Page 42 of Built To Perform

Adam was going to be less forgiving, I could tell that from the moment I walked into our dorm room and he punched me in the chest.

“Hey!” I winced, though more from the surprise - and the fury behind it - than the impact itself.

“You asshole! Do you have any idea how fucking scared I was?”

He jabbed at me again, eyes blazing.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, “but it was okay in the end.”

My roommate stared at me as if I was unbelievably ridiculous, not just naive.

“But it could’ve been so much worse, Eoin. And you lied to me, and to Clay, and Jefferson had to... I mean, fuck!”

I caught his hand, as the third punch swung. Feeling him tense against me, briefly try to fight my grip, before he gave up. His whole body deflating, almost.

“I’m really, really sorry I scared you,” I told him, and meant it.

“You’d better be,” Adam said, frostily, then pulled me into a hug. Long arms wrapped around me, clinging like he was still half-worried that I might disappear again.

I stroked his back, marveling at the people I’d somehow - inexplicably - found my life now including. Not just my teammates, impressive as they were, but real friends outside of that, too. For all I’d complained to Jefferson about making sacrifices, giving up double that seemed like it’d still be a worthy price for what I currently had.

Which reminded me. “What, exactly, did Jefferson do? At the club, I mean.”

Adam snorted. “You know the phrase ‘like a bull in a china shop’? Well, they should change it to ‘like an angry wrestler in a strip club.’”

I winced. “How angry are we talking?”

“Armageddon?” Adam shrugged, then pulled back from me. “Like, scary-levels of angry. It would’ve been hot, quite frankly, if I hadn’t been so worried.”

I gave him a look. “I knew your one-track mind would figure out some way to get a thrill out of it.” His grin suggested my scold didn’t have much impact. “I hope he doesn’t get into trouble. Jefferson, I mean.”

“I mean, when you run a club where eighteen-year-olds get groped in back rooms? I’m not sure those are the sort of people who call the police when someone busts the place up and breaks your arm.”

“He broke his arm?!”

Adam gestured the concern away, blithely. “Or dislocated it, maybe. I’m not a doctor. I’m just pretty sure limbs aren’t meant to dangle like that.”

“Fuck. I mean, he deserved it, but I hope Jefferson doesn’t get in trouble.”

#

I should’ve worried more about myself, of course. A mistaken assumption I quickly reassessed, when I saw the message from Coach on my phone.

A summoning, terse and with no room for negotiation.

The hallways of the sports center were quiet. Impossible not to read something ominous into that, as though the world was holding its breath. Waiting to see what version of Coach I’d get: the coldly furious one, whose every sharp word landed like a lash; or the bellowing, impatient one, volume making every criticism cut so much harder.

He was fair, Donny had told me once, scrupulously so. A clarity of mind that came from having himself once been where his team now stood. But the flip side of that was an impatience born of experience and high expectations. As though, having presumably run through every possible excuse himself in his own days as a college wrestler, Coach now considered each protest expended. Used up, and so if we wanted to beg mercy, we’d need to find some new way to do it.

The knowledge that I’d disappointed him - no, not just that, but actively gone against him - scoured my stomach like acid.

I clutched my bag, trying not to look too anxious, too nervous. Still, it took me a good minute to pluck up the courage to knock on the door.

“Come.”

A sharp glance up from paperwork spread across his desk. Not untidy, just voluminous.

I waited, not daring to sit down until invited.