Game Theory × NH

079 | gold

× Horan

It wasn't hard to find Lynn. Not because I knew where she would go, but because I happened to walk past the fitness center and see the lights on. It was passed midnight, the gym hours long after closed, and I knew that Lynn had to be inside.

Coach had provided everyone on the football team a spare key to the building in hopes we would use the fitness center more, any hour of the day. And I knew for a fact that anyone sane wouldn't waste their time of sleeping to pump iron... except for Lynn of course.

Standing inside the entryway, I watched her through the glass windows as she kicked a punching bag, tape wrapped around her knuckles and sweat clinging to her hairline. She had stripped down to only her jeans and a camisole. Her coat, button down shirt and other belongings she had with her lay in a heap on the floor. Not every light was on in the room, but one glowed down on her like a yellow spotlight.

Reece and brought me home and I told him what happened at the party the best I could without giving away my true feelings toward her. He had told me that I just needed to apologize and things would be fine, but I knew it would take more than that to make it up to Lynn. She deserved more than a flimsy I'm sorry... however, it was a start. But at that moment I just needed a change of clothes and a good walk around the halls. It was truly fate that brought me to the same place Lynn would be.

I stepped into the room, the only sound coming from the nylon of the bag as Lynn took hit after hit. It came to a surprise to me that she even boxed at all, but the more I thought about it, it made sense. It may not be visible to the naked eye, but Lynn held a lot of built up anger inside her blood, and there had to be a way to release that somehow.

As I walked closer, her punches increased in strength and I knew she had spotted me.

"I told you to leave me alone," she said between clenched teeth. "Surly you're not ready to talk yet."

I didn't say anything, instead just watched her place hits like the punching bag personally insulted her. Her hits were quick and fluid, her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and the waistband of her jeans was digging into her hips. The tape wrapped around her knuckles was red with fresh blood and her eyes never left the large white X on the bag.

"You're not centered," I observed, watching her stance carefully.

Lynn's eyes shot to me, her shoulders were stressed and her spine was tense. "What?"

When I stepped toward her, she stepped back, the two of us repelling like a pair of like poles. "You have more weight on your right foot when it should be evenly divided," I explained. "You'd have more mobility if you're centered."

"I'm not a professional," she snapped, but I noticed the shift of her weight nevertheless.

Professional or not, Lynn knew what she was doing. 1-2-1-2, 1-2-5-2. Jab right hand, jab left hand. She was throwing hard, no doubt bruising her knuckles despite the tape. She didn't seem fazed that I was watching her from the sidelines - a sign of concentration or a blunt clue to leave her alone.

I probably should have taken her hint and left, leaving her to cool herself down before I even attempt to talk to her about what happened. But I knew there wasn't a chance I'd be getting an ounce of sleep if I don't give her my side of the story - even if it won't validate anything. But she wasn't giving me any emotion and I was willing to go about it anyway I could to get a reaction out of her; good or bad.