11. Grey
Chapter 11
Grey
“ B ro, why didn’t you tell me you were going out with Aspen Jordan?” my trainer, Brock, asks.
“We’ve only been out once.”
“Still, nice job, man. She’s hot as hell.”
I sigh. Brock isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s the best trainer money can buy. He’s almost fifty-years-old and still about two hundred and sixty pounds of pure muscle—the guy’s middle-aged physique is still better than 99 percent of young men’s. I’ve been seeing Brock five times a week for the past six years and he’s helped me gain and maintain sixty pounds of muscle mass. I don’t mind listening to his brainless, gym bro chatter if it means I see those kinds of results.
“You’ve gotta lift extra hard today if you want to impress her,” he continues. “How much do you want to squat today?” he asks, adding plates to the bar. “I’d usually recommend ten reps of 400 for today, but let’s go with 425 for Aspen. That type of girl doesn’t go for just anybody.”
“Fine. But we are costars, Brock. I wouldn’t say I’m just anybody.”
Brock shrugs and gets into a spotting position behind me as I position my shoulders beneath the bar, ready to lift.
“She could be costars with Danny Devito, doesn’t mean she’d want to fuck him,” Brock says.
I make eye contact with him through the mirror.
“Sorry,” he says from behind me. “I’ll stop talking about fucking people when my dick is like six inches away from your ass.”
“Brock, don’t make this weird.”
“I didn’t make it weird. I was approaching weird territory, that’s why I stopped myself.”
I grunt as I lift the bar, squatting the weight. Although 425 isn’t my squat PR, it’s still heavier than I’d normally do for ten reps.
“Good job,” Brock encourages after my sixth squat. “Just four more. Keep those knees apart. Make sure you’re tracking them to your toes, that’s right, good job. Last three…”
“So, have you fucked Aspen?” Brock asks as I re-rack the weight.
“Brock, stop being gross.”
“It’s not gross, we’re now a healthy distance apart.”
“It would be gross no matter how far apart we were.”
Brock motions to turf a few feet away. “Do fifty burpees.”
I walk over to the turf and begin. “I don’t ask about your sex life. I don’t know why you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad,” Brock answers in an overly blasé tone. “You could ask if you want. You just don’t.”
“Do you seriously want me to ask about your sex life?”
“It would be nice if you showed some interest sometimes.”
“The first thing I did when I walked in here today was ask how Daisy’s ballet recital went yesterday,” I say, referencing Brock’s daughter with his super hot and super successful real estate businesswoman wife. Every time I see them together I wonder how he pulled her. And that’s coming from someone who actually likes the guy.
“Yeah, but that’s just small talk. Why don’t you ever ask about anything personal?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
I take pity on him. “How’s your sex life, Brock?”
His face lights up like a kid walking into a toy store. “It’s great. The wife bought a swing for our bedroom and I finally installed it last weekend. Those menopause hormones make women absolutely feral in the bedroom, I swear. I know you’re still a young thing, Grey, but you should go for an older woman sometime. They’re crazy. I’ve got scratches all up and down my back…look.” He turns around and lifts his shirt to prove it. I’m honestly a little disturbed.
“Damn, those are some deep cuts.”
“Yeah, she had just gotten acrylics. One of them actually popped off she was scratching so hard. I wonder if they’ll scar.”
“I hope not,” I add, still with about ten burpees to go.
“Oh, I hope they do. It would be like some epic testament to our love, you know? Love scars, that’s what I’ll call them.”
This is why I never ask Brock about his relationship. It’s just weird as shit, there’s no other explanation for it. And the image of Brock having sex on a swing is really just way too graphic of a mental image for me. I try to change the subject.
“Catch any good fish lately?” I ask.
“Only one, but I had to throw it back because it was too big.”
I stand, finally finished with the burpees. “That’s disappointing.”
“Yeah, the bugger was only about one inch too long. I should have just kept him. But nope, I was an honest citizen,” Brock says. “What are you doing standing up? You’re not done yet. Give me fifty more.”
I groan. “Are you serious? Why?”
“Because we haven't done burpees in a while and it's good to diversify your exercises. Never let the muscles get too comfortable with any one thing, you know?”
“I think you’re still mad at me for not asking about your sex life.”
“If you want more details, Grey, all you have to do is ask.”
“I don’t,” I answer, a little too quickly.
“It’s a good thing because I wouldn't want to tell you anyway. The things I could say would make you lust after my wife like nobody’s business.”
“Best to just keep it to yourself then,” I concur.
“But I will tell you one more thing,” he continues.
I cringe mid-pushup, mentally preparing myself.
“You’ve never really climaxed unless you’ve had your lady’s finger up where the sun don’t shine.”
I gag.
Brock’s smile drops and his eyes narrow, clearly having heard me.
“Sorry,” I add, quickly trying to save myself. “I just had breakfast thirty minutes ago. All these burpees are making my stomach a little upset.”
Brock’s smile returns. “Oh, Grey, always the warrior. Why didn’t you just say so? You can stop then, let’s do something that shakes you up less. How about some deadlifts?”
“Sounds good,” I say, grateful that my excuse for gagging not only worked, but also got me out of the burpees.
“Let’s add an extra twenty-five pounds to the deadlift too, right? For Aspen?”
“All right,” I concede. Better than burpees, at least.