Page 33 of Beyond Protection
"But I still need to train. I can't stop being who I am because someone's watching. If I do that, they win. I become the thing they think I am—some fragile piece that needs preservation under glass."
"You're not fragile."
"Then stop treating me like I'll break."
"I'm treating you like someone whose life is under threat."
"Marcus's facility," I said. "What are we looking at?"
"Basic weights. Treadmill. Floor space. Functional fitness, not sport-specific."
"It's a start."
"We'll find you more. Give me time to vet locations."
"How long?"
"A few days."
It was a few days of rust I couldn't afford, but Eamon understood.
"Okay," I said. "A few days."
"Get your gear," he said. "Let's see what we're working with."
***
It was a facility tucked behind a fire station in Fremont: nondescript brick, no signage, and an empty parking lot.
Drizzle started on the drive over. Seattle's reminder that dry was relative.
Eamon parked. Didn't move immediately.
"Rules," he said. "No posting location on social media. No telling anyone where this is. And I stay in the room."
"Non-negotiable?"
"You always have a choice. I'm telling you what I need to do my job properly."
The distinction mattered. Not control. Honest parameters.
"Okay," I said. "You stay."
We ran through the rain to the door. Eamon punched in Marcus's code.
Inside: fluorescent lights and concrete floors suffused with the smells of industrial cleaner and old sweat. Utilitarian. Honest.
My kind of place.
Free weights in one corner. Machines that looked older than me. Treadmill. Rowing machine. Pull-up bars. A heavy bag hanging from a ceiling mount.
No batting cage. Nothing baseball-specific, but it was room to move.
"Not much," Eamon said. "But it's private."
"I'll make it work."
He took a position by the door—both exits visible, windows in sight. Pulled out his phone.
