Chapter 10
“Y’ALL READY?” I ASK, as my roommates survey the ingredients for tonight’s dinner.
We’re starting simple: a monstrous batch of pork meatballs they will either inhale all at once or enjoy for the next few days as leftovers.
I’m still trying to determine how to portion with this crew; the past two nights have looked like a plague of locusts passed over the Ping-Pong table.
Grant chirps out a cheerful “Nope!”
“But that’s the point, right?” says Diego, pulling his curls up into a small poof on top of his head. “So we will be in the future.”
“Exactly! And I appreciate everyone chipping in. There’s going to be a lot of ball rolling,” I warn. Then I wait out the giggles from the guys for having referred to balls and explain, “We will have over four pounds of this stuff, so I need all your hands.”
“All hands on balls!” Alistair singsongs, like he’s calling a boat crew above deck. He’s styled from today’s shoot, his hair sculpted in a high, shiny pompadour. He’s still in makeup, too, contoured to the ridge of the uncanny valley, though I suppose it photographs well.
Again, I wait out the laughter, and we get to work.
Diego and Grant chop basil, mint, and parsley, while lemon zesting and ginger grating has been delegated to Alistair.
I season the ground pork and incorporate what they chop, keeping a watchful eye on everyone’s digit-to-blade proximity.
After a few reminders to keep their fingers tucked in, I’m fairly confident that encouraging conversation won’t result in accidental bloodshed, and I consider how to approach the subject of the massive chip on Ian’s shoulder.
The last hour of my shift was endured in chilly silence, and I was relieved to meet Seth, the friendly, ginger-bearded evening coach, who took over at the desk at four.
I’ve replayed the conversation with Ian on a loop and can’t figure out where I went wrong.
There’s a fine line between “helper” and “tedious know-it-all, against whom entire groups are united in their shared contempt,” and I’m no stranger to being on the wrong side. But this was touch-up paint!
I open with something light. “Is Ian particular about what he eats? He didn’t finish that Rice Krispies Treat today, and I don’t want to bring in snacks not everyone can enjoy.”
Grant pauses his chopping, staring off into the middle distance. Then he gets back to work. “Not really.”
“Did he not finish the treat, Ellie?” Diego asks, wide eyes on me… as he chops.
“Watch what you’re doing. And it’s no biggie. Just aiming to be accommodating.”
“Ah!” He beams, then looks down at his knife work. “So thoughtful.”
I shrug, registering a sting of guilt at his praise for my fabricated consideration, and get back to Grant. “You’d mentioned that your mom had made them?”
“Oh, yeah. Or she did, but she died, like, seven years ago.”
My chest squeezes so tightly, I let out a squeak. I freeze, hand outstretched to take the zest Alistair has shaved, and stare at Grant, who continues to passively butcher the mint. “Grant! Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry!”
He shrugs, looking up to extend a shadow of a smile.
It breaks my heart. “That’s nice of you.
It was rough. I was in middle school, and Ian was…
” He frowns in recall. “Shit, he was already out of college and competing and stuff. She’d been sick before, like, when I was really little? But I don’t remember any of that.”
I just nod. I am a prying asshole. And I have no idea what to do. My go-to is to offer a hug, but my hands are covered in ground pork. My backup is to provide food, and we’re already doing that. Way to go, Ellie.
“The anniversary was Friday, actually,” he continues, his smile looking a little more heartfelt. “It’s why we had friends over. We always do something to make the day less sad.”
“It’s why Ian was hammered, too,” Alistair adds, which is also heartbreaking.
I feel less guilty about steering the conversation as I sidestep my faux pas with a change in topic. “How did the three of you end up living together? Was it the gym, or—”
Grant laughs. “Oh, man, me and Alistair go way back. We’ve been friends since first grade.”
“Our moms were tight,” Alistair contributes, his emphasis on moms turning the word into a direct reference to my misstep. Beautiful, beautiful butthead.
“And freshman year, we were roommates!” Diego says. “We moved in here last fall.”
Ah! Another in. “And Ian was here then?”
“Yeah! While he fixed up the apartment at the gym. That setup is so sweet. You should check it out. Oh, dude!” Grant pivots to Diego, pointing at him with his knife. “He got a great deal on a sound bar for up there.”
Good Lord. Maintaining a direct conversational flow with these guys is like trying to reroute a river bare-handed.
