Page 32 of Resurgent

"We're seeing."

"We're lifting."

He sighs dramatically, “You're impossible.”

“I need to be better—”

His eyebrows shoot up, catching the self deprecating thought that slipped out before I could stop it.

“Stronger,” I quickly correct. “I meant stronger.”

His side eye only lasts a second, then he takes pity on my absent-minded slip and walks toward a rack of equipment Korr’s commandeered from the arena.

The heavily worn dumbbells range in weights, while the clearly new resistance bands have varying levels of resistance. There are a pair of medicine balls strapped into a bungee-lined box that reminds me of the stuffed animal cages that were all the rage for crafty moms to make a few years back.

It’s nothing extravagant. Nothing that’ll be noticed as missing.

Matt returns carrying two ridiculously small dumbbells under his arms and two much larger ones in his hands.

I stare at the tiny ones I know he’s carrying for me.

“That’s insulting.”

"They're five pounds."

"And insulting."

"They're appropriate,” he says, handing them over despite my protest.

The first weighted sumo squat is easy…The third has me visibly shaking, and I’m seriously considering giving up.

“Wow. I think Sasha might be able to do more reps than you with those.”

“Shut up! I didn’t say I was done.”

“Sure looks like you’re getting ready to quit…”

“Nope! Just getting ready to challenge you to a reps competition,” I stupidly lie.

“I don’t think we’re playing on even ground—my weights are a little bit heavier than yours.”

“And whose fault is that? You chose this. Now deal with the consequences of your actions.”

Every following squat makes my injured leg quiver more violently. Every instinct screams to shift pressure off of it, but instead—I lower down into another.

The burn spreads through my thigh, my calf, my hip—hell, sparks of pain even shoot up into my back as every tiny stabilizing muscle that hasn't been used properly in weeks suddenly remembers it has a job.

"Good," Matt says quietly. "Push through."

"I am."

"Lower another inch."

"I hate you."

"I know, but you’ll thank me when you have full, easy mobility again."

Another inch and my leg screams.