Always her.
The way she looked at me this morning, drowning in that oversized sweatshirt like she wished she could disappear inside it. The way her lips parted slightly when she saw me, her breath catching, hesitation flickering across her face like she didn’t know what the hell to do with me.
Like I was a problem she couldn’t solve.
Like she hadn’t spent days avoiding me after pressing her bodyagainst mine, after fitting perfectly in my arms, after whispering my name in that way that still fucking echoes in my head.
My jaw clenches so tight, I taste blood, and I throw another punch, harder this time. The bag jerks violently, the chain rattling above me. My knuckles burn beneath the wraps, but I welcome the pain.
Because it’s real.
Unlike whatever gameshe’splaying.
I don’t know why I let myself think that maybe—justmaybe—she’d stop running.
That she’d finally admit this thing between us is real, that I’m not crazy for thinking about her every goddamn minute of every goddamn day.
Instead, she called it a mistake.
A fuckingmistake.
Like it was some drunken slip up at a party, not years of history, of tension, of feelings neither of us have been willing to name.
Maybe me coming here was a mistake. Maybe I should’ve let that voicemail stay buried in my phone. Sober Madison doesn’t admit how she feels. Sober Madison builds walls so high, not evenshecan see over them.
I exhale sharply, shaking out my hands, my knuckles raw. The gym is empty, the faint hum of a sports channel playing on the mounted TVs the only sound besides my breathing.
I shouldn't be this messed up over a girl.
This isn't high school anymore. We're not the same people we were back then.
Butfuckif I can stop it.
She’s in my head, branded into me like a scar that won’t heal. Madison Blake—the girl who’s been running circles around me since we were seventeen, the girl who looks at me like I’m both the water and the air she needs.
The girl who runs every damn time we get too close.
I grab my water bottle, taking a long drink before slamming itdown on the bench. A few drops spill over the edge, spreading across the floor. I watch them pool, thinking about how easy it would be to let go.
To stop chasing her.
To focus on what I came here to do.
But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know it’s a lie.
I’ve never been able to let go of Madison Blake. Not then. Not now.
With a frustrated exhale, I grab my bag and head toward the locker room, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I’m wading through quicksand, drowning under the weight of everything unsaid.
The scent of sweat, detergent, and old leather fills the air the second I walk in. A few guys are already here, tossing their gear into lockers, stretching out sore muscles. I move to my usual spot, stripping off my hoodie, skin still damp from the workout.
I hear Carter before I see him.
"Look who finally decided to show up," he drawls, swinging around the end of the bench, grinning like the smug asshole he is. He’s always so damn relaxed, like nothing bothers him. Like he wasn’t sitting withherthis morning, making her laugh when all she’s given me are cautious, guarded looks.
I grunt, grabbing my cleats. "Not in the mood, Hayes."
"Yeah?" He tilts his head, eyes full of something knowing. "Thought you'd be in a great mood after this morning."
