11. Blake
Chapter eleven
Blake
T he gym is thick with sweat and testosterone and the sound of war. Iron plates slam. Chains rattle. Metal bites metal. The air tastes like heat and effort.
I’m on the Roman chair, gripping the handles, leaning back slowly, then pulling forward with every inch of rage I’ve got lodged in my gut. My abs scream with each rep, but I keep going. Measured breath. Tight control. No breaks. No mercy.
Losing Cassy?
I feel that shit like a blade between my ribs. That girl is in my bloodstream now. And now I’ve fucked it—no, torched it.
Everything could've been so perfect. Instead, I’m here, trying to outrun regret by tearing my muscles apart.
To my right, Brody’s deadlifting like a damn machine, his forearms knotted with veins as he yanks the bar up again and again. He’s laser-focused, his expression locked down.
He stops for a moment. “So. It’s official. That Jett Lawson, Center from the NY Tigers, has been signed. Mariana said he’s arriving for his medical in two days.”
“I think he’ll fit in perfectly. Damn good player.” I take a moment to breathe.
Behind us, Peters is at the cable machine, drenched in sweat, locked into those lat pull-downs like his contract depends on it. His hoodie’s clinging to his back. Guy trains like a monk.
McAvoy is back near the turf, hammering the sled push. Legs like pistons, arms pumping, face flushed.
Every few seconds, he lets out a grunt that sounds like a war cry. The bass from the speakers keeps time with all of it, big, aggressive energy pounding through the walls.
I exhale hard, loud, groaning through my teeth as I go again. Another rep. And another. No shortcuts. No bullshit. Just me and the fire in my chest and the thought of putting my fist through Bishy’s perfect fuckboy jaw.
“Okay. That’s it for me,” Brody puffs, dropping onto the turf beside me. “I’m beat. I’m going to hit the locker room, grab a shower, then head out.”
I pause. Glance over. Sweat’s dripping down my temples, and my shirt’s stuck to me like a second skin.
Brody leans back on his hands. “Oh…you going to meet me and Mariana at your Mom and Bill’s tonight?”
I lean forward, panting. “Suppose so.”
He stands, claps a hand on my shoulder, firm, not pitying. Just solid. Real. “Try not to worry,” he says. “These things have a way of working themselves out.”
“Love to know how,” I mutter.
He starts walking toward the door. “See you later,” he throws over his shoulder, then calls out to Peters and McAvoy. “Okay, girls. See you both tomorrow.”
McAvoy straightens, grabbing his towel. “Wait up. I’m leaving now, too.”
Peters chimes in, “Yeah, and me.”
They pass me, both shooting a look in my direction. One of those subtle, bro-ey nods that says, “Hang in there.” Then they’re gone. Just the echo of footsteps, the slam of the gym door.
But I’m not done. Not even close.
I grip the Roman chair tighter. If I just keep going, if I push till something snaps, maybe I can make things right. Maybe I’ll stop wanting to rip my damn skin off every time I think about Cassy's expression this morning.
Just as I’m catching my breath, the door opens again.
And he walks in. Bishy with Davis trailing behind him like his hype man.
Every part of me goes rigid. My breath turns into a knife. My fists curl, but I stay quiet. Barely.
Davis drifts toward the lat machine, stretching, earbuds in, oblivious.
But Bishy? He comes right for me. All swagger. All smug. That same ratty grin he wore when he handed me the fucking cash like a prize.
“Guess who’s looking for you?” His tone’s laced with mock innocence. A smirk is practically glued to his face.
I don’t take the bait. “Who?”
“McCullum.” He leans in like we’re sharing secrets. “He’s in a stinking mood. Has someone been a naughty boy?”
Then he ruffles my fucking hair.
My vision flashes red. I knock his hand away, stand up slowly, quietly, and controlled. “I advise you to leave me alone.”
He shoves his face into mine, his breath sticky with pre-workout and that cologne he thinks makes him irresistible.
“Or what?”
Then he shoves me backward. Just a step.
But that’s it. Line. Crossed.
He doesn’t even see it coming.
BANG.
My fist cracks straight into his nose with the kind of force that makes my knuckles sing. The sound is wet and awful, and blood sprays across the front of his smug face like red paint. His head snaps back, his arms flailing.
Davis is on his feet instantly.
“NO, NO, STOP IT!”
He rushes over, trying to wedge himself between us, hands out like he’s refereeing a bar brawl.
Bishy loses it. He doesn't even pause. He shoves Davis sideways like he weighs nothing and comes at me, wild and sloppy.
The first punch lands right on my nose, sharp, exploding pain, hot and blinding rushes through me.
Then he slams his palm into my chest, knocking me off balance, and follows it with a right hook to my cheekbone that sends a jolt of pain through my jaw.
I stumble back, steady myself, and drive a fist straight into his ribs.
