Breaking the Grid

Baxk in London

Blair's POV

A few days later, I'm back in London, finally catching my breath after the chaos of the last race. It's been two days since I returned, and today I just got back from my usual run. Exhausted, I collapse onto the couch, grabbing my laptop to catch up on some emails and whatever else I've been ignoring. As I start scrolling, the doorbell rings, breaking the rare peace in my home.

I frown, not expecting anyone. Getting up, I head to the hallway and glance at the camera. A young man stands at the door, looking a bit nervous but composed. I open the door cautiously.

"Can I help you?" I ask, my tone uncertain.

The man extends his hand, a friendly smile on his face. "Hi, I'm Aaron. I'm the coach—you booked a series of training sessions with me?"

I blink, confused. "Coach? I didn't book any coach."

Aaron furrows his brow slightly, then pulls out his phone and shows me an email. It has my address, a detailed workout program, and all the information I apparently gave him.

I glance at the screen, narrowing my eyes. The program looked intense.

"Can I see that?" I ask, gesturing to his phone. Aaron hands it over, and I scan the email. My eyes roll as I spot the sender—my dad's email address.

Of course. Typical. I work out every day, run, train, do everything I can, but apparently it's never enough for him. I sigh, feeling the frustration bubbling up.

"Right. This was my dad's idea, not mine," I mutter, handing his phone back.

Aaron shrugs. "I'm just here to help. If you don't want to—"

I cut him off, feeling a mix of anger and resignation. "No, it's fine. We can start."

If my dad wanted me to train even harder, I might as well show him how far I can push it.

I lead Aaron inside, showing him the way to my home gym. It's tucked into the corner of the house, all sleek equipment and state-of-the-art machines. Everything I need to push myself harder is right here, not that it's ever felt enough for my dad.

As we step into the room, I catch his raised eyebrows, clearly impressed. "Nice setup," he says, dropping his gym bag on the floor.

"Thanks," I reply, though my tone is still stiff, the whole situation feeling like something I didn't sign up for. Because I didn't.

Aaron isn't here to be nice, and I realize that quickly. The moment we enter my home gym, the air shifts. There's no small talk. He's all business.

"Let's get started," he says sharply, eyes scanning me like he's already sizing up my limits—limits he clearly plans to break.

I grab the jump rope, but before I can even start, he's in my face. "Faster. You can do more than that."

I blink. "We haven't even begun."

"Doesn't matter. Warm-ups are supposed to push you. You're an athlete. You're used to this." His tone is clipped, almost dismissive, like I'm supposed to already be sprinting in place. "If you want to be better, this is how."

I grit my teeth and start jumping, pushing harder than usual right out of the gate. The sweat comes quicker than expected, muscles burning as the rhythm intensifies. But even as I increase the pace, Aaron's still pacing around me, eagle-eyed, like he's waiting for me to crack.

"Keep your form tight. You're already slowing," he snaps. I haven't slowed at all, but I keep my mouth shut and keep going, feeling the heat rise in my chest—not from the exercise, but from frustration.