Andre

It's barely seven a.m., and my muscles already burn.

I grip the dumbbells in my hand and curl the weight in sets of ten. I grunt and sweat as I grit my teeth, trying to make gains.

Go big or go home.

I grunt and growl as I lift and curl.

I look at myself in the mirror. My arms look too thin to me. They need more definition, more bulk. The stronger the arm, the further I can throw the ball, right?

My earbuds pump in my ear, strong bass blaring out the clanging of metal as men and women drop weights around me.

I left campus and went to the local YMCA this morning. I need a change of scenery. I need variations of equipment and classes to help me get shredded.

I like this gym more than the weight room at school. There is a wider variety of locals and people of every flavor.

The old, the young, the large, and the small seem to come together in harmony for a common goal.

To improve their health, their body image, their mental stability, and sometimes, just to burn off stress or anger.

There is something comforting about this place. Something inspiring. Everyone here is trying to improve for themselves. They're not trying to prove anything to anyone else, and I like that.

Moving my body feels good.

The burn feels good.

So much has been going on lately that I need this small break to sweat it out and forget all my worries, thoughts, and concerns.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

I focus my attention on my arms as I curl the weights. My biceps begin to swell, and my triceps respond in kind. The pain is a reminder that I'm pushing my body and growing stronger.

Every repetition brings me closer to a stronger body and a better me. Yet, my focus remains on the task at hand. Curl. Contract. Release. Curl. Contract. Release.

The sweat begins to drip down my face and clothes as music drowns my thoughts.

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I smile. I feel more confident now, more powerful.

I take a moment to appreciate how far I have come on my journey.

My body is stronger than ever, and I am proud of what I have accomplished in such a short time since coming to this school, but I can do more. I can be better.

I'm ready for the next challenge. Ready for the next step. Ready for the next level. I'm ready to show my team what I am made of. I can help us get to the championship game. We can beat the odds.

I am a beast.

I am a machine.

I grunt as the music consumes me.

The bass thunders against my ear drums when someone taps my shoulder.

I nearly drop the dumbbell when I look into the mirror and see Dontae standing over my shoulder, grinning ear to ear.

"Sup, bro?" he bellows, and I take out an earbud, cringing as I notice everyone in the gym looking our way at his attempt to get my attention.

"Chill, Dontae, I hear you. I was just in the zone," I groan, and he chuckles, slapping my shoulder.

"I feel you," he gruffs as he flicks his eyes around the room. "I was just shooting some hoops down the hall. I didn't realize you were going to be here this early." He shrugs, and I put the dumbbell back on the rack.

"Ain't no rest for the wicked." I nod and smirk, which makes Dontae laugh some more.

"I feel that in my soul, brotha."

"So, what you getting into?" I ask, wiping sweat from my brow.

"Thought I'd bench a little, maybe work lats, then move on to legs," Dontae shrugs, and I nod in agreement.

"Arms and legs?" I raise a brow, and he nods.

"Fair enough, let's do this shit," I grumble and unpause my music, but I turn the volume down so I can still hear Dontae talk.

"Excellent." He bumps my knuckles with his.

"Benching sounds good," I muse, and he laughs again. He's full of giggles this morning.

"You been looking a little pressed lately, so that makes sense," he crows and slaps his hands together.

"Ha-ha, very funny, Dontae." I roll my eyes and motion for him to follow me to the bench.

"You going first?" I ask, and he shrugs.

"Sure thing, you should rest a minute. You look pressed enough as it is." He continues to chuckle, and I wonder why I spend my time with someone so cheesy.

"Okay, okay, I get it. I'm stressed, depressed, and feeling pressed. Get your laughs out now." I adjust the weights on the bar for him.

"More," he demands, and I do as he says, and I spot him for several sets.

We chat about the team and our goals for the year, and naturally, he brings up Kiara.

"So, you seen her lately?" he asks as we switch spots, and I take the bench.

"Not in a minute," I confess with a sigh.

"Yeah, she can be a little fickle," Dontae says distantly, and his composure stiffens.

"Not really," I grunt as I lift the bar.

Dontae is silent for a moment, then he sighs. "Oh, yeah? Perhaps, I made a bad impression on her."

I let out a slight laugh, and he shoots me an eye roll. "Not you, Dontae. How could that ever be?" I ask sarcastically.

"Very funny," Dontae growls, and I whistle.

"I'm just playing, bro. You know I think you're the shit," I grunt as I lift the bar once more. "But why you say that?" I ask curiously, and Dontae loses himself to his thoughts.

His hesitation and silence send chills through my body. Have I struck a nerve? Am I missing something? Why is he behaving so strangely?

I struggle to lift the bar, my arms buckling from under the weight, and I nearly drop the weight.

"Dontae!" I snarl, and he snaps back to reality.

"Oh, shit," he shouts, grabbing the bar. "I got it, I got it, I got it!"

"What the hell?" I pant as the bar slides back into place, and my arms are finally free of the burden. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Dontae laughs forcefully. "I'm sorry, Dre. I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well, and I really hit the court hard this morning."

I shrug and nod. It's not an unbelievable story.

Still.

Something feels off.

Something is going on with Dontae.

"You alright?" I ask, concerned, and Dontae shakes his head.

"I'm good, I'm good, no need to worry," he affirms, and I let it be.

I’m quiet for a moment and then I flick my eyes across the room. "Lateral pulls before we move onto legs?"

Dontae grunts in agreement, and we set to our task.

We are quiet for the first few steps, just our breaths and heavy breathing to keep us company.

"Outta curiosity, though," I finally say, and Dontae stiffens as he works the machine.

"Yeah?" he grunts through breaths.

"Why would you call Kiara fickle?" I ask with genuine interest, and Dontae clenches his jaw.

Frustration ripples across his face, and he jerks his eyes toward me, losing his grip on the lateral pull. The weights crash down with an angry clank, and everyone in the gym turns to stare at us.

"You guys alright?" A gym employee calls, and Dontae growls under his breath.

"All good, here," I lie and flash a concerned look to Dontae.

"What is going on with you?" I hiss quietly, and his entire body tightens.

"I told you I'm fine," he snaps and turns to walk away from me, but I place a hand on his shoulder.

"What is it? You can tell me," I insist, and he turns to face me.

"It's not about Kiara," he grumbles. "She's just like the rest of them. They all the same, Drey. They too good for us, and all they want is attention. Everyone should fall at their feet and beg for them."

I feel myself cringe at his words.

His opinions on women sometimes turn my stomach.

"No, bruh, she's ain’t like that," I plead while shaking my head, and Dontae sneers.

"They all like that, Dre, you know it. I know it. White boy knows it. It's only a matter of time before Kiara proves that thot shit to you." He pulls away from my grasp and jerks his shoulder.

I feel my muscles tighten as he speaks of her this way.

"You'll find out sooner or later, and then you won't think I'm so crazy." He storms out of the gym, the glass door slamming behind him.

I feel my face flush as all eyes are on me, and I cannot help but wonder what the hell is going on with my best friend.

His increasingly odd behavior is beginning to worry me.

I will get to the bottom of this.

I will find out what's going on with Donate, and I will do everything in my power to help him out of this funk.

I walk over to the punching bag, grabbing some gloves and slam my fist into its hard exterior.

Whack.

Whack.

Whack.

I feel like a ticking time bomb.

Why is everyone so sensitive? Why do I get so pressed when I hear the way other guys talk about Kiara?

I look at myself in the mirror and gulp.

Figure your shit out, Dre.