Chapter 12

Training Camp – Day 8

Dinner in the mess last night had certainly been interesting. With everyone being put through their paces in their own unique way, the conversation was easily flowing.

"Well how hellish was everyone's session then?" Kelso had asked.

Hawkins, who is never one to admit her struggles spoke candidly about her experience.

"Hell on earth," she began. "If there was any doubt before about his sadistic ways then I can put those doubts to bed for you right now. The fucker knows I'm funny with blood and sliced a blade across his thigh right in front of me," she admitted. She got a few gasps from around the table. While that was an... interesting... move from Styles, I'm not that surprised.

"The guy is fucking nuts," Kelso affirmed.

"The worst bit is when I started to get lightheaded, which is clearly completely out of my control, he basically told me that I was being dramatic and to get over myself. He kept fucking pushing until I cried."

I've never seen Hawkins this vulnerable before. The day's session had clearly impacted her.

"You cried?" Kelso asked surprised.

"Yeah, not that he gave a fuck. I don't even think he acknowledged it. Probably pissed I got the bandage wet with my tears. I mean where's the humanity? Seriously, God help whoever is stuck under his leadership when this thing goes to the battlefield. Your arm could be hanging off and he'd tell you that's why God gave you two. Prick."

Hawkins was clearly rattled. Apart of me felt a bit guilty. Styles definitely hadn't taken it easy on me yesterday. But I do think he had tried his best, in whatever way that looks like for him, to help me. I at least felt like I got something out of our session. Whereas it seems to have sent Hawkins back the way.

_______

As I wake up this morning, I'm aware that today signals the beginning of the end. The last Monday in this camp before we head to the battlefield. I try not to dwell too much on what lies ahead as I lace up my boots in preparation for the day.

At 6AM, Styles enters.

"Day 8. Today we go back to the start of the cycle. Ready to do it all, over, again." He smirks. "That means you know where we're headed – the gym. Let's move out!" he commands.

______

The gym smells the same as before - like sweat and rubber, but this time with the stale tang of effort lingering from whoever had the misfortune of training in the days before us. It's the first time we've been back since day one, and though my body has toughened, I remember that session well—the screaming muscles, the aching lungs, the way Styles seemed to feed off our exhaustion.

He stands at the front of the group, hands on his hips, looking fresh as ever while we already feel the weight of the session pressing down on us.

"First time was a warm-up," he announces. "This time, I expect a hell of a lot better. I know what you're capable of now, and so do you, so get it done. And if I see anyone slacking—" His eyes scan the group. "You'll regret it."

Styles has set out circuit stations across the gym. I try not to look too much at what's ahead for me as I go to my first station – the punching bag. Styles prowls the space like he owns it—because he does. His voice cuts through the grunts and laboured breathing, sharp and demanding. "I don't want to see anyone slacking today. You've all had a taste of this before, so no excuses. If you don't leave this gym half-dead, you didn't work hard enough."

We move station to station in circuits, each set more brutal than the last.

Jefferies is on the bench press, lifting a solid weight, his face red with exertion. Styles leans over him, one hand on the bar, voice low but insistent. "Push. One more. You think the enemy's going to wait while you take a breather? Again."

Jefferies does as he is told.

"When you think you're at capacity, and you can't do anymore, the reality is you're only at 80%. Your brain is always going to want to quit before your body actually does. When you think you're done, keep fucking going!" Styles shouts out as he moves on from Jefferies, approaching Hawkins on the pull-up bar. She is gritting her teeth through each rep.

"That all you've got?" Styles taunts, standing too casually beside her. She doesn't respond, just keeps pulling herself up, jaw tight. "Didn't think so," he says, satisfied when she gets one more rep than before.

At the squat rack, I focus myself as Styles steps up beside me. His gaze drags down my frame, assessing. I try to tune it out as I complete another rep.

"Don't half-ass it, Holton. Full depth."

I exhale sharply, lowering into the squat, my thighs burning with the weight on my back.

Styles watches, unimpressed. "Come onnnn, deeper. Don't cheat yourself."

I grit my teeth and push lower. His voice drops, a near-growl in my ear. "There it is. That's what I want. You came here to get stronger, didn't you?"

I swallow hard and nod, unable to get any vocalise a response. Taking his words as approval, I step forward to re-rack the bar.

"Woah, where the fuck are you going with that?" Styles asks as he steps in front of me, blocking the way.

"The rack?" I reply, confused.

"Nope, remember what I said - when you think you're done, you're not. You've got at least one more in you, if not two."

This fucker can't be serious, I'm barely standing with the bar on my back as it is.

"Sir-" I try to interject.

"Yeah, yeah, you're tired, you don't think you can. Whatever. All I hear is excuses. Now get in position, I'll spot you."

With no other option, I step back and get myself into position. Styles stands behind me, although not as close as I might have hoped for in a spotter.

"Go" he commands.

I lower myself into the squat and he follows me down, arms engaged, ready to step in if required. I dig into my heels, giving everything I've got as I push myself back upright.

Go again," he says, voice low but firm.

I obey, breath shuddering. As I begin to lower myself, I wobble slightly, really feeling like I'm reaching my limit now.

"You're stronger than this," he mutters, stepping in slightly. The closer proximity gives me a little more confidence to go deeper. Again, his body mirrors my movements as he follows me down. I notice how his closer proximity gives me more than just confidence, as the butterflies in my stomach catch my attention. They don't last long however, as the weight of the bar consumes my thoughts.

As I reach my maximum squat depth, Styles taps my hips in approval. The gentle touch is enough to bring the butterflies back. "Good, push through your heels to get up and you can re-rack the bar. I'm here if you need me, but you've got it."

The challenge sparks something in me. I push through, finishing the rep on my own and glaring at my reflection in the mirror, feeling him behind me, watching. I exhale, chest rising and falling sharply as I feel the pressure lift when the bar is racked. He doesn't acknowledge my efforts as he moves on.

I watch him with Kelso, who's attempting to push through burpees, his movements getting sloppier. He crouches beside him, voice taunting. "You done already? Thought you were the energetic one."

Kelso groans through another rep. "Maybe I left my energy in the woods," he grumbles.

Styles smirks. "Maybe you left your spine there too."

We move through the motions, station to station. The workout is relentless, and by the time we're nearing the last circuit, sweat drips from every part of me.

"That's time!" Styles calls out, and the sound of dumbbells and barbells instantly hitting the ground tells me everything I need to know. We're all feeling fucked.

"Get a drink, we'll regroup in a minute, debrief and you'll be free to go."

People slowly start to make their way over to the briefing area in their own time, as we recover from our final stations. For me, this was deadlifts. I had pushed myself to the absolute limit, and it showed, my hands covered in callouses and cuts. I bent down to pick up my water bottle. My hands were trembling with the temporary trauma of the weights. I fiddle with the cap on my bottle aimlessly. I try to get it open, but I don't seem to have anything left for the most menial of jobs.

As Styles walks past me, heading to the briefing area, he takes the bottle out of my hands without a word. I didn't even know he was watching. He effortlessly twists the cap off and hands it back like it's nothing. I mutter a "thanks" quietly, a little embarrassed at my lack of strength and when I look up to make eye contact, he laughs it off lightly before walking away. I don't think I've ever seen him laugh before.

That's when I notice Jefferies, at the station across from me, watching. His wide eyes flick between us, something puzzled—maybe even suspicious—about the way he's staring.

I ignore it.

Or, at least, I try to.