“Didn’t he already have something like that?” Alistair asks, not looking up from his ginger. “Those speakers he had when we were in high school, when your dad was overseas?”
“Just your dad?” I ask, confused.
“Dad’s an engineer,” Grant explains. “And he got a job with an oil company in Saudi, when I was, like… fourteen? So, I moved in with Ian. ’Cause out there, all the international employees and their families live on some compound.
When kids reach high school age, the company pays for them to go to boarding school in Europe.
And that would have been cool and all, but…
” He shrugs, losing some levity. “It was good to be here.”
I nod. Based on the timeline Grant’s provided, that move would have been within a year or so of his mother’s passing.
It would have been a huge change for anyone, but so soon after losing his mom?
And to then get shipped off to a boarding school on yet another continent?
Ian taking him in was more than “good”; it was a mercy.
The thought makes my heart feel mushy.
“How was it living with your brother in high school?” I ask, imagining Ian at a parent-teacher conference. If I’d been faced with him at a meet-and-greet the year I’d taught, I don’t know what I’d have done with myself.
Oh. My. God. The year I taught I had one class of seniors. They’re the same age as these guys now. I’m living with youths who could have been my students. The horror.
I scrub the realization from my mind. “I’d imagine it was pretty rowdy, given there was a midtwenties dude providing the only oversight?”
“Uh, no,” Grant says flatly. “He was such a dick! Everyone figured I’d have this sweet party life because of him, but he was the worst!
He never bought us beer. And since he was always prepping for comps, I ended up eating whatever weird, super healthy shit he had around.
Even though that was mostly stuff from sponsors.
” He nods at Diego. “The ones hounding you look way better.”
“What’s this now?” I ask Diego, giving in to the swirling stream of consciousness.
Diego reverts to his toe-grinding-in-the-dirt humility.
“A meal box company has offered me a sponsorship. They’d send me food.
I’d cook it, post about it.” He places his knife on the table and pulls his phone from his pocket, then begins to thumb the screen.
“But they want me to film the cooking part and post the videos online.” He shrugs. “I’d just make them look bad.”
Diego shows me the phone, and I lean in to read the screen.
It’s the social account of Built Box, a meal box brand aimed at athletes.
I swipe through their offerings with a meat-free knuckle.
It looks like a good balance of stuff, tailored to whether a customer is in a heavy training cycle—whatever that means, though, based on what I’m seeing, it requires a staggering amount of food—or cutting—which is trimming down?
Recipes are included, pretty basic, but still requiring a general knowledge of how to cook.
I tap on the subscription link. “Good Lord! This is steep. What were they offering you?”
“Oh, like, a few months of boxes? More, if it was successful. I do have many followers.”
I flick to Diego’s profile. I have to do a double take. “You have over a hundred thousand followers, Diego.”
He beams. “Cool, right?”
“How?” I don’t mean to sound as baffled as I am, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“It began with my fitness journey! Also, I dance a lot between sets when I lift,” he adds, with a smooth hip-shimmy. “I’ve been told that I am very charming.”
“Diego, that is an excellent word for you. Also, you’re sitting on a gold mine.”
Diego looks over one shoulder, as though for the aforementioned gold mine. “A what?”
“This is a huge opportunity, if for no other reason than to get something very expensive for free.” I hold up a finger to pause the conversation, then point at the bowl I’d been adding their chopped herbs to.
“The rest of your stuff will be for garnish. It looks like I have everything we need integrated, so it’s time to roll.
” I scoop out a golf ball?sized portion of meat and herbs and roll it between my palms until it takes on a spherical shape.
“Don’t roll too long or the fat will warm and make everything stick to your hands. Got it?”
Each of my roommates takes an appropriate amount of meat and gets to rolling. I inspect their work, giving feedback where necessary, and the conversation resumes.
“I don’t know how much of it is because they want me,” Diego says, and I’m amazed that he’s maintained the thread after the minutes-long pause.
“Or if it’s because I coach for Ian. When they found out that I work for him, they hoped he’d do videos with me, like, because he was a pro?
And that’s kind of a big deal to have someone like him endorse them. ”
“He’s that well-known just from weight lifting?”
“In the weight-lifting community, he’s huge. He still gets commissioned to train some top competitors, and he consults like crazy. But back in the day? He’d have probably qualified for the Olympics if he hadn’t gotten hurt.”
