I was all but sprinting when I made it to the stadium, the espresso kicking through my pulse like a war drum. I flew through the metal doors, down the hallway, swinging into the cafeteria only to find that the team wasn’t there yet. I glanced at my watch again, squinting as I tried to remember Clay’s schedule.

Weight room.

A little hop had me switching directions and power walking in the opposite direction. I didn’t think about what I would say, or about the consequences of what I was about to ask as I ripped open the weight room doors and hurdled inside.

Loud rap music assaulted me as soon as I did, but it was no match for my heart thundering in my ears as I scoured the room until I found Clay. He was on his back, a bar saddled with heavy weights across his chest as he heaved a breath and pushed it up toward where Holden was spotting him.

With one last deep breath, I made a beeline for him, ignoring the players who arched their brows at me as I passed. Holden helped Clay rack the bar just as I approached, and he’d no sooner sat up on the bench before I was wrapping my hand around his wrist and tugging him off it.

“I need you.”

Clay

Giana’s grip was mighty fierce for how small she was, and she all but dragged me through the weight room as my teammates watched curiously. I followed her with an amused smile, shrugging at the players who tilted their chins at me as if to ask, “What the hell is going on?”

Coach Dawson slammed a hand hard into my chest before we hit the doors.

“Training isn’t over,” he said — more to Giana than to me.

“Sorry, Coach. We need Johnson for a quick podcast interview. He’ll be back in fifteen minutes or less, I promise.”

She held her shoulders back as she said it, though I didn’t miss the thick swallow in her throat as she stared up at him. He was at least a foot-and-a-half taller than her, and three times as large. His brow furrowed, a heavy sigh leaving his chest before he took his hand off mine.

“Ten minutes,” he conceded. “You’ll run laps for every minute after.”

I nodded, and then Giana was tugging me out the door.

“So, what podcast is this for?” I teased, knowing damn good and well this had nothing to do with public relations.

Giana ignored me until we walked past a training supply closet, the door of which she wrenched open before shoving me inside.

It was pitch black when the door shut behind us, the silence almost deafening compared to the raucous noise of the weight room down the hall. Giana’s breathing was heavy in that quiet, like a caged animal.

“The light should be—”