Chapter 3

December 11th

3:15 p.m.

Savage Boxing Gym was quiet at this time of day, mid-afternoon on a Monday, before the after-work rush. The bonus of being a student was that I could come here during the quiet times, in between my lectures.

Maybe I had an ulterior motive for showing up at this particular gym when I knew Ryan would be here, training his clients. Maybe there was a masochistic streak in me because he'd made it clear that I'd burned any and all bridges between us.

He drew my attention all the way across the gym, but I pretended like I hadn't seen him. That was the way we played things. We acted like we weren't aware of each other's existence, like we hadn't been best friends once. Like we hadn't grown up in the same town, gone to the same school. Like I hadn't ruined everything between us, not once, but twice.

"December" by Ariana Grande played softly in the background as I watched his arms flex, his easy laugh reaching my ears as he directed his client to adjust his stance. Gritting my teeth, I tore my gaze away from the mats he was training on, focusing on my bicep curls. How, of all the places in the country, had we both ended up here in this corner of London?

He caught me watching him, and his laughter died away. His eyes narrowed, flashing with a warning that I could read all too easily.

Snapping my gaze to my dumbbells, away from him, I focused back on my weights routine.

The mirrors in front of me allowed me to unobtrusively glance at him every now and then. The way he was so at ease with the guy he was training, how his posture was relaxed and open. Maybe we could've had that if I hadn't tried to kiss him and fucked things up yet again.

He moved over to the punch bags, and as his client went to work on a speedball, he took his place in front of one of the bags. My grip tightened on the metal bars in my hands as I attempted to act like I was unaffected by his presence. He'd been gorgeous before, tall and broad-shouldered, but it was nothing compared to the way he looked now. It had been less than four months since I'd seen him last, but he'd changed from the boy I'd once known to a man. He took my fucking breath away.

With his feet planted firmly on the floor, his entire focus was on the bag as his gloves connected with the leather in a steady, mesmerising rhythm. His rich brown hair was damp, and droplets of sweat tracked down his body, glistening in the overhead lights.

I swallowed hard, turning away.

I quietly finished up my workout routine, burning with a sudden need to escape. It was always this way whenever I saw him, the combination of sadness, regret, and guilt, and buried deep underneath, the feelings I still had for him. Feelings I hoped had gone away. But the second I'd seen him again, here in the gym, it had been like being hit with a ton of bricks.

In the showers after my workout, I let my head fall against the tiles, allowing myself a minute to remind myself that feeling anything for him was a dead end, before pulling myself together. I had to get past this.

It was beyond time.

Despite what I told myself, thoughts of Ryan still filled my mind. My cock hardened as I pictured him, his torso gleaming with sweat, the way his powerful muscles pounded the punch bag, a violent grace to his movements. The dark line of stubble that framed his jaw—how deliciously abrasive it would be against my skin. Sliding my hand down my torso, I reached down to grip my hard length, stroking myself while I imagined him entering the shower, sinking to his knees, and sucking my cock. I came with a hoarse cry, my hand braced against the wall as the water washed away the evidence of what I'd done.

Afterwards, the shame crawled its way up my throat, suffocating me. Why couldn't I let go of Ryan Jackson? Why was I torturing myself this way?