Chapter 32
DEEP WATER (LEO)
The door shuts behind them with a final thud.
One second she’s there at the edge of the room with shopping bags at her feet and that look on her face like she wants to be disgusted by all of this and is failing.
The next, she’s gone.
The air snaps back into what it was before. Work.
Ray steps into my line of sight before I can look toward the door again.
“Done sightseeing?”
I drag my shirt back down from my face. “Yes.”
His eyes stay on mine long enough to make the point. “Good. Because you looked ready to follow her out.”
Lukas snorts somewhere to my left, already stripping off his headgear.
I don’t look at him.
Ray jerks his chin toward center ring. “Mitts. Then six on the bag. Then finishers.”
My shoulders are already loaded from the rounds. My ribs throb in that dull way that means nothing is wrong and nothing feels good. Sweat runs off my jaw. The wraps under my gloves are damp. My mouth tastes like salt and rubber.
Morning roadwork is still in my calves. The lift is sitting in my hips and lower back. This second slot is where camp stops feeling noble and starts feeling like erosion.
Good.
That’s the point.
You run before daylight. You lift. You eat because the job says eat. Then you come back and let the machine shave more off you—timing, hesitation, vanity, anything soft enough to cost you later.
By the end of the week, even your thoughts feel scheduled.
Better that way.
Thoughts are where men get stupid.
I step forward, and Ray raises the mitts.
“Again.”
I fire the jab. Cross. Left hook to the body. Right hand upstairs. He catches everything and gives nothing back except the next command.
“Faster.”
I go again.
This is the part I chose. Not the lights. Not the money. This. The part where fatigue strips everything false out of you.
Ray feeds the right mitt late on purpose. I adjust and land clean.
“Again.”
He slams the left mitt into my glove hard enough to mimic impact, then drives the right into my guard.
“Hold shape.”
I do.
The rounds stack. Two minutes. Thirty off. Then again. The room narrows down to leather, breath, and the old, flat cadence of Ray’s voice.
“Don’t admire it.”
“Turn over the hook.”
“Left hand home.”
“Move your feet.”
“Again.”
By round four, my triceps are burning hard enough that the right starts to feel expensive. My forearms are swollen. My hands are hot. Every deep breath finds the shot Lukas dug into my ribs.
Ray drops the mitts long enough for me to drink. I take two pulls from the bottle before he speaks.
“She look nervous?”
I lower the bottle. “Who?”
He gives me a look.
I spit into the bucket. “A little.”
He takes that in, like it confirms something. “And you?”
I set the bottle down. “What about me?”
“You looked worse.”
Lukas laughs from the ropes, toweling off. “Careful, Coach. He’s in love. Could be concussed.”
I turn my head slowly enough to make it clear I’m choosing not to answer that.
Ray doesn’t smile. “Good,” he says, like Lukas never spoke. “Use it.”
Then he lifts the mitts again. I hit them harder than necessary.
The bag rounds are worse. Not technically. Physically.
The bag gives you nothing back except resistance. No reads. No openings. No mistakes to punish. Just six rounds asking whether you still have discipline when there’s no one to out-think.
By the third, my shoulders feel packed with wet sand. By the fifth, there’s nothing left except structure.
Hands up. Feet under me. Rotate. Recover. Again.
“Last thirty,” Ray calls.
I plant and throw until my arms blur and the bag turns meaner.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Body. Reset.
Again.
By the bell, my legs feel heavy and delayed, full of lactic acid and bad intentions. I step back and suck air through my teeth.
Lukas sits on an overturned bucket, wraps loose, watching me with the easy relief of a man already done.
“You always get prettier when you suffer,” he says.
I bend, brace my hands on my thighs, and breathe. “Shut up.”
Ray points toward the turf. “Finishers.”
The turf is where whatever’s left gets exposed.
Sled pushes. Battle ropes. The kind of work that strips the rest of the lies out.
I get harnessed in and drive. First push, legs complain. Second push, lungs start scraping. Third push, the room loses detail until there’s nothing left except the strip of turf in front of me and Ray’s voice behind my shoulder.
“Keep moving.”
I lean harder into the straps. No room left now for vanity, distraction, or Liz by the ropes with her hair down, looking half horrified and half wrecked watching me work.
I had no business liking that as much as I did.
I push the sled to the line and turn.
Ray hands me the battle ropes. “Thirty.”
They snap in my fists, heavy and unforgiving. Shoulder burn turns white-hot. Sweat stings my eyes. I keep moving.
“Time.”
The ropes hit the floor. I just stand there breathing.
Then I think of her again.
Not here.
At home.
At my counter with my coffee in her hand. Reading the note on the fridge. Probably annoyed by how much of her day I already tried to solve before leaving.
Moving through my apartment like she belongs there.
A month ago that thought would have read as a problem. Now it just feels true.
Ray tosses me a towel.
“You done bleeding poetry into the canvas,” he says, “or you want one more round?”
“I’m done.”
He takes me in, decides that’s enough. “Good. Go eat.”
Lukas pushes off the bucket. “Tell your girl she still owes me a chance to prove Eden wrong about me.”
I start toward the locker room. “Not my problem.”
Behind me, he laughs.
When I grab my phone from the bench, there’s already a text waiting.
LIZ
Still alive?
I look at the screen and lose the fight with my own face.
LEO
Barely. You home?
Her answer comes before I make it out of the locker room.
LIZ
Yes
Waiting for you