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“Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
He sighs, realizing the same thing as me—I won’t.
“I’ve gotta get to practice. Thanks for calling.”
“Of course. I wish I had different news for you.”
“Bye, Doc.”
“Bye, Holden.”
I hang up and blow out a long breath before I head inside for practice.
Everything is autopilot. I don’t remember walking inside the sports center or the locker room. If I talk to anyone, I’m not sure what I said.
I rely on grunted responses and muscle memory to get through practice. After dreading the call for so long, it’s unsettling to have gotten the answer.
Coach Jackson pulls me aside at the end of practice. “What’s going on with you, Adams?” he asks.
I run a hand through my hair. Look away. “Just having an off day.”
“You were unstoppable all summer. We’ve got our first scrimmage against Lincoln in two weeks. Off days aren’t on the agenda.”
“I know. It was just today.”
He studies me for a minute, then nods. “All right. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod and leave the weight room.
Instead of heading to the left, toward the locker room, I go right.
The punching bag is located in the weight room the football team usually uses. I share a couple of classes with the starting quarterback, so I know the team is at an away game.
The room is empty, which is exactly what I was hoping for.
I head straight for the bag suspended from the ceiling.
It’s been a while since I was in a physical fight. And I miss the adrenaline. The rush of facing an unpredictable opponent.
Basketball’s a more civilized version. No one is throwing punches, just shoving elbows. And no matter how hard I hit the bag; it never retaliates.
I lose track of time as my fists fly.
My muscles are exhausted from lifting weights for the past hour, but I continue throwing punches relentlessly, trying to expel the chaotic energy swirling inside of me.
I don’t stop until one of my knuckles splits. I swear, ripping off a piece of paper towel from the roll meant to be used to clean equipment.
By the time I reach the locker room, I’m sweaty and exhausted. All my teammates are long gone. I shower and change into sweatpants, then head for the exit.
Cassia is standing in the lobby, wearing one of my high school sweatshirts. It hangs to her mid-thigh, her hands lost somewhere in the front pocket.
Despite my dark mood, my lips turn up into a smile at the sight.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Because I know you’re not here to exercise.”
She rolls her eyes. “At least I know you didn’t stand me up on purpose.”
My eyes close briefly as I wince. We had dinner plans tonight. I was supposed to meet her after my practice. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
