Page 85 of Puck Your Feelings
I step out into the night and let the door slam behind me, the sound echoing in the silence like a gunshot.
CHAPTER 20
Becker
THE GYM DOOR slams open with the force of my barely contained rage, nearly bouncing back and hitting me in the face. Which, honestly, would be the perfect cap to this shit sundae of a night.
I need to hit something. Preferably not a person, because assault charges would really tank my social media metrics. The heavy bag will have to do.
The gym is dimly lit, most of the overhead fluorescents switched off except for a row over the weight racks where—fuck—Groover is doing bicep curls like the well-adjusted person he is. So much for alone time.
He spots me immediately, eyes widening at whatever murder-adjacent expression I've got plastered on my face. "Whoa. Who pissed in your protein shake?"
I ignore him, bee-lining for the hand wraps hanging by the heavy bags. My fingers are shaking so hard I can barely manage the loops around my wrists.
"Stupid fucking—" I mutter, fumbling with the wrap for the third time.
Groover sets his weights down with a soft clank and crosses to me. "Here," he says, taking the wrap from my trembling hands. "Before you strangle yourself with these."
I let him wrap my hands because it's easier than arguing, and because Groover's probably the only person on the team I'd allow to see me like this—coming apart at the seams like a cheap knockoff jersey.
He works methodically, the steady pressure of the wraps grounding me slightly. When he finishes, he steps back, studying my face with that annoyingly perceptive look he gets.
"Want to talk or just hit things?" he asks.
"Both," I manage through gritted teeth.
"Both it is."
He moves to hold the bag steady while I take position, bouncing on the balls of my feet, trying to shake off the excess energy crackling under my skin.
My first punch lands with a satisfying thud. Then another. And another. I fall into a rhythm—jab, cross, hook, repeat—letting the impact travel up my arms and rattle my shoulders.
Groover doesn't say anything, just braces against the bag, absorbing the force of my fury. He's good like that—knows when to push and when to just let me self-destruct in peace.
I'm not even seeing the bag anymore. All I can see is Kane's face—that blank, shut-down expression when he'd walked back into the cabin. The way he'd looked straight through me. The obvious, infuriating lie: "Fine."
Everything is not fucking fine. Nothing has been fine since his asshole showed up and whisked Kane away like he was reclaiming property.
"He's pushing me away," I finally blurt out between punches, "and won't tell me why."
My next punch lands harder, making Groover grunt as he steadies the bag.
"Kane?" he asks, like there's any otherhecurrently driving me to the brink of insanity.
"He's lying to me."
Punch.
"And I don't."
Punch.
"Fucking."
Punch.
"Know."
