Page 25 of Knot Going Down (OlympicVerse #3)

DECLAN

T he fitness zone of the ship is a glass-walled haven perched high above the ocean, with floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch the length of the room and give the illusion of running straight into the horizon.

Everything smells faintly of salty air and sweat, the good kind—like effort, not athlete’s foot and armpit funk.

The machines are top-tier, sleek and modern, polished chrome and matte black.

There’s a row of treadmills lined up like soldiers, each with a screen playing silent loops of tropical destinations.

The free weights section has dumbbells ranging from I’ve-got-this to I-hate-myself.

There’s a group of guys grunting near the squat racks and a woman in navy leggings meandering on the treadmill with a can of beer in the water bottle holder.

It’s loud with effort and clanking iron, but somehow peaceful.

Just me, my muscles, and the view of the man in front of me pulling all my focus.

“Good morning,” Lucas grunts when he sees me.

He’s got his shoulders on a bench, feet on the floor, doing hip thrusts with two hundred-pound plates. There’s a yoga mat tucked under the weights to protect his hip bones. Impressive. Guess this is how he maintains those glutes.

Watching him heft that weight around, I can’t help but notice the occasional sway of the ship.

It’s subtle, but enough to make every one of his reps all the more remarkable.

Mesmerized by the movement, I don’t realize I’m still standing in the doorway until a man with a tomato-red sunburn nudges past, mumbling, “Excuse me.”

Lucas casts me a small smirk as he finishes his last thrust and lowers himself to the floor. I move to the freestanding weights next to him, picking up a respectable fifty to start. Squatting with the weight, I watch him in the mirror as he does another set.

There’s something about Lucas that draws me.

It’s different from the immediate pull I felt with Emily, or the pure attraction I’ve been trying to deny I have with Ava—since it’s clear that particular beta wants nothing to do with me.

And it’s definitely different from the fucking annoyance I feel toward Knox.

Lucas is the one member of the group I’m entirely comfortable with.

There’s something about him that puts me at ease.

“So, what’s it like being an Olympic athlete?

” I ask once I finish my first set. I’m partly curious about this man who invited four strangers to join him on a cruise he clearly intended for someone else, and partly asking because I want to understand Emily better.

I want to understand all of them better.

I’ve always been athletic, but nothing compared to Lucas, Emily, and Ava.

Competing in the Olympics is next-level athleticism.

It’s not just talent—it’s borderline obsession striving for a goal of that magnitude.

Discipline so sharp it cuts into their social life, sleep, maybe even their sanity on some days.

Early mornings, double sessions, pain so constant you stop noticing it.

They don’t just train—they live their sport.

Every macro of protein, every hour of rest, so many decisions probably filter through one question: will this make me faster, stronger, better, a winner?

That’s how I picture it from the outside, and I wish I knew more about it on the inside.

Watching Em devour bowls of sugary cereal gets me wondering if she ate like that leading up to Paris, or was it all egg whites and protein shakes?

Does Ava always wear her beloved heels, or when she's getting ready for a competition are sneakers better for her calves and arches? Is a two-hundred-pound hip thrust Lucas’s off season workout?

Lucas shrugs, joining me at the free weights and re-racking his plates. “It is challenging, but rewarding.”

“Did you medal?” I ask, then immediately second-guess myself. It feels like a lazy question, something people ask when they want to sound interested without putting in the effort.

“Bronze,” he answers with something sad in his tone. I feel like a bit of an ass for asking, as if leaving with a medal is the only way the Olympic experience is validated.

“Third best rugby team in the world isn’t anything to brush off.

And there’s always next time for the gold, right?

” I’m not usually one to push a conversation, but there’s something about seeing Lucas wearing a downcast look that doesn’t quite fit his face.

It’s like watching a sunrise through fog.

Off. Dimmed. And it makes me want to offer him something, but I don’t know what.

Reassurance? Respect? Quiet company? I’m out of practice being a good friend since Kyle.

What Kyle and I had wasn’t friendship, though.

Are Lucas and I friends? That feels like a weird question to ask as a grown ass man.

“I won’t be competing in the next Olympics. My pa—team kicked me off.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Do you know what you’ll do now?”

He shakes his head, ditching the sad look for a forced smile and a shrug. “Maybe go pro. I do not need to make any decisions immediately. But I would like to still play rugby. If I can.”

We’re quiet for a few minutes as we both do another set of squats, falling into a matching rhythm.

When he finishes, he sets down the weight and re-ties his hair in a messy knot at the top of his head.

I’ve never had my hair long like that—I don’t think I’d like it.

But it suits Lucas. Every time I see him, he looks like he just stepped off the beach.

You’d think it wouldn’t go well with his champagne scent, but his scent is really more peach bellini, and something about that just fits with the whole bohemian look he’s got going on.

Lucas finishes his set with a grunt and drops the dumbbells with a dramatic flair. “You sure you do not want to switch to something more your speed? Like chair yoga with the silver foxes?”

I don’t even pause between reps, welcoming the jab at our age gap and the way it shifts his sad puppy expression into his usual smile.

The grey hair at my temples has been there since I was in my early thirties and doesn’t faze me one bit.

