Dunc: I’m sorry, Lo. Please, don’t hate me.
My lungs feel like they're about to rip out of my chest cavity. But instead of focusing on the pain, I focus on each mile, putting one foot in front of the other. I run on the treadmill another monotonous mile, and still, it does absolutely nothing to distract me from the mess cluttering my mind.
I'm all in my head, thinking and wondering where Harloe ran off to last night. When I got up this morning to come to practice, I couldn't stop the incessant need to go by her place. So, I did. I went by her place, and there was her car parked in one of their designated parking spots as if it never moved to begin with.
I know I'm not going crazy. Easton took Jenna out last night, and when he did, Harloe wasn't there. He texted and told me himself because he knew my plans for breaking in. From what Jenna let slip, when he oh, so casually asked for me, the last she'd seen of her was when Traven picked her up for their date.
Something must have happened between then and when she left campus altogether, and I hate the fact I don't know what it was. Nor do I particularly like the fact that I don't have the right to.
Unlikely, she'd tell me anything, even if it were. Harloe is a largely private person, besides being a hellcat. She used to keep to herself, and from what I've noticed, she still does. The only people she goes out of her way to talk to have been Jenna, and sometimes that douche Traven.
Goddammit, I hate the coil of need twisting in my stomach. Harloe has me tied in knots, and not knowing where she is or even if she's okay, has me fucked. Even if I shouldn't, I can't help it. Worrying about Harloe, whether we're on good or bad terms, is tattooed into my very flesh. The ink has run to my bones, marking me forever. I will always worry about her, whether she gives me a second thought or not.
I just have a shitty way of showing it if my past actions have anything to say about it.
"Come on, you bunch of pussies!" Coach yells, banging his fist against his open palm. "Opening season is four months away, and you all are lifting like little girls! Put some fire under your asses, or you'll be running bases until you puke! Go! Go! Go!"
"Yes, Coach!" Everyone yells in unison. Our grunts and gasps are the only things reverberating off the walls besides the rhythmic clink, clink, clink of metal weights.
When I see Coach walk back into his office, I slide my Bluetooth earbuds back into my ears and up the speed on the treadmill. “We Dem Boyz” by Wiz Khalifa starts playing at random, and I find myself getting lost to the rhythm, my feet pounding the machine in time with the bass. I see nothing in front of me, completely spacing out.
It isn't until my earbuds are being jerked out of my ears that I see one of the underlings on the team staring at me expectantly. Cocking a brow, I hop onto the side of the treadmill and give him my attention. If he's stupid enough to get all in my business while I'm running, then he must have some important shit to say.
When he says nothing but continues to stare at me, I get irritated. "What?"
His eyes flick down to my phone, then back up at me, like he wants to say something but doesn't know how. We're not supposed to have cellphones in the gym. Walkman or something that plays music is fine, but no cell phones because Coach wants us to focus on our regimen.
Stopping the treadmill all together, I round on him. Wiping the sweat off my forehead, my chest rises and falls with heavy breathing. My calves and upper thighs scream from the gruesome punishment I put them through. My body always gets the short end of the stick when I'm stressed or pissed. Because I usually run or workout until I can barely walk.
"Coach know you have a phone?" he finally asks.
Ah, so he's one of those.
I shift slightly, so as not to embarrass him in front of everyone. It seems this kid came into the fold after I became Captain. "You don't know who I am, do you?"
He shrugs, uncaring. "Coach said no phones at practice."
I bark out a dry chuckle, knowing full well the two guys right next to me lifting weights have stopped their reps all together to watch the show. I do hate people that can't mind their own business.
Licking my bottom lips, I lean in conspiratorially, wagging my finger at him to do the same. The stupid fool does. “You want to know something?"
"What?"
That's all he gets out before my fist meets the side of his face, and his ass meets the rubber floor. His hand rises to his cheek, face expressing astonishment, as it slowly blooms with color. He stares up at me with pure shock, like he can't believe I put hands on him.
Baring my teeth in a feral smile, I completely ignore everyone as I get off the treadmill and hunker down into the new guy’s face. I reach forward, grinning wider when he jerks away from me in anger.
"I should probably warn you, new guy. I don't do well with people getting in my business."
"Dude ..." Some guy, I think his name is Derrick, crows with laughter by the bench press machine. He's looking at the guy lying spread out on the floor, eyes glimmering with amusement. "Jordan, I told you to step the fuck off Prince, but did you listen? No."
The guy I laid out jumps to his feet, nostrils flaring in fury. "He didn't have to punch me. Damn."
"You got in my bubble," I say with a half-shrug.
He turns to me. "You're a fucking asshole."
That makes me chuckle. Like I don't know. Very few people get the side of me that doesn't come filled with my assholery.
Derrick bends over with laughter, holding his stomach. "Being an asshole is Prince's default setting, you loser. Now, dust your ass and bruised pride off, and get the fuck back over here, we have reps to finish."
Jordan grumbles under his breath, staring at my cell phone and then back up at me before he takes off across the gym to Derrick. The latter meets my eyes, shaking his head as he laughs. I don't know him, but he knows of me. The second we stepped foot in the gym for tryouts, he already knew to stay out of my way.
He was also the first guy who voted for me to become team Captain. Because he knew no one from any opposing team would be able to run over me. I'm an asshole, with reason, and that just helps when it comes to shitty, arrogant pricks who believe they can get one over on other teams they play against.
As I get back up on the treadmill, I chance a look at my cell phone. We're really not supposed to have them, so the rookie was right. But I'll be damned if I allow him to know that. I also don't give a shit what Coach says. He's too afraid of pissing off my old man, so he won't say or do anything when it comes to putting me back in line.
Staring at the screen, I see a missed call from my older brother. It reminds me that I still need to make it back home and have a conversation that seems to be long overdue between us. It won't be pretty, that's all I know.
Also, seeing his name on my screen fills me with a level of rage I haven't felt for quite some time. I was pretty pissed when Harloe showed up, but it wasn't the end of the world. The anger I feel punching my gut now? It feels like I could obliterate the entire world with no problem.
I absolutely hate being lied to. That's why Harloe and I got along so well when we were younger. She hated lying, thought it was a waste of time. Her words were, "If you have to lie, then you don't need to be doing it in the first place."