Page 27 of Coming In Hot
Jax’s heavy steps fall behind me, the sound coming closer with each step. He’s quickening his pace, and less than a minute later, he surpasses me, shoulder-checking me as he walks by. The move is deliberate, a small but telling act of defiance. My jaw tightens as he brushes past, not even glancing at me, like I’m just another obstacle in his way.
I should’ve known his apology didn’t mean he was ready to bury the axe and pull that stick out of his ass. Jax has always been the type to throw out a few sentiments, maybe even make you feel like things are better for a moment, but he’s still got that bitterness lingering under the surface, like an infection he hasn’t bothered to treat. The apology was just a formality—nothing more than a scratch on the surface.
I keep my pace steady, though I can feel the heat of his proximity. It’s never been easy with him. Hell, it’s never been easy with anyone, but with Jax, it’s different. We don’t just walk away from each other. We circle. We clash.
“You look like you’re in a big hurry to get somewhere.”
“On my way to the gym,” he huffs.
I can’t blame him. I’m dying to burn off some of the residual anxiety and tension still lingering after that session.
When I hit the door to the gym, I pause just long enough to hear the heavy thud of his feet a few paces away. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even turn back. He just keeps walking, like he’s got all the time in the world to be pissed off.
I grab the first open treadmill I see, stretching my arms over my head before plugging in my settings—three miles at a moderate incline. It’s a solid warm-up. Nothing too crazy, just enough to get the blood moving and the tension out of my muscles.
The only other available machine is directly beside mine. I see Jax hesitate for a split second, giving me a wary look, like he’s not sure whether to start something or back off. But he doesn’t back off. He grabs the treadmill and, without a word, sets himself up.
I can feel his eyes flicker up to my screen, and the corner of my mouth twitches when I see him copy my settings. Three miles at a moderate incline. But he sets a timer for ten minutes.
He thinks that’s enough.
I don’t give him the satisfaction. I bump my timer to eight minutes and crank up the speed, going from a jog to a full-on run. The thud of my feet against the treadmill is louder now, a rhythm that matches the thumping in my chest. The goal isn’t just to get warmed up anymore. It's about pushing, about proving something.
Jax’s dark eyes narrow as he falls into his run, matching my pace. I can practically feel the challenge in the air, a silent competition hanging between us like a taut wire ready to snap.
I’m barely winded when the alarm goes off. My pace was quick, but I’ve done this enough to know how to control my breath, how to keep my body moving without burning out. Jax, though? He’s another story. His chest is rising and falling heavily, his skin slick with sweat. I’m not sure if I should feel sorry for him or just enjoy the sight.
While he finishes out the last two minutes of his run, I slide over to the free weights. I set up without a glance, but I keep my eyes on him. I want to see what he’s going to do next. Jax doesn’t disappoint. After wiping down the equipment with an exaggerated effort, he grabs a bottle of water from his gym bag and downs the entire thing in one go, his eyes never leaving me as he moves toward the weights.
He sits beside me on the bench and grabs a 20-pound set of barbells. I raise an eyebrow. I’m using 15s, so of course, I grab the 25s without a second thought. This isn’t about lifting anymore. This is a game. A fucking competition.
Jax seems to think I'm predictable. Like he’s got me figured out already. But he doesn’t know the half of it. If he wants to keep this up, fine. I’ll just finish what he started.
I might be sweating through the workout, but I’m going to make sure he’s drowning in this.
I keep my eyes on the weights in my hands, but I can feel Jax’s gaze lingering on me, like he’s trying to gauge if I notice. I curl the dumbbells again, feeling the burn in my muscles, and let the tension build for a moment before setting them down with a controlled motion.
“Enjoying the show?” I ask, glancing up at him with a smirk.
Jax doesn’t seem embarrassed, not even close. Instead, he just shrugs, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “I was just trying to figure out what kind of training you’re doing, genius.”
“Clearly, it’s working,” I shoot back, giving my arm a little flex, just to mess with him. “You can touch them if you want.”
Jax just grins, shaking his head. “You’re something else. No one can push my buttons like you do.”
“I didn’t mean to push all of your buttons, I was just looking for mute.”
Jax’s lips curl, but he fights it. “Acting like a dick won’t make yours any bigger.”
I laugh. A genuine, throaty laugh. Jax is a snarky motherfucker, but sometimes he’s funny. “Looks like someone had an extra bowl of bitch flakes this morning.”
His scowl is predictable. “You're dry humping my last nerve. I don’t have the energy to pretend to like you today.”
“Don’t you think it’s about time to take that stick out of your ass? I thought we made peace back there in Brewer‘s office. Am I missing something?”
“I don’t have a stick up my ass,” Jax practically growls.
“What do you have up there? Is that why you get that stupid, confused expression on your face all the time?”
