Location: Gym Date: Tuesday, January 4 Time: Fox Morning Practice (open)
You can't hide in here forever, Wymack said to him, after a week or so of Bryce staying his apartment and doing just that. Watch me, he'd said, knowing it was a done deal even then and so, here he is, in a gym surrounded by Foxes on a Tuesday morning like he never fucking left.
If he hadn't left, if he'd stayed, he'd be getting ready to play for a spot in the Championships. Instead, he's sitting on the sidelines, haunting the team he used to be the fucking Captain of, waiting to see if the lawyers that Wymack hooked him up with can strike a deal to keep him out of fucking prison. Keeping his fingers crossed that they'll send his brother there instead.
Although, who knows—maybe, if he had stayed, the Foxes wouldn't have this shot at all. Maybe he'd have kept running the team right into the fucking ground. The fucking butterfly effect, or whatever.
He listens to Wymack, with one notable exception. Figures that, after however many years of picking up lost causes just like Bryce he knows what he's doing, what he's about. But if Wymack made Bryce Captain and he sucked at it, then which of them fucked it up worse? He's stared at the back of Wymack's head for days now, wanting to ask—What did you see in me? You must be kicking yourself now, huh?—but he hasn't been brave enough yet.
But brave is what he needs to be now, walking into a gym full of Foxes he left behind. He's never been big on apologies, and he isn't about to start now. Not when it feels like he'd never be able to fucking stop if he started, like he'd just have to bleed and bleed until there was nothing left. Easier not to, even if it doesn't make him very many friends. Never back down, never explain.
"Need a spot?" He asks, keeping his tone level, his face blank. Like it's just another day in the weight room.
He isn't about to ask for the reverse. That seemed like a surefire way to end up with a barbell to the neck. Though that'd solve a few of his problems, at least.













