Page 120 of Puck Your Feelings
Does it matter now?
The compound is dead silent except for the occasional hoot of an owl or rustle of leaves. Everyone's asleep like normal humans, dreaming of scoring goals or winning faceoffs or gaining more muscle. And here I am, walking barefoot on dew-damp grass because my brain won't shut up and my chest feels like someone's sitting on it.
I need to burn off this restless energy before I vibrate out of my skin. The gym. That's what I need. Nothing fixes existential dread like deadlifting until your arms shake.
The training facility is dark except for a single light spilling from the gym doorway. Someone else is apparently having a middle-of-the-night crisis too.
I'm about to turn around—I'm not in the mood for company—when I spot him through the glass door panel.
Kane.
He's on the treadmill, running like the devil himself is chasing him. His gray t-shirt is plastered to his body, completely soaked through. Sweat drips from his elbows, creating little dark spots on the treadmill belt. He’s going way too hard.
I should leave. This isn't my problem anymore. He made that abundantly clear when he threw me away like yesterday's jock strap.
But he looks... wrong. Like he's punishing himself. Like he's trying to outrun something he can't escape.
Fuck.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I push open the door and step inside. The gym smells like rubber mats and metal and Kane's sweat. He doesn't notice, earbuds in, gaze fixed on some invisible point in front of him.
I move closer, into his peripheral vision, and he startles when he sees me in the mirror. His pace falters for a split second before he recovers, pushing even harder, his feet pounding the belt like he's trying to break it.
"How long have you been at it?" I ask.
He yanks out one earbud. "Hour. Maybe two." His voice is ragged, breath coming in harsh pants.
Jesus Christ. Two hours sprinting?
"You're going to hurt yourself," I say, moving closer to the treadmill.
"Don't care." He reaches forward and increases the speed to 13 mph, his legs pumping even faster, his form starting to break down.
This is insane.
I cross to the treadmill and do the only thing I can think of—I slam my hand down on the emergency stop button.
The belt slows abruptly. Kane stumbles, nearly face-planting on the control panel before catching himself on the handrails. He hangs there for a moment, chest heaving, before whipping his head up to glare at me.
"What the hell?" It’s a growl.
"You're destroying yourself," I snap back, matching his intensity.
"So what? My body, my choice." He tries to restart the treadmill, but I block the controls with my hand.
"Is this what you want? Running yourself into the ground because you're stubborn?" I'm suddenly furious. At him for being so goddamn reckless. At myself for still caring.
He shakes his head, droplets of sweat flying from his forehead. "You don't understand."
I let out a sad chuckle. "Can't argue there."
He steps off the treadmill, his legs visibly shaking. He braces himself against the machine with one hand, the other wiping his face with his t-shirt. For the first time since our...whatever, he looks at me. Not through me or past me, but at me, his eyes moving over my face slowly.
I can't read his expression. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this one before. I let him look, even though every instinct screams at me to turn away.
"Riley?" he finally says, his voice so uncertain it doesn't even sound like him.
I sigh, feeling bone-tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour. "What?"
