NOVA
The Glaciers’ high-performance weight room at 5:45 AM was a cavern of matte-black steel, mirrored walls, and utter silence. The only sound was the rhythmic, aggressive whir of the rowing machine as I drove my legs back, pulling the handle to my chest, over and over again.
I was burning off the adrenaline of a sleepless night. My hair was tied in a messy ponytail, sweat dampening the collar of my workout tank, my mind running through every possible way this morning could go.
At exactly 6:00 AM, the heavy glass doors pushed open.
I didn’t stop my rhythm, but my eyes snapped to the mirror in front of me. Cole Harrington walked in. He was dressed for a grueling dryland workout, a tight, dark grey athletic shirt that molded to every line of his chest and shoulders, and black mesh short
