Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ELLIOT
Elliot was heading to the gym for his scheduled workout when he heard the echo of a ball bouncing off concrete.
The indoor training facility had two basketball hoops tucked in the back. Most people didn't bother, but apparently someone was using them.
Elliot glanced through the doorway as he passed and saw Hale, Reed, Novak, Fernandez, and Petersen. Hale had the ball, driving toward the basket with his usual competitive energy.
"Shaw!" Reed called out, waving him over. "We need another player. Even teams."
Elliot kept walking. He had a workout scheduled, a routine to maintain. Basketball wasn't part of the plan.
"Come on, man," Novak added. "One game."
"I'm good."
"Scared we'll beat you?" That was Hale, grinning in that cocky way that went straight to Elliot’s dick. Which was very inconvenient.
"In your dreams, Hale."
"Then what are you waiting for?" Hale tossed him the ball.
Elliot caught it on instinct, the texture of the leather familiar in his hands. He'd played basketball growing up, before his father decided it was a waste of time. He'd actually been good at it. Had liked it.
He eyed the ball, then Hale's challenging expression, then the other guys waiting on the court.
He should say no. Stick to his schedule. Maintain the distance he'd carefully constructed between himself and everyone else here. Instead he heard himself say, "One game.”
Hale's grin widened. "Now we’re talking."
Elliot pulled off his jacket and tossed it against the wall, rolling up his sleeves. The guys were already organizing teams—Elliot, Fernandez, and Petersen on one side; Hale, Reed, and Novak on the other.
"First to twenty-one," Hale said, bouncing the ball. "Winner's ball. Call your own fouls."
The game started fast. Hale was aggressive from the jump, driving to the basket with speed that caught Elliot off guard. But Elliot adjusted quickly, his body remembering movements he hadn't used in years. He blocked Hale's first shot, and grabbed the rebound.
"Luck," Hale said.
Elliot took the ball up, faked left, went right, and sank an easy layup. "Skills."
Reed laughed. "Oh, this is going to be good."
Elliot matched Hale's speed, anticipated Novak’s and Reed’s moves, trash-talked in ways he never did during actual training. The tension of rankings and evaluations faded into background noise. For the first time in weeks, Elliot didn’t think three steps ahead or calculate optimal outcomes.
He was just playing.
"Jesus, Shaw," Novak said after Elliot stole the ball for the fourth time. "Where'd you learn to move like that?"
"YouTube," Elliot said, surprised to hear himself joke. His body loosened without his permission.
The score was tied at 17 when Fernandez went up for a rebound at the same time Novak did. They collided mid-air, both of them coming down hard. Novak rolled and got up immediately. Fernandez didn't.
"Shit," Petersen said.
Elliot moved before he consciously decided to, dropping to his knees next to Fernandez. He was on his side, one arm cradled against his body, breathing hard through his teeth.
"Don't move yet," Elliot said, voice automatically shifting into the calm, controlled tone he'd learned from years of combat casualty training. "Where does it hurt?"
"Shoulder," Fernandez managed. "Fuck. I think I—fuck."
"Okay. You’re okay." Elliot's hands moved, checking for obvious displacement, watching Fernandez's face for pain responses. "Can you move your fingers?"
Fernandez flexed his hand slightly. "Yeah."
"Good. That's good. Probably not broken, just dislocated or a bad sprain." Elliot glanced up at the others standing around. "Someone get the medic. Novak, grab that jacket—we need to stabilize his arm."
They followed his instructions without question, and Elliot talked Fernandez through it, keeping his voice reassuring. "You're going to be fine. Probably a few weeks of light duty. I've seen worse injuries from less dramatic falls."
Fernandez let out a pained laugh. "Trying to make me feel better?"
"Wouldn’t dream of it." Elliot helped him sit up, supporting the injured shoulder. "You did almost stick that rebound, though. Points for effort."
"Thanks, man.” Fernandez winced. “This is all weirdly comforting.”
Elliot let out a genuine laugh that took them both by surprise.
The medic arrived and took over, but Elliot stayed next to Fernandez, helped transfer him to a sitting position against the wall, making sure he was comfortable before stepping back.
When he turned around, he found Hale looking at him.
No, not looking—staring. Like he was seeing something unexpected. Something that didn't fit whatever box Hale had put him in.
Elliot's defenses snapped back into place. The easy warmth from moments ago evaporated, replaced by familiar tension.
Putain.
"He'll be fine," Elliot said, voice flat now. Professional. "Probably just needs rest."
"Yeah," Reed said. "Thanks for... you know. Handling that."
