Chapter Two

Nick Steller was still mulling over the drastic changes of a girl he had no reason to mull over when he made his weekly trip to the gym two days after running into Lita Oakley in Science Hall. He had not seen or spoken to her since then, and he had even been busy. There was no reason for him to wonder or worry.

He made his determined way into the weight room and threw himself into his usual routine, moving methodically from one machine to the next and exercising muscle groups from the top down. Their football team line-up was promising this year. Of course, it would still take a bit of skill and quite a bit more strength to overcome Western University's lineup, but... nothing impossible.

It was two hours and many sore muscles later that Nick stepped into one of the showers for a quick scrub-down after his workout. After letting the hot water loosen up the kinks in his back and wash away the sweat, he toweled off his somewhat unruly brown hair, got dressed, and left the locker room.

He had almost made it around the corner when a fleeting glance into one of the rooms made him stop in his tracks.

It was one of the smaller rooms in the fitness center, about the size of a dance studio. But instead of mirrors and music, the floor was lined with vinyl mats and the ceiling hung with punching bags. And it was just at that moment that the girl he'd been mulling over was alone in the room, clad in a tank top and a pair of track pants and whaling into a punching bag with brutal force.

Nick Steller had no reason to walk in at that moment and halt her workout by talking to her. In fact, it might have been considered a reckless thing to do. Her right fist caught the punching bag with a jab that would have felled a man even as he walked up to her. She gave no acknowledgement aside from a narrowing of the eyes as she continued to hit the punching bag.

"Afternoon, F-- Lita," he ventured. "How are things going?"

"Excellent," she snarled, her breathing harsh and sharp as she hit the bag with an uppercut. "Busy right now."

"I can see that," Nick tried for a light, friendly tone of voice. No point in making enemies right off the bat, was there. "Trying out for cheerleading or something?" he joked.

She stepped away, and as the punching bag swung backwards, he had to jump out of the way so that it didn't hit him in the face and break his nose for asking such a stupid question. The look she shot him was pure, emerald-tinted scorn as she crossed her toned arms over her chest.

"Do I LOOK like Mina fucking Adams to you?"

At her venomous tone, he backed away, hastily shaking his head. Of course she wasn't Mina Adams, the bubbly blonde chick who'd recently hooked up with his friend Kevin. A part of him suddenly wondered if things had been different-- how would she have turned out? Perhaps not bubbly, but... certainly not like now. He felt a strange feeling of loss.

She rolled her eyes at him and strode back up to the punching bag, resuming her efforts with a new vigour. He continued to watch her in silence, noting the unyielding strength of her tanned, toned arms and the angry rose-coloured flush of her cheeks. Her freckles-- their childhood point of contention-- were barely noticeable across the bridge of her nose. The auburn hair that used to be put in childish Pippi Longstocking braids was tied back in a simple ponytail, which swung back and forth with her movements. Quick and efficient and furious-- there was power and fire in her, but it was untamed, destructive-- going off in every direction.

Once again, it was he who broke the verbal silence, his voice sounding almost too calm in the background noise of tennis shoes squeaking on wooden floors and harsh, quick breathing and the sharp punctuation of fists hitting vinyl. "I don't want you to look like Mina, or to act like Mina."

She paused, catching the punching bag despite its weight, and gave him a suspicious look. "Then what DO you want?"

It was the sort of statement that perhaps in another situation, backed up by his friends, he would've made a lewd comment over-- What DO you want? He could easily have said something along the lines of "You in my bed with a can of whipped cream", but not with her. He sighed and answered her question simply. "Just... to catch up on things that have happened. Look, I'm sorry about your parents..."

THAT caught her attention. And for the first time since he'd seen her again, he was watching her face full-on and saw emotions flickering in her eyes, something aside from anger. He smiled sadly at her, but she didn't return it.

Her fist connected with the punching bag again, this time not nearly as viciously as before. When she spoke, her voice was soft, far too bitter.

"Not a fat lot you could do about it. So why do you care?"

It would have been easy to say something about how his parents taught him to be proper, or that his mom wanted news of things going on in the school. Instead, he sighed, and patiently waited for her to finish her workout. As she stepped away from the punching bag, knuckles bruised and a sweat spot at the front of her tank top in between her breasts, she stared at him challengingly, expecting an answer to the last question she'd asked.

"I don't know why I care," he told her honestly. "I really don't, considering that you hated me when we were kids. I don't think you need anyone's pity, and I'm sure you've gotten more sympathy than you could stand. I just... it's weird, you know? Meeting you again, but like THIS."

She nodded, and both of them kept quiet, remembering possibly the same exact things. And finally, SHE broke the verbal silence.

"Fine. We can talk now and then. But if you call me 'Freckles' even once, all bets are off."

He grinned and felt almost stupidly happy, not sure why. "I could live with that."