CHAPTER 20
Becker
THE GYM DOOR slams open with the force of my barely contained rage, nearly bouncing back and hitting me in the face. Which, honestly, would be the perfect cap to this shit sundae of a night.
I need to hit something. Preferably not a person, because assault charges would really tank my social media metrics. The heavy bag will have to do.
The gym is dimly lit, most of the overhead fluorescents switched off except for a row over the weight racks where—fuck—Groover is doing bicep curls like the well-adjusted person he is. So much for alone time.
He spots me immediately, eyes widening at whatever murder-adjacent expression I've got plastered on my face. "Whoa. Who pissed in your protein shake?"
I ignore him, bee-lining for the hand wraps hanging by the heavy bags. My fingers are shaking so hard I can barely manage the loops around my wrists.
"Stupid fucking—" I mutter, fumbling with the wrap for the third time.
Groover sets his weights down with a soft clank and crosses to me. "Here," he says, taking the wrap from my trembling hands. "Before you strangle yourself with these."
I let him wrap my hands because it's easier than arguing, and because Groover's probably the only person on the team I'd allow to see me like this—coming apart at the seams like a cheap knockoff jersey.
He works methodically, the steady pressure of the wraps grounding me slightly. When he finishes, he steps back, studying my face with that annoyingly perceptive look he gets.
"Want to talk or just hit things?" he asks.
"Both," I manage through gritted teeth.
"Both it is."
He moves to hold the bag steady while I take position, bouncing on the balls of my feet, trying to shake off the excess energy crackling under my skin.
My first punch lands with a satisfying thud. Then another. And another. I fall into a rhythm—jab, cross, hook, repeat—letting the impact travel up my arms and rattle my shoulders.
Groover doesn't say anything, just braces against the bag, absorbing the force of my fury. He's good like that—knows when to push and when to just let me self-destruct in peace.
I'm not even seeing the bag anymore. All I can see is Kane's face—that blank, shut-down expression when he'd walked back into the cabin. The way he'd looked straight through me. The obvious, infuriating lie: "Fine."
Everything is not fucking fine. Nothing has been fine since his asshole showed up and whisked Kane away like he was reclaiming property.
"He's pushing me away," I finally blurt out between punches, "and won't tell me why."
My next punch lands harder, making Groover grunt as he steadies the bag.
"Kane?" he asks, like there's any other he currently driving me to the brink of insanity.
"He's lying to me."
Punch.
"And I don't."
Punch.
"Fucking."
Punch.
"Know."
Punch.
"Why."
The last hit sends a shock wave up my arm that makes my teeth rattle. Groover takes a half-step back, eyebrows raised.
"Jesus, Becker. Save some bag for the rest of us."
I step back, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. My knuckles throb beneath the wraps, the pain sharp and clarifying. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be specific. What happened?"
I drop into a half-hearted fighting stance again, throwing lighter jabs now. "They talked. Him and his old man. Kane came back looking like someone died. And now he can't even look me in the eye."
"And you called him on it."
"Of course I called him on it! What was I supposed to do, pretend I didn't notice he's falling apart?"
Groover sighs. "Come on, Becker. Give him some space."
I stop mid-punch. "Why? So he can…what? Spiral further down whatever hole his dad dug for him?"
"Because whatever happened out there clearly wasn't pretty, and you can be intense as fuck."
"Intense?" I sputter. "I'm not intense, I'm concerned! There's a difference!"
Groover sends me a look. "You're about two seconds away from hyperventilating in a gym at 11 PM while assaulting equipment. That's the dictionary definition of 'intense.'"
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Fuck.
The fight drains out of me like someone pulled a plug. I slump forward, hugging the heavy bag to support myself, breathing in the synthetic leather smell mixed with sweat.
Groover's right. He's always right about this emotional intelligence shit, the bastard.
And I hate it. I hate that my first instinct was to push when Kane was already at the breaking point.
I hate that I stormed out instead of giving him time to process whatever nuclear-grade bullshit his dad dumped on him.
I hate that I'm standing in a gym at nearly midnight, sweaty and pathetic, while Kane's alone in our cabin probably thinking I'm never coming back.
"I fucked up, didn't I?" I mumble into the bag.
Groover's hand lands on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Not necessarily. You cared enough to get mad. That's not nothing."
"Yeah, but I also cared enough to bail when he probably needed me to stay."
"So go back. Just... dial it down from eleven to maybe a six, would you?"
I let out a breathy laugh. "When have I ever been capable of a six?"
"Fair point. Aim for a seven, then."
I straighten up, rolling my shoulders back. My hands still ache beneath the wraps, but the white-hot rage has cooled to something more manageable. Something that might actually allow me to have a conversation instead of another meltdown.
"Thanks," I say, starting to unwrap my hands. "For helping me hit things."
"That's what friends are for." Groover pauses. "That, and telling you when you're being a dumbass."
"Am I being a dumbass?"
"Always. But in this specific case..." He shrugs. "You can't sledgehammer your way through walls. You need to knock of the door."
I toss the wraps into the bin. "So what, I just wait for him to decide I'm worth letting in?"
"No. You show up. You're patient. You give him room to breathe." Groover heads back to his weights. "And maybe, just maybe, you accept that not everything is about you and your need to fix it immediately."
Ouch. Direct hit to the ego.
I flip him off. "When did you get so wise, oh ancient one?"
"Mateo," he says simply, smiling. "That man has the patience of a saint and the emotional intelligence of a therapist. It's rubbing off."
I grab a towel, wiping sweat from my face. "Well, it's annoying as fuck."
"You're welcome."
I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. "Hey, Grooves?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you were here."
He smiles. "Go fix your shit, Becker."