Chapter 22
Collin
Heading back to my gym after so many weeks away feels like returning to the scene of some kind of crime. Which feels silly. And sad. I call Molly a few times on the way, but the call doesn’t go through for some reason. There’s some message about the customer being unavailable. Weird.
There are some areas of Sheet Cake that don’t have great reception, so maybe it’s that. I’m just not sure why Molly would be at any of them. I know I just kissed her goodbye a few hours ago, but knowing I won’t see her until late tonight feels absolutely unacceptable.
In the parking lot, I send a quick text to Winnie asking if she’s seen Molly.
Winnie: Calm down, lover boy. We’re picking her up in a bit for the meeting. Need a proof of life photo?
Collin: If I don’t sound like a creeper, yes—I’d like a photo. What meeting?
Winnie: LLLS.
Collin: You’re taking her to that?
Winnie: Stop being jealous that you’re not allowed to come.
The Ladies Literary and Libations Society meetings are one of those Sheet Cake quirks.
The meetings are not fully literary, though they do involve libations and are for women only.
Big Mo is the only male with a special dispensation to attend.
James and Chevy snuck in once, but they refused to tell me anything about what goes on there.
I know that it’s an invite-only thing for some select women.
I love that Winnie and Lindy somehow wrangled Molly an invite.
I’m relieved to know Molly is not alone. Though I wish she were here with me, poker tonight is just the guys. I didn’t want to ask her to drive to Austin with me only to leave her sitting in Tank’s house alone or my empty apartment.
Still. I miss her, even knowing I’ll be back tonight.
Sure didn’t take me long to be just as whipped as my brothers.
I’m not sure if Thayden is here yet, but I force myself to walk inside.
It shouldn’t feel this way, but Liza’s actions, her lies, her accusations all seem to have coated the building and my memories of it with an invisible layer of something slick and ugly.
Which, I realize as I walk through the doors, is giving my ex altogether too much power. Way more than she deserves.
As I wave to Jayvon and Steph at the front desk, I square my shoulders, a physical embodiment of letting Liza roll right off my back. This building doesn’t belong to her. It belongs to me—at least for now.
And she has no place in it.
I allow myself to take in the space with fresh eyes, to smell the familiar scent of rubber mats and metal, to see the people in various states of pushing themselves.
Sweat, gleaming on skin. Grunts as someone maxes out, the thud of heavy weights hitting the floor.
Low, bass-centric music pumping through the speakers.
Laughter. Words from a trainer in the corner—pushing, challenging, inspiring.
For just a moment, I’m able to really remember and feel what it was that made me want to open a gym.
This gym. I might be moving on to something different now, something unknown.
But I see now that this wasn’t a mistake.
It was simply a step on the path I’m still on, a part of the journey to whatever’s next.
I ignore the few wary or just surprised looks from people who recognize me, letting those slide away from me too. It’s a good feeling, walking tall and free through the space.
“Good to see you, man.” David, who’s been the active manager and pretty much running this place in my absence, crosses the weight room floor to give me a hug.
“You too. Thanks for keeping things going here,” I tell him. I’m compensating him very well for the job, but kind words never hurt. “Are you in the middle of a session?”
He nods to the area with turf grass and different sized tires. A guy with wide shoulders and a thick neck watches us, wearing a UT shirt with the sleeves ripped off. A tattoo I can’t make out snakes up his ribs. “Backup corner. Wants to start next year.”
I give the guy a head lift, and he returns it. David grins. “You want to sub in? He’d love to work with you.”
“Nah, you got this. I’m meeting someone.”
“There’s a guy in your office wearing a suit.” David rubs the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have let him in, but he was pretty persistent. Seemed confident you wouldn’t mind.”
I roll my eyes. “Lawyers. Always able to talk their way into things.”
David laughs, then starts to back away. “Better get back to it. Let me know if you need anything? Or if there’s any … news?”
He’s one of the only people here who knows I’m trying to sell.
I not only promised him a hefty paycheck to stay on but also a great recommendation.
I still have lots of connections, and so does Tank.
We’ll make sure David’s taken care of if whoever takes this place over is stupid enough not to keep him on.
Upstairs, I find Thayden with his feet up on my desk.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” I say, closing the door behind me.
