Iwake up hard and I know exactly whose fault it is.
I lie there for a second running through the whole thing again. The tile against my palm. The sound of the water. The shape of him in the next stall, not moving, which was somehow more obscene than if he'd moved. The flinch I could hear in his breathing.
I've been wanting to fuck up Paul Laurent for three months, since the announcement. I wasn't planning on his kid. The kid was a bonus item. I saw the kid yesterday and thoughtnepotismand thoughtkill meand then I thoughtoh, and then the day happened.
I reach down and take care of myself in about forty seconds. Efficient. The word I'd use if I were in a locker room making fun of myself.
I get up. Six-fifteen. My knee does the thing. I put weight on it, wait for the click, wait for it to clear, and then I take my first three steps of the day the way I take my first three steps every day, hoping one of them is the morning the knee finally stops doing the thing. It never is. I brush my teeth. I drink waterstraight from the tap. I pull on a hoodie over last night's shorts and I go to the gym.
The Wolves' practice facility gym at seven a.m. smells like rubber flooring and cleaning solution and the faint residue of too many men who don't shower before they lift. I like it. It's an honest smell. It smells like work.
I do legs. Squats first, heavy, because I like hating my life early in the day and getting it over with. I put my headphones in. I don't turn any music on. The headphones are a go-away signal. Most guys honor it.
I am five sets into squats when the door opens and the kid walks in.
Sweetheart. I think it before I can stop it. He's in training shorts and a long-sleeve under-layer and his hair is wet from a shower he took before he came in, which is a move only a guy who grew up in hockey houses does, because you never know when you'll get to shower next and a morning shower is insurance. He sees me and his face does the thing I wanted to see it do yesterday before he caught himself and turned it off.
I take one earbud out and let it hang.
“Laurent.”
He doesn't answer right away. He sets his bag down on the rubber like it's glass.
“Creed.”
“Seat's open.” I nod at the squat rack. “I'm done in a set.”
He looks at the rack, and at me, and at the plates I've got loaded, and the math he does on the plates takes a full second longer than it should because his brain is not currently in math.
“I'm doing upper,” he says, and heads for the bench.
The wordfinelives in my mouth and stays there. I finish my last set slower than I need to. Rerack the plates. I watch him in the mirror because that's what the mirrors in a gym are for. He loads a bar for bench with a respectable amount of weight for his size. Not showing off. Not under-doing it. He sets up clean. Feet planted, shoulder blades back, grip even. Somebody taught this kid properly. Several somebodies. He went to the right camps, did the right programs, never allowed himself a bad habit.
He lies down and does his warmup set alone. Stupid.
I walk over.
“Spot you.”
He sits up fast. “I've got it.”
“Not with what you're about to put on there, you don't. Lie down.”
He lies down. It's automatic. He goes where he's told by a man with a deeper voice. I file that away for later.
I stand at the head of the bench with my hands loose over the bar and watch him breathe. His ribs in his long-sleeve. His pulse in the side of his neck. His eyes flick up to me and then back to the bar, and I know what that flick cost him.
“Whenever you're ready, sweetheart.”
He goes. He's strong. Not enforcer strong. Center-strong, controlled and compact. His lifts are clean the way his skating is clean, exactly what his contract asks for and not one rep more. I keep my hands two inches off the bar the whole time because spotting a bar means you don't touch it unless he fails, and I am not giving him a reason to accuse me of anything yet.
He racks the bar. Sits up. Doesn't look at me.
“Thanks.”
“Another?”
He wipes his hands on his shorts for longer than his hands needed wiping.
