I sit up, curling forward, black muscle tee clinging to my chest. Arms burning. My water’s handed to me and I down what’s left in two gulps. I rub the back of my hand across my mouth and lift my gaze to Mason’s.

“Happy? Can I go back to the couch now?”

“Nope.”

Sweat drips into my eye and I wince. I lift my shirt to scrub my face.

“We need to talk.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Distantly, I hear the treadmill slow down. A second later, the music lowers.

“You guys done?” Shawn asks gruffly, hardly out of breath.

“All yours, man,” I say.

Mason tugs on a wrinkled white t-shirt and combs back his hair. “You gonna tell me what the hell that was last night?”

I cock my head. “What the hell was what?”

Shawn grunts and my mouth lifts. It’s not quite a laugh, but I’ll take it. The guy’s too serious for his own good.

Mason levels me with a look, his eyes so light a blue they look nearly silver. “Just been thinking.”

Shit. “Well, don’t hurt yourself on account of little ol’ me.”

He rolls his eyes and heads toward the heavy bag in the opposite corner.

I release a sharp breath.

Following him, I grip the bag, pulling it away from him. Its rough red leather texture grating against my palms. He starts wrapping his left hand with practiced ease. For someone who didn’t even know how to throw a punch when we were kids, he’s sure come a long way.

I chew on the inside of my cheek, considering. Then, “My dad’s trying for parole.”

He pauses. Lifts his gaze to mine through his lashes. “Again?”

I smile quick and tight. “That’s what I said.”

He searches my gaze, lowering his hand. I grab it from him and finish tucking in the tape. I focus on that, shoving down the emotions that come with dear old dad in the hopes Mason doesn’t pick up on it.

Better this than Will, though, I remind myself. It’s a cold day in Hell when I prefer to talk about my sorry excuse for a father, and that day appears to be today.

“Nothing will change,” he assures me quietly, seeing right through me.

I swallow and grab the roll of tape. He lifts his other hand for me to wrap. “I know.”

“Do you?”

I pause. “He’d be an idiot to even come near me. Parole officers don’t look too kindly on repeat offenses. He’d be lucky if he can even have a beer without them dragging him back off to prison.”