that five minutes, or I’m coming back to drag you down by that pretty hair of yours.”
Axel snorted into his coffee. “You heard him, dude. I’m gonna guess he’s not kidding.”
Ronan didn’t care. “Get out. Both of you.”
Christian just smiled. “Four minutes now.”
Axel followed his bio bro out. The door closed behind them with quiet finality. He gripped the windowsill, a wave of dizziness making the room tilt slightly. The pain meds were wearing off, but he couldn’t take more on an empty stomach.
He slumped back onto the bed. Maya loved her work—it was obvious in every move she made, every insight she offered. He couldn’t ask her to give that up. Wouldn’t want her to be anything less than what she was. But he couldn’t be the one waiting, wondering, watching the clock until she came home.
If she came home.
Better to end it now. Better to be the jerk who pushed her away than the man who held her back. Or worse, the man who had to bury her.
His phone buzzed—a text from Christian: Three minutes.
Ronan growled and pushed himself up. Fine. He’d go work out. Maybe physical exhaustion would quiet the voice in his head that kept whispering he was making the biggest mistake of his life.
He threw on some borrowed workout clothes and skulked downstairs to the gym like a man heading to his execution. If this was some kind of intervention, with Maya waiting ... but the scene that greeted him stopped him cold.
Eight teenagers occupied various stations around the gym, most of them built like brick walls, one wiry girl outlifting several of the boys. Hockey players, he realized, recognizing the Tahoe Grizzlies logo on their workout gear.
“Team,” Christian’s voice carried across the gym with practiced authority. “Special treat today. This is Commander Quinn, former Navy SEAL.” There was unmistakable pride in his voice that made Ronan’s head snap around. “He’s going to show you what a real workout looks like. Or at least as much as he can with that gimpy arm of his.”
The teenagers straightened immediately, athletic competitiveness sparking in their eyes. Ronan was still processing Christian’s introduction when his brother clapped him on the shoulder. “Show them what you’ve got, Commander.”
Oh it was on. He might not be able to participate much with a bum arm, but he could run them through the workout of their lives. He demonstrated what he could one-handed, his injured arm held carefully against his body. Even that small movement sent a warning pulse of pain through his body.
An hour later, even the cockiest player was dripping sweat, but their grins were infectious. Sophie, the wiry girl, had particularly impressive form on her burpees. Ronan found himself fully engaged, demonstrating techniques, getting pulled into their casual banter.
“Dude,” one of the boys nudged another, “they do the same thing!”
“What thing?” Sophie asked, between sets.
“That weird neck crack before they demonstrate something. Look—Coach Murphy just did it, and Commander Quinn did it like three times during warm-up.”
Both brothers froze, then turned to look at each other. Ronan hadn’t even noticed the habit, but now that it was pointed out ...
Christian laughed, surprising Ronan again. “Well, might as well tell you—Commander Quinn here is actually my baby brother.”
“Baby brother?” Sophie’s eyes went wide. “No way!”
“Way,” Christian grinned. “Though he hates when I call him that.”
The easy way Christian owned their relationship, the obvious pride in his voice—threw Ronan off balance.
He leaned against the wall, trying to make it look casual rather than necessary. The room had taken on a subtle spinning quality that he didn’t like at all. He should probably consult Kenji.
As they wrapped up, Sophie approached him. “Thanks, Commander Quinn. Think you could show me that modified pull-up sequence again next time? I mean, once your arm heals and everything.”
Next time. The words hit him unexpectedly hard. “I, uh ...”
“He’ll be here Thursday,” Christian answered for him. “Can’t let my little brother show me up with just one session, right?”
The last teenager waved goodbye, leaving the brothers alone in the suddenly quiet gym. Christian started racking weights, his movements automatic.
The room seemed to swim slightly. He’d been so focused on the kids, he hadn’t noticed how the dull throb in his arm had escalated to a steady burn. Maybe he should have eaten those cinnamon rolls after all.
“Sophie’s mom works three jobs,” Christian said casually. “Dad’s not in the picture. Kid taught herself to skate on borrowed gear at public sessions. Now she’s looking at D1 scholarships.”
Using his good arm, Ronan helped rerack a set of dumbbells. “Yeah?”
“Blue? Living with his grandma after both parents got locked up. Jamal’s family lost everything in the Paradise fire, moved here for a fresh start. Every one of these kids has a story.” Christian paused, something fierce in his expression. “But they show up. Every practice, every workout. Keep their grades up, stay clean. That’s all I ask. Foundation covers the rest—gear, ice time, tournament fees.”
“You’re changing lives,” Ronan said quietly, meaning it.
Christian shrugged, but Ronan caught the pleased look that crossed his face. “You should think about coaching. You’re good with them.”
Ronan barked out a laugh. “Right. The Hollywood kid who’s never been on skates. That’ll work great.”
“You could learn?—”
“Like you did? Growing up in Colorado with skiing trips and hunting weekends and perfect nuclear family ice skating sessions?” The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. “Besides, I’ll be gone as soon as this mess is cleared up.”
Christian stopped moving, turned to face him fully. “Gone where?”
“Somewhere.” Ronan kept his eyes on the weight rack. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Right. Because running away is definitely the answer.” Christian’s voice held an edge. “You know what these kids have taught me? Sometimes the hardest thing isn’t surviving the bad stuff. It’s learning to accept the good stuff when it comes along.”
“Deep thoughts from Coach Murphy?” Ronan tried for sarcasm, but it fell flat.
“Just something to think about, little brother.” Christian grabbed his water bottle, but before he could say more, the gym door opened.
Maya stood in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, early morning light casting her silhouette. For a moment, no one moved. The air hardened with unspoken words.
Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second before sliding away.
He managed a curt nod, focusing intently on rewrapping a loose jump rope, his movements precise. Professional. Distant.
She crossed to the far side of the gym, her steps measured, spine straight enough to make a drill sergeant proud. The soft thud of her bag hitting the floor echoed in the loaded silence.
Christian let out a low whistle. “You know, I wondered if you inherited your mom’s emotional intelligence or Dad’s complete lack of the same.” He shouldered his bag. “Question answered.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey, just observing.” Christian paused at the door. “Though I gotta say, for a tactical genius, you’re being impressively stupid right now.”
The door closed behind him, leaving Ronan alone with the neatly racked weights, the perfectly coiled jump rope, and the growing certainty that he was systematically destroying every good thing in his life.
Nothing new there.