Page 79 of Caden & Theo

I don’t say the rest—that I’ve been wondering if that curiosity has anything to do with me. That some desperate part of me hopes he wants answers too. That he might show up and see me across a crowded gym, look into my eyes, and find something still worth forgiving.

“Anyway,” I say again, more firmly this time. “We’ll see what happens. If he’s here, he’s here. If not….”

Miles finishes the sentence for me, voice soft. “Then that’s on him.”

I nod, staring out at the dark. “Right.”

But in my gut, I know better. If Caden shows up, it won’t just be about nostalgia or old friends. It’ll be a reckoning.

And God help me, I don’t know if I’m ready for it.

SEVENTEEN

CADEN

“Last one,”I call out, standing just behind the squat rack. “You’ve got this, Mendoza. Dig deep. Pretend that barbell is your ex’s new boyfriend.”

Julian Mendoza lets out a snort that’s half laughter, half groan. His face is flushed, and sweat trickles down the side of his jaw like it’s racing to escape his body faster than his self-control. He grits his teeth and drops low, quads trembling, his knee joint locked as he pushes back up with a guttural sound that could easily be mistaken for a roar.

I clap once. “Hell yes.”

He racks the bar and stumbles back, catching himself on the padded bench behind him. “You’re an evil man,” he gasps. “Seriously. Sadistic.”

I toss him a towel. “And yet, you keep coming back.”

Julian, a former wide receiver and current rehab patient, has been training with me for eight weeks now. ACL reconstruction, plus some serious scar tissue buildup from trying to “push through the pain” like every stubborn pro athlete I’ve ever known. He’s tough as hell, which makes him one of my favorite clients—and a bit of a cautionary tale to the rookies.

“Remind me why I let Cameron talk me into this,” he mutters, slumping forward and rubbing his towel over his face.

“Because he’s smarter than you?” I offer. “And he knew your ego couldn’t handle being shown up by a one-legged trainer.”

He laughs, full-bodied this time, and tosses the towel back at me. “Touché.”

I grin and catch it easily, walking over to wipe down the equipment. The gym’s quiet now, late-morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casting long strips of sun across the rubber flooring. My shadow stretches as I move—tall, lean, and distinct. You can see the difference in my gait if you know what to look for, but these days I barely notice the slight tilt of my left leg or the sound the carbon fiber foot makes when I pivot on it.

Fifteen years ago, I thought my life had ended.

Today, I make a living helping people rebuild theirs.

“You’re getting stronger,” I say over my shoulder. “Week nine’s gonna feel like a breeze compared to this.”

Julian groans again. “You keep saying that. I’m beginning to think you’re just here to torture me for your own amusement.”

“Only partially true,” I reply. “You’d cry without me.”

“Lies. I’d cry with joy.”

I laugh again and finish wiping down the rack before tossing the rag into the bin. I glance at the clock. 11:42. I’ve got forty-five minutes before my next session, which gives me time to answer some emails and, maybe, drink something that isn’t water or protein sludge.

Julian stands, rolling his shoulder. “Seriously, though. Thanks, man. You’re the first person who didn’t treat me like I was broken.”

I meet his gaze. “That’s because you’re not.”

Something flickers across his face—something raw and real—and he nods, brushing a knuckle under one eye like it’s justsweat. He grabs his gym bag, shooting me a grin. “Same time next week?”

“You bet.”

I watch him go, shoulders squared, stride even. Still a little stiff, but he’s getting there. Every time someone like Julian walks out of my gym standing taller than when they came in, I feel it in my chest. Like maybe, just maybe, this life I didn’t ask for has turned into something worthwhile.