Page 69 of Pucking One Night Stand

“I think he’ll fit in perfectly. Damn good player.” I take a moment to breathe.

Behind us, Peters is at the cable machine, drenched in sweat, locked into those lat pull-downs like his contract depends on it. His hoodie’s clinging to his back. Guy trains like a monk.

McAvoy is back near the turf, hammering the sled push. Legs like pistons, arms pumping, face flushed.

Every few seconds, he lets out a grunt that sounds like a war cry. The bass from the speakers keeps time with all of it, big, aggressive energy pounding through the walls.

I exhale hard, loud, groaning through my teeth as I go again. Another rep. And another. No shortcuts. No bullshit. Just me and the fire in my chest and the thought of putting my fist through Bishy’s perfect fuckboy jaw.

“Okay. That’s it for me,” Brody puffs, dropping onto the turf beside me. “I’m beat. I’m going to hit the locker room, grab a shower, then head out.”

I pause. Glance over. Sweat’s dripping down my temples, and my shirt’s stuck to me like a second skin.

Brody leans back on his hands. “Oh…you going to meet me and Mariana at your Mom and Bill’s tonight?”

I lean forward, panting. “Suppose so.”

He stands, claps a hand on my shoulder, firm, not pitying. Just solid. Real. “Try not to worry,” he says. “These things have a way of working themselves out.”

“Love to know how,” I mutter.

He starts walking toward the door. “See you later,” he throws over his shoulder, then calls out to Peters and McAvoy. “Okay, girls. See you both tomorrow.”

McAvoy straightens, grabbing his towel. “Wait up. I’m leaving now, too.”

Peters chimes in, “Yeah, and me.”

They pass me, both shooting a look in my direction. One of those subtle, bro-ey nods that says, “Hang in there.” Then they’re gone. Just the echo of footsteps, the slam of the gym door.

But I’m not done. Not even close.

I grip the Roman chair tighter. If I just keep going, if I push till something snaps, maybe I can make things right. Maybe I’ll stop wanting to rip my damn skin off every time I think about Cassy's expression this morning.

Just as I’m catching my breath, the door opens again.

And he walks in. Bishy with Davis trailing behind him like his hype man.

Every part of me goes rigid. My breath turns into a knife. My fists curl, but I stay quiet. Barely.

Davis drifts toward the lat machine, stretching, earbuds in, oblivious.

But Bishy? He comes right for me. All swagger. All smug. That same ratty grin he wore when he handed me the fucking cash like a prize.

“Guess who’s looking for you?” His tone’s laced with mock innocence. A smirk is practically glued to his face.

I don’t take the bait. “Who?”

“McCullum.” He leans in like we’re sharing secrets. “He’s in a stinking mood. Has someone been a naughty boy?”

Then he ruffles my fucking hair.

My vision flashes red. I knock his hand away, stand up slowly, quietly, and controlled. “I advise you to leave me alone.”

He shoves his face into mine, his breath sticky with pre-workout and that cologne he thinks makes him irresistible.

“Or what?”

Then he shoves me backward. Just a step.