Page 84 of The Overtime Persuasive

I reach the line and stop. My breathing comes hard. My arms shake with the effort of holding myself upright. I wipe my face with the bottom of my shirt and move to the assault bike, setting my water bottle beside it. My legs protest as I climb on, which feels deserved.

The fan roars when I start pedaling. Every goal. Every win. Every time Coach trusts him with a line change or asks him for an opinion. I take each one and add it to a scoreboard Tripp may not even know exists. Then I resent him for leading.

The realization irritates me enough that I pedal faster.

I’m…jealous?

This doesn’t mean Tripp is innocent. He knows how to provoke me. He’s been doing it for more than a decade, and I refuse to take full responsibility for a rivalry with a grown man who once mailed me a framed photograph of the scoreboard after his college team beat mine.

But…Eva. When Tripp hugged her, I asked her out. Finally.

I have wanted Eva since the first day we met. Tripp didn’t create that. Yet, I waited until another man might get there first before I did anything.

Unease courses through my body as the realization really sinks in. Even wanting Eva just had to become something I could win.

“Snyder, you ding-dong,” I growl to myself. The trainer across the room glances my way, so I pretend I’m upset about my workout.

Eva kissed me because she wanted to, then she came to my game because I asked. No competition required.

What is it they say about our minds? That they’re like dangerous neighborhoods, don’t ever go in alone.

I climb off the bike, wipe it down, and grab my bag.

My workout isn’t finished, but I am.

I sit in my truck with the engine off, both hands resting on the steering wheel.

Outside, people come and go through the gym entrance. A woman carries a yoga mat toward the car beside mine. Two guys walk past laughing, gym bags thrown over their shoulders.

Everything looks normal, yet inside this truck, my entire understanding of who I am is being rearranged by a woman who once told me to “suck eggs.”

I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The bruise on my face is darker and more pronounced as it heals. The cut on my lip is healing, too. Neither one bothers me as much as what Eva said.

From the first day we met, she called me an arrogant flirt. I acted offended because acting offended was easier than admitting she’d seen straight through me. I set out to prove her wrong, but every visit to Side B became another kind of performance. Make her laugh. Make myself useful. Become the person she calls first.

It’s the same wall I built with Tripp. With him, I compete. With Eva, I perform. Both let me stay close without admitting how much I need either of them.

Except, with Eva, it’s different. I don’t want to be someone she has to keep figuring out. I want her to know me when I have nothing useful to offer and no joke ready—and still want me there.

I pick up my phone and open my messages. Eva’s name appears near the top, and I smile before I can stop myself. My thumb settles over it.

I want to send her a quick hello. More than that, I want to call her. I want to hear her say my name in that soft voice she used this morning. I want to ask if she needs help at Side B—boxes packed, shelves moved, anything that would give me a reason to stand beside her until everything in my head goes quiet again.

Mostly, I want her voice more than I want to deal with Tripp.

Which is exactly why I can’t call her. So, I open our conversation anyway and type two words.

You busy?

All she has to do is answer, and I’ll find an excuse to go to her instead of doing the harder, less comfortable thing waiting for me here.

I stare at the words for another second before holding down the backspace key.

The empty message box feels like denying myself something I have no business needing this badly.

Then I close our conversation and move to the name I came here for.

The last thing Tripp sent me is a photograph of his bruised eyebrow.