Page 85 of Rebel Hawke

It hasto get worse before it gets better.

It has to get worse before it gets better.

It has to get worse before it gets better…

I’ve repeated it in my head so many times in the last hour that my brain is not even processing the words anymore, but it has helped.

Somewhat.

Helped me push through the pain.

Helped me zone out and forget the searing burn in my shoulder that feels like someone is driving a knife straight into it.

Because I know the mantra is true.

The only way I’m ever going to fully recover from this—if it’s even possible—is to keep pushing through the pain. Keep pushing my body in the gym every day with Jenkins, at home, or here every night with Wren, doing whatever the hell she tells me to.

Massage, weightlifting on top of what I already do with her grandfather, even coming back to the studio to work on the machines, which she swears will help break up the scar tissue and get the joint moving more fluidly again.

Whatever she wants, I’ll do it because I can never say no to that woman.

And unfortunately, she knows it.

“Let’s go, Atlas. Pick it up.”

I glance at Jenkins as I work the speed bag as fast as I can. It whirs in front of my eyes so rapidly that it’s barely visible. Just ablur of red. But it isn’t enough for him. Not enough for me either, really.

Nowhere near what I can do when I’m at the peak and prepared for a fight. Something we’re both more than aware of, even if the old man won’t voice it to me.

But his silence is worse than if he’d just tear into me and call me out fully on my bullshit.

It’s the look in his eyes.

Fucking pity.

The manpitiesme.

And that’s one thing I can’t fucking bear.

It’s only been a few days of working with Wren, so I can’t expect fucking miracles, but today is like a slap in the face.

Slower.

Weaker.

In even more pain than I was before she came back.

It has to get worse before it gets better.

The timer finally ends, and I do one final blow on the bag, then step back, chest heaving as it rocks back and forth above me. Taunting me. The creak of the ring keeping it up fills my ears, joining the rush of blood at the exertion.

Jenkins leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, old eyes narrowed on me. It’s the same look he’s been giving me since last week, since I disappeared with Wren and reappeared the next day, demanding she move in with me.

He has yet to confront me about it, either.

But that’s only a matter of time.

And it appears this is that day because he’s been pushing me far harder than he has the last few weeks, and it seems far more personal than it does about actually needing to train me.

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