“Says the guy who almost had a cardiac event on the treadmill yesterday. I’m only thirty-six.

Let me know when puberty hits, and I’ll congratulate you on finally being able to grow chest hair. ”

Lucas’s burst of laughter is like sunshine through a cracked window. Warm, unexpected, and impossible not to turn toward. “The treadmill is a medieval torture device. I do not train for Everest. I train for sprints and horizontal cardio.”

I snort, finishing my set and re-racking the weights. “Horizontal cardio? That what we’re calling missionary these days? I thought such a young buck like yourself had a little more creativity in him.”

Lucas smirks and slaps his thigh. “These legs carried me to Paris and straight into Emily. No treadmill required, and plenty of creative ideas.”

That digs a little, but the glint in his eyes is all play.

I haven’t asked Emily exactly how she knows the guy who offered her a deluxe suite sea voyage, but Lucas’s interest in her is clear.

He hasn’t made any effort to hide it. But it oddly doesn’t spark the same territorialism in me that Knox’s lust-filled gaze does.

I bump my shoulder against his. “Yeah, and straight from her into the cruise buffet.”

He clutches his chest like I wounded him. “Ouch. Low blow to attack my vacation carbohydrates.”

“I’m sure they will still be there when you go back for thirds at midnight.”

Lucas grabs his water bottle and takes a drink. “You are just mad I got there first.”

I roll my shoulders, letting the heat of the workout bleed into my voice.

I’m not sure if we’re talking about the desserts or a sweet little blonde.

Did he get there first? Have they hooked up?

More than sparking jealousy, the thought makes my cock wake up and take notice.

“Mad? Nah. I’m just pacing myself. You ever heard of delayed gratification? ”

“Is that what you call it when you stare at her like she is chocolate cheesecake, but touch her like she is a sugared doughnut and you do not want the sugar to blow off?”

We’re definitely not talking about desserts anymore.

I shoot him a look. Am I being too careful with Emily? Taking things too slow? I don’t want to examine that too much. It might lead me to asking questions I don’t want to answer.

“You’re just as hungry for her,” I say, dropping the pretense and turning the focus off me.

He laughs, low and genuine. “True, my friend.”

I like that he owns up to it. No hedging or hiding. Just honest interest.

There’s a beat of silence, not uncomfortable, but heavy enough to feel like something hangs between us. Like Emily hangs between us.

Another blonde that's less sweet and more spice flits through my thoughts. I’ve seen the way Lucas looks at her, too.

“She is something, huh?” Lucas says, bringing my mind back to Emily. He stretches his arms overhead, flexing muscles he absolutely knows I can see in his sweaty t-shirt.

“Yeah.” I grab a towel and rub it across the back of my neck. “Emily’s… something. Driven, kind, terrible at mini golf. Way too good for either of us.”

He grins. “Speak for yourself. I have charm and a jawline that could cut glass.”

“And I’ve got a retirement plan and emotional maturity.”

Lucas barks out a laugh. “Damn, velho . You might win.”

“ Velho? ”

“It means… bro,” he says too quickly, a secret smirk on his lips.

I raise my eyebrows and glare.

“Fine, it means old, old man . It seemed fitting for you.” He jabs at me with an elbow before jumping away with a smile.

There’s something about Lucas that reminds me a little of Kyle. They look nothing alike. Kyle was dark in most every sense of the word. Dark skin. Dark hair. Dark eyes. But Lucas is playful. Like Kyle was. Before all the emotional trauma toward the end.

“I’m not trying to win,” I say, more serious now. “Not like that.”

I don’t compete over partners. Not anymore.

His face softens a little, and we fall quiet again. The heavy breaths of someone struggling on the nearby treadmill fill the space. Lucas elbows me lightly. “You think there is room in her life for more than one winner?”

“You talking about a team event now?” I arch a brow, but my insides are heavy remembering past hopes, things I said I’d never let myself want again.

He smirks. “You afraid of a little cooperation?”

The light mood sours in my gut, but I keep things going, volleying a retort back to him. “Only if it involves synchronized routines and glitter.”

Lucas chuckles and shakes his head. “Guess we will see what she wants.”

“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “That’s the only part that matters.”

I won’t fight for the affection of someone who doesn’t want me. Not again.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been taking things slow with Emily. I want to be sure she wants this before things progress any farther. Even if my heart’s already all in.

“Want to race on the rower?” Lucas asks, already moving toward it.

“Only if you’re okay losing.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Bring it, velho .”

I shake my head and follow, the sound of our sneakers echoing off the polished floor. My muscles are warmed up, and so is something else—low in my gut, slow and unfamiliar, too long dormant. Cardio isn’t the only thing getting my blood pumping.

There’s an ease to Lucas I envy, and a sunny confidence that draws me in more than my cloudy past wants to admit. We’re circling something. Maybe competition. Maybe curiosity. Maybe her. Them . Or maybe it’s just the way his shirt clings to his back when he walks away.

I follow, shaking my head, breath steady but pulse ticking higher when he looks back at me like he knows I’m checking him out. Maybe he does. Maybe that’s half the fun.