Only then do I notice the other guy in a suit, back to me, staring up at the framed photos on the wall.
It’s a Graham Fam brag wall of sorts: Dad on the field in the middle of a play, holding up an award, seated behind the desk at Sports Center; Pat and me in our official photos; James from his college days before his injury; Harper, flipping a tire bigger than most women could handle, a couple of guys watching on, impressed.
In the middle of them all is my favorite family photo of us all.
It was supposed to be the Christmas card that year, but I’m not sure we ended up sending one.
Harper, an infant, wails in Tank’s arms. Pat has a toothless grin and it’s impossible to miss how he took scissors to the front of his hair, just before the picture was taken.
James glares at me, and I look like I’ve just done something to him.
I don’t remember what—probably stepped on his toe or teased him about something.
And Mom—Mom has her head thrown back, laughing while Dad watches her, unabashed in his adoration.
I remember they took us all out for ice cream after, even though we were undeserving.
Sometimes, these kinds of memories leave me feeling breathless with the deep ache of loss, but today, I’m grinning as the other man turns around, extending a hand.
“Jacob Rowland,” he says, giving me a firm shake and the kind of grin that reminds me of Thayden. A little too cocky, too confident. But still somehow managing to be charming. “Good to meet you.”
“Lawyer?” I ask, looking between him and Thayden, who chuckles.
“Close. He’s a sports agent. He’s also the reason I’ve been trying to hunt you down all week,” Thayden says.
“Are you looking to buy a gym?” I ask, and Jacob shakes his head.
“Not even a little bit. I do, however, hope I can convince you to keep yours.”
“Don’t think that’s going to happen.” The pleasant feeling of pride I felt downstairs did nothing to make me want to stay. It only eradicated some of the icky feelings I’ve been left with.
“At least hear me out?” Jacob says, and I agree.
The three of us sit down at the small conference table I used for staff meetings as Jacob lays out why he’s here. Thayden twirls a ballpoint pen between his fingers, keeping his gaze trained on me, not Jacob.
“As you probably know, there are a limited number of training facilities for pro, collegiate, and elite athletes. I know that was the original intent of Grit, and I recognized a few faces when we came in.”
“We still attract a lot of athletes. Especially from UT because of proximity. But some from Houston and Dallas. A few other places.” More at the start than now, but there is still an impressive list of men and women who have dripped sweat onto this floor.
“I’ve got a pretty diverse client list,” Jacob says, and I can hear what he doesn’t say: diverse and impressive. “A lot of guys in the off-season have specific places they go to train—old coaches and facilities. Private places. Or the bigger and well-known places.”
I nod. There’s a very popular one with a location near Dallas, another in Florida, Colorado, and a handful of other states.
I had been envisioning something similar but on a smaller scale when I opened Grit.
That intention sort of slipped away from me over time when the demand grew from so many Austin residents who wanted to train in a gym that was a few steps above the norm.
“What would it take to get back to those roots? Take your original dream and make it bigger.”
“Bigger how?” I ask.
“New facility with room for fields, courts.” He pauses. “An ice rink.”
“Wyatt Jacobs is one of his oldest clients,” Thayden says. “Played for Boston and now for DC.”
I vaguely know the name. Hockey and baseball are two sports I don’t follow as much, though I hit up a few of the AHL games here in Austin and we’ve had a few skaters in here before.
“That kind of expansion would be massive. And with the Austin real estate market being what it is …” I shake my head. “That’s a massive leap from what I’ve been doing.”
“Doesn’t have to be in Austin,” Jacob says. “I mean, sure—it’s always easier to be near an airport, travel-wise. But these guys have money for that kind of thing.”
“And there’s an added benefit to being a little bit outside of a city,” Thayden says. “Fewer distractions. Less chance of fans showing up, trying to disrupt things.”
My heart is doing something funny—picking up speed as I think of a specific field.
Acres and acres—away from distractions and people.
An hour and a half from the Austin airport.
If I close my eyes, imagine the herd of cows gone, I can see a facility.
Fields. The kinds of athletes I wanted to work with when I walked out of the locker room for the last time myself.
Thinking of the field reminds me of Molly, and I tap my phone, waking it only to see no messages, no calls. She’s probably still with Winnie and Lindy at the LLLS meeting.