Page 77 of Lost Hope

Ronan didn’t care. “Get out. Both of you.”

Christian just smiled. “Four minutes now.”

Axel followed his bio bro out. The door closed behind them with quiet finality. He gripped the windowsill, a wave of dizziness making the room tilt slightly. The pain meds were wearing off, but he couldn’t take more on an empty stomach.

He slumped back onto the bed. Maya loved her work—it was obvious in every move she made, every insight she offered. He couldn’t ask her to give that up. Wouldn’t want her to be anything less than what she was. But he couldn’t be the one waiting, wondering, watching the clock until she came home.

If she came home.

Better to end it now. Better to be the jerk who pushed her away than the man who held her back. Or worse, the man who had to bury her.

His phone buzzed—a text from Christian:Three minutes.

Ronan growled and pushed himself up. Fine. He’d go work out. Maybe physical exhaustion would quiet the voice in his head that kept whispering he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

He threw on some borrowed workout clothes and skulked downstairs to the gym like a man heading to his execution. If this was some kind of intervention, with Maya waiting ... but the scene that greeted him stopped him cold.

Eight teenagers occupied various stations around the gym, most of them built like brick walls, one wiry girl outlifting several of the boys. Hockey players, he realized, recognizing the Tahoe Grizzlies logo on their workout gear.

“Team,” Christian’s voice carried across the gym with practiced authority. “Special treat today. This is Commander Quinn, former Navy SEAL.” There was unmistakable pride in his voice that made Ronan’s head snap around. “He’s going to show you what a real workout looks like. Or at least as much as he can with that gimpy arm of his.”

The teenagers straightened immediately, athletic competitiveness sparking in their eyes. Ronan was still processing Christian’s introduction when his brother clapped him on the shoulder. “Show them what you’ve got, Commander.”

Oh it was on. He might not be able to participate much with a bum arm, but he could run them through the workout of their lives. He demonstrated what he could one-handed, his injured arm held carefully against his body. Even that small movement sent a warning pulse of pain through his body.

An hour later, even the cockiest player was dripping sweat, but their grins were infectious. Sophie, the wiry girl, had particularly impressive form on her burpees. Ronan foundhimself fully engaged, demonstrating techniques, getting pulled into their casual banter.

“Dude,” one of the boys nudged another, “they do the same thing!”

“What thing?” Sophie asked, between sets.

“That weird neck crack before they demonstrate something. Look—Coach Murphy just did it, and Commander Quinn did it like three times during warm-up.”

Both brothers froze, then turned to look at each other. Ronan hadn’t even noticed the habit, but now that it was pointed out ...

Christian laughed, surprising Ronan again. “Well, might as well tell you—Commander Quinn here is actually my baby brother.”

“Baby brother?” Sophie’s eyes went wide. “No way!”

“Way,” Christian grinned. “Though he hates when I call him that.”

The easy way Christian owned their relationship, the obvious pride in his voice—threw Ronan off balance.

He leaned against the wall, trying to make it look casual rather than necessary. The room had taken on a subtle spinning quality that he didn’t like at all. He should probably consult Kenji.

As they wrapped up, Sophie approached him. “Thanks, Commander Quinn. Think you could show me that modified pull-up sequence again next time? I mean, once your arm heals and everything.”

Next time. The words hit him unexpectedly hard. “I, uh ...”

“He’ll be here Thursday,” Christian answered for him. “Can’t let my little brother show me up with just one session, right?”

The last teenager waved goodbye, leaving the brothers alone in the suddenly quiet gym. Christian started racking weights, his movements automatic.

The room seemed to swim slightly. He’d been so focused on the kids, he hadn’t noticed how the dull throb in his arm had escalated to a steady burn. Maybe he should have eaten those cinnamon rolls after all.

“Sophie’s mom works three jobs,” Christian said casually. “Dad’s not in the picture. Kid taught herself to skate on borrowed gear at public sessions. Now she’s looking at D1 scholarships.”

Using his good arm, Ronan helped rerack a set of dumbbells. “Yeah?”

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