Maybe.
Fuck.
Chapter 11
Jamie
I hate the gym.
The ice has rules. Structure. Space. Lines. Purpose. Everything is movement and timing and instinct, and if I don’t want to think, I don’t have to. I can skate hard enough that thought becomes useless.
The gym gives me nowhere to go. It’s too musty, too crowded, too full of mirrors and bodies and noise. Plates clanging. Shoes squeaking against rubber flooring. Guys talking over music coming through the speakers. The whole place smells like sweat and metal and disinfectant that never quite wins the fight against the sweat.
And Rhys Callahan is everywhere.
Not literally. Unfortunately, I am still sane enough to know that. It just feels like it. Like no matter where I stand, I know where he is. Without looking. Without trying. Like my body figured it out before my brain had a say in it.
He’s across the room with Bennett and Cooper, laughing at something, hands wrapped around the pull-up bar above him. His shirt rides up when he jumps, exposing a strip of stomach—the hard line of muscle there, skin damp, stretching as he pulls himself up.
I look away.
Immediately.
Too late.
The image sticks anyway. His body lifting. Shoulders working. Biceps flexing. The easy, controlled strength of him. My teeth grind hard enough to hear. I turn back to Kowalski, who is standing in front of me with a medicine ball tucked under one arm, watching me watch Rhys, looking at me like a disappointed father.
“Problem?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then move.”
He moves.
I make a mental note to be more careful and also to never stand near Kowalski again.
I put the team through the workout Fitch assigned, rotating between stations, correcting form, keeping time. This is easy. This I can do. Captain work. Structure. Rep counts. Push the pace, keep everyone honest, don’t let Cooper turn every water break into an hour.
For a while, it works.
For a while, I’m fine.
Rhys doesn’t make it easy, though.
He’s actually trying. That’s the problem. If he were being an asshole, I could focus on that. If he were late, lazy, dismissive, cocky the way that makes my blood boil, I could put him back in the box where he belongs and keep him there and say fuck you.
But he’s not.
He’s moving station to station without complaint. Taking correction from Fitch. Encouraging Bennett when Bennett starts fading during sled pushes. Making Cooper laugh while getting the work done. He’s still cocky, yeah. Of course he is. But he’s not careless. That’s becoming harder and harder to ignore.
“Again,” I call out as Cooper finishes his set too sloppy.
Cooper groans. “Captain, please. I have a family.”
“You have three roommates who lock their doors when you’re home and a plant you keep forgetting to water.”
“She’s recovering, she was going through something.”
