Page 39 of Her Unending Horizon

Chloe was probably still there. In my kitchen. In our space. Looking at all the ways I’d come unglued and trying to find patterns in the mess.

I didn’t have it in me to face her. Not with my chest this tight and my fists this restless.

“I’ll just do some light work,” I muttered. “Bike. Shadowboxing. Nothing fancy.”

Cappy grunted. “Nothing that twists. Nothing that takes you to the mat.” He held my gaze. “You feel a pop, you’re done. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

He shook his head and turned back to the cage, shouting, “Guard up, Tommy! Your face ain’t bulletproof!”

I headed for the row of equipment along the far wall. The assault bike mocked me from the corner, all fan wheel and misery, so I skipped that. I settled on the rowing machine. Straight lines. No twisting. Just legs, back, arms, repeat.

I eased onto the seat and started slow, testing my ribs. The first few pulls burned, but it was a clean pain, not the sharp, wrong kind. I could work with this.

Legs, back, arms. Slide forward. Do it again.

Maybe if I did it enough times, the noise in my head would quiet down. Maybe if I wore my body out, I’d go home and be able to sit in the same room as Chloe without feeling like I was going to jump out of my own skin.

The fan whirred with each stroke. My breathing fell into rhythm. Sweat rolled down my spine.

“Hell of a fight yesterday.”

The voice came from my left, smooth and casual.

I kept my hands moving but turned my head just enough to see the guy standing there. Mid-thirties, maybe. Athletic build under a fitted T-shirt, clean sneakers, clipboard in his hand. Not a regular. I would’ve remembered him.

“You watched?” I asked, pulling through another stroke.

“Hard to miss,” he said. “You and the Baumgartner kid. Thought you had him in the second.” He smiled, quick and professional. “Name’s Maurice. Maurice Benson.”

He held out a hand, and I reluctantly let go of the handle with one to shake it. His grip was firm, his skin cool and dry. Not a gym rat’s rough calluses. Something else.

“I was pretty sure you were going to take it,” he went on as I grabbed the handle again and got the rower moving. “You’ve got weight on him. Experience, too, if I had to guess. Could see it in the way you shifted. Read him.”

“Didn’t read him well enough,” I said. “He got the tap.”

Maurice’s smile didn’t waver. “Even the best lose sometimes. That’s how you know who’s serious. They come back.”

I didn’t answer.

He watched me for another few pulls. “So,” he said. “When’s your next one?”

I huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half grunt. “Next what?”

“Fight,” he said. “You looked like a guy who was just warming up.”

“Benched,” I said shortly. “Ribs.”

He clicked his tongue like that was a shame. “Ah. That explains the tape.” His gaze flicked over my side, then my face. “Shame. You’ve got a lot of potential.”

My grip tightened on the handle. “Yeah, well. Potential doesn’t take much to ruin.”

He chuckled softly. “Depends on where you aim it.”

The rower’s fan whirred. My ribs burned steady.

“You train anywhere else?” Maurice asked. “Or just here?”