Page 82 of Enticing the Enforcer
The reporter falters, but doesn’t stop scribbling in his notebook.
I follow Reese toward the doors, but all I can hear is the echo of that sentence. Ingrid was with Jake. The thought coils in my chest like something mean and hungry, and for the first time since she hung up, the silence between us feels less like punishment and more like the end.
Were the rumors about Ingrid and Jake right all along? Does she really run back to him every single time? Maybe this time I was the rebound?
“I’m assuming you didn’t know that,” he says, pushing the door open.
“No.”
“That sucks, man.” I wait for the lecture or some kind of spirited pep-talk from my captain, but he just shakes his head and enters the arena. The lack of commentary from him is unsettling. Does that mean he thinks I should give up? That I fucked up so badly there’s no chance Ingrid will ever speak to me again.
“I’ve just never had this happen before.”
“Had what happen?” he asks.
“A woman ignoring me.” The internal conflict is unbearable. “Or publicly using me as a rebound.” I can’t quite comprehend it or the mix of emotions in my gut. “There’s the feeling of being used and, fuck, is this what she feels like? Did we use each other?”
“I’m not sure any of that is happening.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t even know how long I should wait before I try again. Or should I just let it go and cut my losses?”
“Maybe just give her time to cool off. Sometimes women need space.”
Well that isn’t helpful. Time is running out, each second speeding by faster than the last.
Music filters out of the weight room before we even reach the doors. A heavy beat, the kind of stuff Axel likes to work out to, filters down the hall.
“You ready for this?” I ask, not sure myself.
“It’ll be fine. We don’t have a dog in this fight,” he says as a way to keep perspective. “All we’re doing is smoothing the transition.”
The year after a big win can be tough, especially when you’re graduating out a lot of upperclassmen from the starting roster. That’s probably why Coach is taking the risk on three guys from a junior college team. But the details–that they were part of the Serendee cult? There’s no other excuse than Bryant has a soft heart. Right? He gave us a heads-up on the recruits: Holt andthe Ward Brothers. Defense, center, and a right winger. He said they’re rough, not quite as refined as the team we had this year.
The doors swing open and the music hits first–heavy bass that rattles in my chest.
“Jesus, did Axel leave his playlist up?” I joke. Four years of having to rotate through everyone’s music, I could guess one of the guy’s rotations in my sleep.
Three guys look up as we step inside, the kind of pause where everyone measures everyone else before deciding what to do next.
The one at the rack straightens, hand on the bar. Blond, built like a wall, sweat darkening the cut collar of his sweatshirt. The graphic on the front says, “Clinton Community College.” His eyes cut toward us, gray and sharp, and it feels like walking into a spotlight.
“Jeb Holt,” he says, voice low.
The guy on the bench peels tape from his fingers. Dark hair is plastered damp to his forehead, the fabric from his threadbare t-shirt stuck to his back. There’s a restless energy rolling off him, like he’s had too much caffeine or not enough sleep. “Gideon Ward,” he adds, tossing the roll of tape onto the floor. His tone is lighter, but his gaze lingers too long, curious in a way that isn’t entirely comfortable.
The last one doesn’t move from where he’s posted up against the shoulder press, arms down by his side, hands balled into fists. Black hair curls at his temples. He’s leaner than the others, but no less ripped. His eyes locked on the ground in front of him, jaw clenched tight as he flexes his thighs and pushes up.
Gideon jerks his thumb at him. “That’s my brother Noah over there trying to beat a personal record.”
Reese clears his throat, stepping in. “I’m Reese and this is Jefferson.
I nod. “Welcome to Wittmore. Looks like you’ve got a head start on us.”
The gym is kind of the perfect place for an intro like this. For athletes this is our language and nothing breaks tension like moving weight. Everyone falls into their own pattern. Reese and I spot for one another, like we’ve done for the past four years. There’s a little small talk, and everyone’s civil enough, but underneath, there’s something else.
It’s in the way these guys move: like a unit. Something deeper than just being teammates, which would track with Noah and Gideon being brothers. Twins? It’s hard to tell since they’re not identical, but there’s enough similarities to see they’re related. Shoulder to shoulder, even when they’re on opposite sides of the room. I’ve only seen that kind of bond in brothers, or in guys who’ve been through some real shit together.
Holt racks his bar and wipes sweat off his face, casual as hell, asks, “So, the Frozen Four. What was it like?”
