5. Cole
COLE
The second my fist hits the bag, it’s like I finally breathe for the first time all day.
I throw another punch, then another, left, right, left again, and the repetition starts wearing down the noise in my head.
All I can hear is the beat of my pulse and the slap of my gloves, the ache building through my arms and shoulders.
I welcome it. Crave it, even. The harder it hits, the less space there is for anything else.
It’s crazy how much relief this brings me. In here, I don’t have to think past the next breath, the next punch, the next turn of my shoulders. I just move until the ache drowns out the static in my head.
If I keep my hands busy, keep my body working, I don’t have to see her face every time I blink. Don’t have to think about the way she says she’s fine when she’s obviously not.
The guilt still settles in my chest, though, because it doesn’t matter how hard I hit the bag, or how many times I sweat through my shirt in this place. The second I stop, it all comes rushing back, and there’s too much riding on me for me to fuck any of it up.
The bag swings wide and I catch it with both gloves, holding it still while I drag in a breath. I press my forehead to the battered leather and squeeze my eyes shut, letting the burn in my shoulders sink deeper.
God, I’m so tired. Tired of thinking about all the shit I can’t control. Tired of feeling so goddamn helpless.
I lift my head and drive a harder punch into the bag, rolling my shoulders once before hitting it again, letting my body take over since my mind won’t shut the hell up.
I’m so far inside my own head I barely notice someone stepping up on the other side of the bag. Sam—one of the regulars here, short and stocky, with ridiculous biceps—catches it before it can swing back at me.
He leans around it, one brow cocked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Bag piss you off, or you just having a bad day?”
I don’t bother looking at him. Just grunt and let my fists answer for me. Jab, jab, cross.
Sam doesn’t seem put off. He steps back and folds his arms across his chest. “Someone’s in a mood,” he says, sweat dripping down his brow.
I keep punching, hoping he takes the hint and leaves me the hell alone.
“A bunch of us are going out tonight for Landon’s birthday,” he says, jerking his chin toward a group of guys over by the lockers. “You should come.”
I sigh under my breath and step back from the bag, peeling one glove off with my teeth before wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Been to enough clubs,” I mutter, yanking the other glove off too.
Sam laughs, tugging at his wraps as he follows me. “Not this kind of club,” he says, throwing an arm over my shoulder.
I stop and shoot him a look.
“Trust me,” he says, shooting me a grin. There’s a weird glint in his eye that immediately makes me suspicious. “This one’s way more fun.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Come on. You look like you could use a night off.”
“Sam’s right, for once,” Marcus says, heading over, toweling off his tight curls as he arches a brow at me, his dark skin gleaming with sweat. “Come out with us tonight. Prove you’re not a robot.”
I roll my eyes and keep moving toward my locker, figuring if I don’t give them anything, they’ll eventually get bored and leave me alone.
No such luck.
“Camila’s coming tonight, right?” he calls, a little louder this time, clearly hoping she’ll hear him over the relentless tap-tap-tap of the speed bag in the corner.
I follow Sam’s gaze and watch her for a second. She doesn’t slow down once, her earphones hanging loose around her neck, her shorts riding up on thick, solid legs as her hands move so fast she makes the rest of us look slow in comparison.
Camila’s the only girl in the club, and she doesn’t take shit from anyone. She’s focused, disciplined, and stupidly good.
Honestly, she could probably kick my ass without breaking a sweat.
Marcus snorts and elbows Sam with a laugh. “Give it up, man. I told you, she’s not into you.”
Sam just shrugs, his gaze lingering on Camila for a second too long.
Christ. Is everyone around me a bunch of lovesick pussies?
He catches me looking and clears his throat, plastering on a grin. “So… you coming tonight or what?”
I should say no. I’ve already got enough shit on my plate.
But the idea of an hour—hell, even five minutes—where I don’t have to think sounds pretty good right now.
Better than sitting around with the hockey guys, anyway.
Viper will probably be there, hanging around, since she’s always around, and that’s the last thing I need.
“I’ll think about it,” I mutter, picking at the tape around my wrists.
Sam grins and claps me on the shoulder before heading out.
By the time I make it to the showers, the place is mostly cleared out. A few lockers slam somewhere in the distance, but otherwise it’s quiet. I strip down and step under the water, letting the heat pound against the back of my neck until my muscles start to loosen.
I scrub harder than I need to, trying to scrape the exhaustion out of my skin. I stay there until my fingers wrinkle and the water starts running cold.
I cut the water and step out, toweling off before I stop in front of the mirror. I drag a hand across the glass to clear it and end up staring at my own reflection, my eyes darker than I remember. I look as tired as I feel.
I wrap the towel around my waist and reach into my locker for my phone, checking for a text from Sophie.
My muscles tighten when I see she hasn’t replied yet. I quickly get dressed, toss my phone into my duffel, sling it over my shoulder, and push through the door. I shove my hands into my pockets as I head for my car, telling myself I’m not checking my phone again until I get home.
I already know that’s bullshit.