“Really?” I ask, legitimately curious. So far, I’ve refrained from digging into Ian’s background beyond what’s on the Firehouse Fitness website, which is pretty vague. Ian Hammond, owner/operator, some letters I assume indicate coaching certifications, and that’s it.
“You see the black tubs on the shelves in the laundry room at Firehouse?” Alistair asks, and I nod. “That’s all his trophies and medals and stuff.”
“That’s a lot of bins.”
“He was really good,” Diego says.
“Is really good,” Alistair amends. “He can’t go as heavy now, but his form is dialed in.”
“And that’s why they wanted Ian to be involved?”
Diego nods. “But he didn’t want to. They’d still have me without him, but I know they were disappointed. They liked his credibility.”
“And his connections,” says Alistair.
“Why wouldn’t he do it?” It seems a little crummy.
“He’s weird about stuff like that. Sorry, Grant,” Diego adds, hastily.
“Nah, it’s good. He is a weirdo. Like, he’s been real private since he got injured, and after everything with Denny?” Grant sighs, letting his cheeks puff out exaggeratedly. “Scandal!”
“Denny?” I ask, though my brain prioritizes scandal.
“Ian’s mentor!” Grant takes up another wad of meat to roll.
“He coached Ian all through college and into his professional career. They were tight. And after Ian got injured, Denny hired him to coach at his gym. But when Denny sold it…” He scrunches his nose.
“I guess that was my senior year? He announced he was gonna sell, and everyone thought Ian would go for it, ’cause he had his big settlement from getting hurt. ”
“It was at a competition,” Diego adds. “There’s video online. So hard to watch. His knee, it went—” He holds up his meat-speckled hands, palms facing one another, then jerks them violently toward the left. He shudders. “The knee is not meant to go that direction.”
“Fucking brutal,” Alistair agrees.
I have my own Greek chorus of beefcakes over here. “So, did Denny not sell to Ian?”
“Nah. Ian went and started Firehouse himself. A bunch of clients followed him over, which created more drama, ’cause the guy Denny did sell to accused Ian of poaching, which is BS. They were his personal training clients. That was separate from gym membership.”
“And that guy couldn’t program for shit,” says Alistair, uncharacteristically impassioned. “In less than a year, half of his members ended up at Firehouse.”
All three guys nod, chests puffed out, like a meaty, physical barrier against Ian-related slander. It’s more endearing than menacing, but I’m not going to storm the castle tonight. They’ve already revealed plenty.
“To recap,” I say, and elect to skip the passing of the Hammond matriarch.
“You moved in with your brother in middle school, instead of going overseas with your dad. Ian was competing then, got hurt, then worked for his mentor, who, later, wouldn’t sell him his business.
Ian started Firehouse with the clients he retained, and other members from that old gym followed later.
Scandal ensued, and…” I look from contributor to contributor in case I missed something.
“And we were all roommates when we were freshmen,” Diego adds.
“Yes! Also…” I look at the dozen perfectly formed meatballs he’s amassed on his cutting board. “Great work. Now, more recently, you, sir, who has a social following the size of Montana, have been approached by a sponsor, who would also like Ian on board—”
“Not regularly. Just, like, a guest. Ian wasn’t interested, and I can’t cook, anyway—ah!
Yet!” Diego uses both hands to indicate the spread of ingredients on the table, extending far enough that Alistair leans back to avoid his pork-covered reach.
“I can’t cook yet, but you are teaching us!
Oh, Ellie, would you help me? Like, in the videos for Built Box? ”
The introduction of yet another subject takes a moment for me to process, but I nod. “I would be okay with that, I guess?” I say, thinking aloud. “But you’d have to check with them. They probably wouldn’t want some rando in the kitchen with you.”
“I’m sure they would be fine with it! You’re on a fitness journey, too,” he says. “And you’re very pretty. And you know how to cook! Oh, Ellie, this could be so fun! And maybe, after I get better in the kitchen, you won’t have to babysit me. And we would get free food! And free is good!”
I nod, because free is good, and I’ve had an abundance of information hurled at me in the past few minutes. And hanging over it all is a new question: Why wasn’t Ian’s mentor willing to sell to Ian, his presumed successor?
Fortunately, I have the feeling that there’s another source of information that would be more than happy to dish… if I can get myself up in time for a five a.m. class.