Page 35 of Icing the Cougar
The phone starts up again, vibrating on the hardwood. I can hear it even over the clang of the bar. I squeeze out two more reps, then rack the weight and sit up, dizzy. The phone is face down. I don’t even check who it is. I just pick it up and whip it across the room, hard. It hits the wall, bounces once, and lands next to the door. Not broken, not even a scratch. Figures.
I go back to the weights. Bench. Then squats. Then deadlifts, stacking the bar until my knees feel like they might buckle. Each time I pick it up, I try to imagine the pain will finally shut off my brain. That it’ll fill the gap she left.
By the time I move to the kettlebells, my hands are shaking, and sweat is rolling down my spine. I go for swings, one arm, then the other, switching at the top, faster and faster until I lose count. The lights blur, and I actually think I might pass out.
I drop the bell on the mat, fall to my knees, and suck air like I’m drowning. My chest is on fire. My legs quiver. This is what I wanted. This is the only way I know how to stop myself from thinking about Trinity’s face as she walked away, the way her eyes never even blinked.
My phone starts up again, but it sounds far away. I stay on my knees, knuckles pressed to the floor, and let my breath slow down. Sweat pools under me. I wipe it off with the back of my hand and immediately regret it—the scrape of skin on skin, the raw heat. I deserve it.
When I finally roll onto my back, the ceiling spins. I stare up at any imperfection on the drywall. It’s quiet. Nothing but the thump of my heartbeat and the far-off wail of a siren somewhere in the city. I close my eyes, just to see if I can keep the world at bay.
However, my head is still full of her. Not even tonight’s version that was so cold and angry. It’s the one from the first time I tried yoga at her place, when I nearly ripped my own hamstring in half trying to hold Warrior Two.
She laughed so hard she snorted. The sound was so light, so bright, it made my whole-body ache in a way I’d never felt. I remember the way she reached out, steadying my arms, herhands cool and sure against my skin. “You’re all power, no control,” she told me, eyes shining with mischief.
I wanted to impress her. I wanted her to see me as strong, even when I was flailing.
Now I can’t remember the last time anyone laughed with me, instead of at me.
The sweat runs into my eyes, stings, but I don’t move to wipe it away. I let it pool and drip, soak the mat. My lungs still burn. My arms are lead.
Somewhere in the apartment, the phone rings one last time, then stops.
The silence is absolute.
I close my eyes and try to hear her laugh again, but it’s already fading.
I don’t know how much time passes before I finally stand up. My legs are rubber, my mouth tastes like pennies, and I know I’m not going to sleep, not for a while, maybe not ever. As I limp to the kitchen, I notice that the early morning sun is shining through the window, and need coffee, because even in the shittiest morning of my life, habits die hard. I find her mug—the one I almost smashed last night—still sitting by the sink. I rinse it, careful of the chip on the rim, and set it under the machine. I press the button for black coffee, bitter as hell, exactly how she drank it when she was trying to power through a brutal day.
While the machine whirs, I drift to the windows, the kind that run from floor to ceiling and make you feel like you could step right off the edge and into the city. The glass is cold, and I press my forehead against it, watching the world wake up below. Cabs, trash trucks, people already out and running, like nothing ever changes.
My reflection looks older. Worn out. There’s a purpling ring under my right eye, a crusted scrape on my chin, and dried blood in the cracks of my knuckles. My hair sticks up at a dozen wild angles. I look like a man who got run over by a Zamboni and then rolled around in the tire tracks for fun. I almost don’t recognize myself.
The coffee finishes, and I take it back to the window. The taste is harsh, but I swallow it anyway, burn and all. The warmth grounds me.
That’s when the memories start. Not the bad ones—the fights, the locker room shit, the way I ruin everything I touch. It’s the other ones. The ones where Trinity holds my face in her hands after a bad game, fingers soft, eyes softer. The night I came home dripping blood and rage, and she patched me up, not with lectures but with silence and steady hands and a kiss to the split above my eye. The way she could make me feel like I belonged, even when I was nothing but trouble.
I think about the morning after that night. How she let me sleep in, then woke me with a cup of coffee and a crooked smile. She said, “You look like the world’s angriest puppy,” and I grumbled but smiled, because she was right and she knew it. I think abouther hands, small and sure, picking tape off my fingers, tracing the bruises, never asking me to be less than what I am.
I look at my hands now. They’re shaking, but not from rage. From something closer to loss. I clench them, force them to go still, but the feeling lingers.
The city gets brighter. The light creeps across my face, throwing long shadows on the floor. I can see myself clearly now: the jaw, the scar, the worry lines. There’s nothing left to hide. I lift the mug to my lips, and now the bitterness doesn’t taste like punishment. It just tastes like coffee.
I touch the glass with one hand, palm flat. The city below keeps moving, indifferent to my mess. Somewhere out there, Trinity is probably already up, rolling out her mat, making a mental note of everything she has to do today, pretending she isn’t thinking about me.
I want to text her. I want to say something that’ll fix it, but I know there isn’t a word in the world for this kind of fuckup. I pick up my phone anyway, thumb hovering over her name in my contacts. Then I click the side button on my phone to close the screen. This needs to be right. This needs to be more than a string of sorrys.
I think about what she said—that she’s not my rehab project, not my secret rebellion. She’s right. She always is. I don’t want to prove anything to anyone but her. I don’t want to be the guy who keeps losing.
The sun finally breaks over the rooftops, filling the room with gold. It catches the edges of the yoga mat by the TV, the hair tie on the coffee table, the battered old notebook on the counter. All the proof that she was here, that she changed everything just by existing in my space.
I stare at my reflection one last time. I don’t like what I see, but I don’t look away.
I drain the mug, feeling the heat run down into my chest. My heart doesn’t race, not this time. It just beats, steady and real, like maybe it finally wants to keep going.
I set the mug down, stand up straight, and start making a plan.
I’m going to get her back.