Elliot nodded once and grabbed his jacket from the wall. "I need to get to my workout."
"Shaw—" Hale started.
"See you at dinner."
Elliot walked away before anyone could say anything else. He didn’t want Hale to finish whatever observation he'd been about to make.
His pulse was still elevated, but not from the game. From the realization that he'd let them see too much. Had let his guard down, even just for a few minutes.
His father's voice echoed in his head: Weakness is failure. Emotion is weakness. Control is everything.
But in that moment, playing basketball and laughing and taking care of Fernandez, Elliot hadn't felt weak.
He'd felt like himself.
The next day, they were all gathered in one of the simulation buildings.
"Listen up," Sergeant Kowalski bellowed. "You've got forty-five minutes to clear the building, disengage all hostages, and reach the extraction point. You'll be evaluated on speed, efficiency, and strategic soundness. Fuck up and you do it again. Questions?"
No one had questions.
Four-person teams, a simulated hostile building, and instructors playing enemy combatants. Simple. Elliot had run variations of this exercise a dozen times, knew the geometry, the calculus of entry angles and threat prioritization. He could do it in his sleep.
What he couldn’t account for was Hale.
Elliot glanced at him at the opposite end of the staging area.
Hale was checking his gear—unhurried, completely in his element.
Elliot had watched him fail to impress exactly once, during the first week's blindfolded weapon breakdown when Hale had come in fifth.
Since then it had been relentless. Irritating.
They'd barely spoken since last night in the storage room when Hale had shown up ten minutes early again and Elliot had pushed him against the wall before he could even get a word out.
Elliot swallowed hard. He needed to focus.
"Alpha team, you're up,” Kowalski called.
Elliot, Petersen, Novak and Hale moved to the staging area. The building was a converted warehouse set up to mimic an urban environment with multiple rooms, narrow hallways and low visibility.
"I'll take point," Hale said, voice assured and professional.
"I’ve got rear,” Petersen called from behind him.
Somehow that resulted in Elliot pressed against Hale’s back as they stacked up at the entry point.
Hale’s back rose and fell with every breath. The smell of his woodsy deodorant lingered between them. Elliot's hand settled on Hale's shoulder, his pulse jumping against his palm. Hard muscle, tense and coiled, visible beneath his shirt.
"Ready?" Hale asked, voice low.
"Ready,” they answered in unison.
Hale moved and the rest followed, all of them flowing through the door in practiced synchronization. They cleared the first room quickly and moved to the next doorway.
Hale’s fist went up. They stopped. Hale pointed: two fingers, left side. Then counted down. Three. Two. One.
They breached, Hale and Elliot going left, Novak and Petersen right. There were two "hostages" in the room surrounded by instructors with simulated weapons. Elliot put two rounds center mass. His target raised his hands—eliminated, out of play. Hale's target did the same.
"Clear," Hale said.
"Clear," Novak confirmed from the other side of the room.
Elliot and Hale pushed forward, leaving the rescued hostages for Novak and Petersen to tend to.
Each doorway required the same process: stack up, count down, breach in perfect coordination. And every single time Elliot pressed against Hale's back, Hale's breath caught.
His own hands weren’t entirely steady on his weapon either.
The contact was necessary, well-advised, but Elliot's body didn't seem to care about the distinction. He really needed to request a different group for this exercise next time.
"Next room," Hale whispered. "Three hostiles, two hostages. Northeast corner."
"How do you know?"
"Counted the shadows under the door."
Of course he did. Hale was good at this, better than he probably should be at this stage of training.
Hale glanced back over his shoulder, and their faces were suddenly inches apart. Elliot saw the exact moment Hale's focus slipped. His pupils dilated and his gaze dropped to Elliot's mouth before jerking away.
"Focus," Elliot murmured, so low only Hale could hear him.
Hale's eyes darkened. "Shut up."
He turned and led them forward. When they reached a corner, Hale held up his hand, waiting, and leaned around to check the next section. Then he pressed back against the wall, unaware of Elliot already doing the same. Suddenly they were sandwiched together in the tight space.
"Clear," Hale whispered, barely audible.
Elliot's mouth was right next to Hale's ear. "Then move."
"Trying to."
"Try harder."
Hale shifted forward but the corridor was too narrow, forcing him back against Elliot. "Not exactly a lot of room here, Shaw."
"I'm aware." Elliot tried to adjust his position and felt Hale tense.
"Stop moving," Hale croaked.
"I'm not—"
"You are." His voice was strained. "And if you don't stop, we're going to have a problem."
Elliot went completely still. Oh. "Copy that."
"Thank you."