Page 82 of Take My Hand

Lucas: you guys watch the Pirate’s game last night?

Will: turned it off bottom of the six. Pathetic

Lucas: thought they might pull it together at the end there for a minute but no luck

The group chat I have with my brothers has the first life I’ve seen in it for a while. Will still hasn’t been responding to my calls or texts much, but leave it to Lucas to find a way to engage him.

Neither Lucas or I are big sports fans, but Will loves baseball more than any other sport. So if the two of us have to pretend like we know what we’re talking about and suffer through watching a game or two just to get him to talk to us, then that’s what we’ll do.

Me: We should try to get to a game when I come home next

Lucas: I’m in

Will: maybe

Hey, it’s not a flat out no so I’ll take it.

I slip my phone into my pocket as I walk into my house, stripping my T-shirt off. The material was clinging to my skin with sweat and was starting to get itchy. I went for a run around the neighborhood this morning before the sun fully rose and it’s too hot to be outside.

I pop my headphones out of my ears, grab a bottle of water from my fridge, and take a long glug before the hair on the back of my neck rises.

Something’s amiss.

A muffled thump sounds through the air, repeating the sound over and over in a steady rhythm. As I tiptoe out of my kitchen and down the hall, the noise grows stronger as I get closer to the basement stairs.

Someone’s down there. How the hell did I miss that on my security system? I get alerts anytime the doors or windows are opened and I’m certain I set the alarm before I took off for my run.

A chill snakes down my spine as I realize that the alarm was disarmed when I got back. And I didn’t even notice it because I’ve been so distracted by Carter and texting with my brothers.

I slowly inch down the stairs, hearing quiet grunts after each thud. My heart races, chest tight, adrenaline pumping through my veins and heightening my senses.

As the basement comes into view, I scan the area and find the sound coming from off to the left.

Hugging the wall closely, I quietly walk forward and peek around the corner into the open gym space.

A heavy exhale expels from my chest at the relief of seeing Carter there, light blue leggings and a matching sports bra on, pounding away at the boxing bag hanging in the corner.

But the relief at seeing it’s her and not an intruder is short-lived as I take in the red of her knuckles and the tension vibrating through her every punch. The air around her is charged with anger, fueling her blows against the bag.

She either doesn’t notice me or doesn’t care to acknowledge my presence as I walk toward her, stepping into her periphery.

Her exposed stomach flexes with her swings, feet planted to the floor in a wide stance. Left, right, uppercut. Left, right, uppercut.

Over and over and over again.

I lean against the wall next to the bag, but not close enough to get hit as it swings. Watching Carter unleash herself is slightly unnerving, but it’s clear she needs it.

This isn’t just anger she’s letting out from the night at the club. This is years’ worth of pent up hurt and unbridled frustration.

I don’t know how long I watch her, but as she finally slows down and her punches barely move the bag anymore, my shoulders are stiff from leaning.

“Hey,” I say, not sure how to gauge her right now.

Carter lets out a small laugh that’s anything but humorous. “Hi.” Her chest heaves with heavy breaths and she grabs a towel and wipes down her forehead and neck.

“You’re bleeding.”

She looks taken aback for a moment. But as she looks down at her hands, she frowns at the split skin and streaks of blood coating them.

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