Frequencies of Us Chapter 9: Mats and Secrets

Mateo POV

I’m pacing my room, the walls feeling too close, the air too hot, like it’s choking me. My hands are fists, nails biting my palms, and my chest’s tight—has been since Ortiz dragged me into his office this morning. “Fighting at practice, Vargas?” he’d snapped, leaning over his desk, that smug look on his face. “You’re suspended—track’s done till I say.” My stomach had dropped, cold and heavy, and I’d yelled—“It wasn’t a fight, it was Caleb!”—but he didn’t care, just waved me out like I’m trash. Now I’m stuck here, grounded by Mom, no track, no nothing, just the mess in my head spinning faster—notes, Caleb’s lies, Noah’s text last night: “It’s her. Lena.” My legs itch to run, to burn it all off, but I can’t, and it’s killing me.

My phone buzzes on the bed, cutting through the quiet, and I snatch it up fast, heart jumping. It’s Noah—“Meet me at the gym, side door, 8. Gotta get you out.” My breath catches, sharp and quick, and my chest loosens a little, just enough to breathe. Him sneaking me in—it’s risky, stupid, but it’s him, and that pulls me hard. I grab my hoodie, yank it on, and slip out my window, the night air hitting me cool and sharp. My sneakers crunch on the gravel as I jog to school, head down, pulse thumping loud in my ears. Every shadow looks wrong—too dark, too still—and I keep hearing that scrape from the locker room, that “Run” text burning in my pocket.

The gym’s side door is cracked open when I get there, a sliver of yellow light spilling out. I push it slow, heart banging, and step inside—air thick with sweat and rubber mats, the quiet humming under my skin. Noah’s there, leaning against the wall, hands in his jacket pockets, hair messy like he’s been raking through it. His eyes hit mine, dark and steady, and my stomach flips, warm and fast, like it always does. He jerks his head—“C’mon”—and I follow, the door clicking shut behind us, locking us in.

“Ortiz is a dick,” I mutter, dropping my hoodie on the bleachers, my voice rough, still shaking from it all. My fists flex, needing to move, and Noah nods, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” he says, low, kicking a mat into place. “Thought you could let it out here.” He shrugs, casual, but his eyes don’t leave mine, and I feel it—that buzz, pulling us in, same as always. I nod, short and sharp, and we square up, circling slow on the mat. My legs are tense, ready, and he grins—a little, crooked—and it lights something in me, hot and restless.

We go at it fast—lunging, grabbing, wrestling out the junk clogging my head. My hands grip his shoulders, hard, and he shoves back, wiry but strong, pushing me down. I twist, flipping him, and we hit the mat together, rolling, breaths loud and ragged. His knee presses my thigh, my arm locks around his chest, and we’re close—too close—sweat mixing, heat rolling off him into me. My heart’s slamming, wild, and I feel him—his pulse racing under my grip, his breath hot on my neck. We’re tangled, panting, and I don’t want to let go, don’t want this to stop.

I pin him, knees on either side, hands on his wrists, and he’s grinning up at me, eyes bright, chest heaving. My face burns, sweat dripping, and I’m stuck—caught in how he looks, how he feels under me. His jacket’s bunched up, shirt riding high, and my fingers twitch, brushing his skin—warm, alive, sending a jolt up my arm. My breath snags, loud in my ears, and he goes still, eyes locking on mine, dark and deep. The air’s thick now, heavy, buzzing like it did in the locker room, and I can’t move, can’t think—just feel him, right there, pulling me in.

“Better?” he asks, voice rough, quiet, and it snaps me out of it, just a little. I nod, shaky, and roll off, sitting up fast, wiping my face with my sleeve. He sits too, close, our shoulders brushing, and my skin’s still humming, alive where we touched. My chest’s tight again, but different—warm, messy, wanting—and I hate how it messes with me, how he does.

“Yeah,” I mumble, staring at the mat, trying to steady my breath. “Thanks.” My voice is low, cracked, and he nudges me, elbow light against my arm, sending another spark through me. I glance at him—his hair’s stuck to his forehead, his cheeks red, and he’s looking at me like he gets it, like he feels it too.

“Anytime,” he says, soft, and my heart jumps, banging hard. We sit there, quiet, the gym empty around us, just our breaths filling the space. My head’s still spinning—Ortiz, Caleb, Lena—but here, with him, it’s quieter, safer, and I don’t want to leave. My hand shifts, brushing his on the mat, and I don’t pull back—neither does he. My throat’s dry, pulse racing, and I blurt it out before I can stop myself.

“Why’s she hate you?” My voice is rough, loud in the silence, and his head snaps up, eyes wide, dark, like I hit something raw. My gut twists, cold and fast, because I need to know—need to understand why Lena’s tearing us apart, why it’s him she’s after.

He freezes, hand pulling back, and his jaw tightens, locking up. “Mateo—” he starts, voice low, shaky, but he stops, looking away fast, staring at the wall like it’s got answers. His shoulders hunch, tense, and I feel it—something heavy, something he’s hiding, sitting between us now.

“C’mon, Noah,” I push, leaning closer, my voice hard, desperate. “She’s screwing me over because of you—tell me why!” My chest’s burning, anger and fear mixing, and I grab his arm, fingers digging in, needing him to look at me. His eyes flick back, dark and stormy, and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes—just a sharp breath, stuck.

“It’s—” he mutters, then stops again, pulling his arm free, scrubbing his face with his hands. “It’s old shit, okay? Doesn’t matter.” His voice is tight, dodging, and it pisses me off—hurts, too, because he’s shutting me out when I need him in.

“Doesn’t matter?” I snap, standing fast, fists clenched. “I’m out of track, Noah! Notes in my locker, jocks on my ass—it matters!” My voice echoes, loud and raw, and he flinches, standing too, hands up like he’s calming me down.

“I know,” he says, quick, eyes locked on mine now, dark and pleading. “I’m fixing it, I swear—just trust me.” His voice cracks, shaky, and my chest aches, torn between shoving him away and pulling him close. I step in, close again, our breaths mixing, and I feel it—that pull, strong and messy, keeping me here.

“Trust you?” I mutter, low, my hand twitching toward him, but then—a bang, loud and sharp, cuts through the gym. We both jump, spinning toward the sound—the side door, rattling hard, like someone’s slamming it. My heart slams into my ribs, fast and wild, and Noah grabs my wrist, grip tight, eyes wide.

“Someone’s here,” he whispers, voice shaking, and the door bangs again—harder, metal groaning. My stomach drops, cold and fast, and I hear it—a low laugh, muffled, creeping through the crack, chilling my spine. My legs tense, ready to run, and Noah’s hand tightens, pulling me back a step. The banging stops, sudden, and the quiet’s worse—heavy, waiting. Then—scritch, scritch—something sharp drags along the door, slow and mean, carving into the metal.

My breath stops, stuck, and Noah’s eyes meet mine—scared, fierce, pinned. The laugh comes again, closer, and a shadow shifts under the door—big, dark, moving fast. My phone buzzes in my pocket, loud and sudden, and I fumble it out, hands shaking bad. Unknown number, one line: “You can’t hide.” My blood turns to ice, freezing me where I stand, and the scraping stops—just long enough for a thud, heavy and close, to shake the wall. They’re here, they’re now, and we’re trapped, caught, with nowhere left to go.