Page 86 of Puck Your Feelings

Punch.

"Why."

The last hit sends a shock wave up my arm that makes my teeth rattle. Groover takes a half-step back, eyebrows raised.

"Jesus, Becker. Save some bag for the rest of us."

I step back, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. My knuckles throb beneath the wraps, the pain sharp and clarifying. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be specific. What happened?"

I drop into a half-hearted fighting stance again, throwing lighter jabs now. "They talked. Him and his old man. Kane came back looking like someone died. And now he can't even look me in the eye."

"And you called him on it."

"Of course I called him on it! What was I supposed to do, pretend I didn't notice he's falling apart?"

Groover sighs. "Come on, Becker. Give him some space."

I stop mid-punch. "Why? So he can…what? Spiral further down whatever hole his dad dug for him?"

"Because whatever happened out there clearly wasn't pretty, and you can be intense as fuck."

"Intense?" I sputter. "I'm not intense, I'm concerned! There's a difference!"

Groover sends me a look. "You're about two seconds away from hyperventilating in a gym at 11 PM while assaulting equipment. That's the dictionary definition of 'intense.'"

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Fuck.

The fight drains out of me like someone pulled a plug. I slump forward, hugging the heavy bag to support myself, breathing in the synthetic leather smell mixed with sweat.

Groover's right. He's always right about this emotional intelligence shit, the bastard. And I hate it. I hate that my first instinct was to push when Kane was already at the breaking point. I hate that I stormed out instead of giving him time to process whatever nuclear-grade bullshit his dad dumped on him.

I hate that I'm standing in a gym at nearly midnight, sweaty and pathetic, while Kane's alone in our cabin probably thinking I'm never coming back.

"I fucked up, didn't I?" I mumble into the bag.

Groover's hand lands on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Not necessarily. You cared enough to get mad. That's not nothing."

"Yeah, but I also cared enough to bail when he probably needed me to stay."

"So go back. Just... dial it down from eleven to maybe a six, would you?"

I let out a breathy laugh. "When have I ever been capable of a six?"

"Fair point. Aim for a seven, then."

I straighten up, rolling my shoulders back. My hands still ache beneath the wraps, but the white-hot rage has cooled to something more manageable. Something that might actually allow me to have a conversation instead of another meltdown.

"Thanks," I say, starting to unwrap my hands. "For helping me hit things."

"That's what friends are for." Groover pauses. "That, and telling you when you're being a dumbass."

"Am I being a dumbass?"

"Always. But in this specific case..." He shrugs. "You can't sledgehammer your way through walls. You need to knock of the door."

I toss the wraps into the bin. "So what, I just wait for him to decide I'm worth letting in?"