He buckles. Grunts like a gutted animal, doubling over.
“Have you had enough?” I yell, my chest heaving, fists still up.
But he looks up at me like something’s snapped. His eyes are wide, his pupils blown, and his mouth open. He charges. “FUUUKKK YOUUUU!” He slams into me, both palms on my chest, his full weight behind it.
I stagger, my back slamming into one of the weight machines hard enough to rattle the plates. My spine lights up with a shock of pain, but I don’t get time to breathe.
He lunges again, fist coming for my head. I duck.
Pop.
My uppercut connects clean to the side of his temple. He reels, legs swaying, but stays up. We're not done.
We go at it, slamming, grabbing, fists flying. His shoulder cracks against mine. I slam him back. He lunges. We collide, and while Davis is yelling at the top of his voice, the gym door slams open.
“What the fuck is going on?!” McCullum roars as he charges in.
He doesn’t hesitate, throws himself between us just as Bishy shouts, “I’ll kill the son of a bitch!”
“Pack it the fuck in, you two!” McCullum barks, trying to split us apart.
But I’m lost in it, rage, blood, and adrenaline. I throw another punch meant for Bishy’s jaw.
I miss.
My fist smacks squarely into McCullum’s face.
His head jerks back, and for a second, the whole room freezes. His jaw shifts as he grits his teeth, both hands up now, planted between us.
Davis grabs Bishy’s arm. McCullum growls at them through clenched teeth, “BOTH OF YOU. OUT. NOW!” Then he glares at me. “MITCHELL DON'T YOU FUCKING MOVE!
Bishy wipes at the blood running down his face, glaring at me. “This is not over…asshole!”
He and Davis storm out, the door thudding shut behind them like a death sentence.
I’m breathing hard, my chest burning, blood on my shirt and hands. I glance at McCullum, who’s wiping the corner of his mouth with a towel that’s now streaked red.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Save it for someone who gives a shit.” His voice is low, dangerous. “I know exactly what you’ve done to my daughter.”
I press both hands to my face, my forehead damp with sweat, pain throbbing under my nose and cheek. I look up at the ceiling like it might drop an answer on me.
McCullum just stands there, his jaw tight, breathing heavy, like he’s using every molecule of willpower not to put me through the floor.
“Look, Coach. Please, let me try and explain. It’s not what it seems—”
“Spare me the playground bullshit.” His voice hits like a sledgehammer. “What you’ve done to my daughter... she’s told me everything. The bet. The baby.”
“Wait.” I take a step forward. “Yes, I did make a bet with Bishy that night in Sin City, but I didn’t know it was your daughter. I thought it was just some random girl walking in. And now… now—”
“NOW WHAT?” His voice booms. “I’ve had enough of you. You’ve fucked up good this time. I should’ve let Bishy beat you to a pulp. Then finished you off myself.”
“But Coach—”
“But Coach, nothing.” His finger jabs toward my face. “The only reason I didn’t is because we’re a professional outfit here, and I take pride in my job.”
My chest tightens. Breathing hurts now. “How the fuck can I make this right? I’ll do anything.”
“I’ll tell you what you do.” He steps in close, fire in his eyes. “You don’t even look at my daughter. You don’t speak to her. She’s devastated. You hear me? Devastated. How do you think she must feel?”
“I can just imagine. I didn’t mean for any of this. But she’s having my baby now.”
“I don’t give a damn what she’s doing. And whatever it is…” he leans in, voice low and deadly. “It’s without you.”
“COACH!” My voice cracks out before I can pull it back. “I want to speak to her. I want to try and make this right.”
He growls, his hand clenched into a fist by his side. “I don’t give a flying fuck what you want.” His eyes narrow to slits. “In fact, I want you off the team. I’ve spoken to the board about a transfer. You’re on the bench until it’s finalized.”
Then, thud, he slams his finger into my chest. “Got it?”
He turns and storms out.
Silence caves in on me, and then the floor gives way. I hit it hard, not caring about the sting in my knees. I grab a towel and wipe at my face, blood, sweat, spit. Doesn’t matter. I slam my palm into the machine beside me.
“FUCK!”
The sound echoes across the empty gym.
I stay on the floor for a few minutes. Just breathing. Trying to keep it together.
Eventually, I get up. Everything hurts. Everything’s heavy.
I leave the gym, drag myself down the corridor, and push into the locker room like a ghost.
The shower hits my skin like a punishment. Hot, sharp needles peeling off the dried sweat and blood. My right eye pulsates, and my cheek’s tender.
My nose still throbs. The water runs red at first, then clear. I press both palms against the tile and let the spray hit the back of my neck. But it doesn’t wash anything away. I still feel like shit.
I towel off, throw on jeans and a black tee. Don’t bother with my hair. It’s a mess, whatever.