Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
PERCY
“I don’t think this is what people usually wear to the gym.” I tug at the crop top uselessly. I don’t even bother to fiddle with the shorts. One wrong tug and I’ll end up mooning Juno.
“What do you want to wear? Khakis?” they say dryly, shoving their sneakers at me.
“And maybe a nice polo,” I mutter sarcastically, taking the ratty shoes and shoving my feet into them.
“Seriously though, I don’t think this is what anyone else at Sweat was wearing yesterday.
” I screw up my face, trying to picture what exactly they were wearing, but all that keeps coming to mind is the way Butch’s muscles were bulging with the push-ups he was doing when I walked in, and the big, dopey smile on his face when I told him I’d come back to sign up for a membership this morning.
Ugh. I cannot get a crush on a gym bro. He was only being nice so he could make a commission on my membership fees and sell me an expensive personal training package, I’m sure.
Three sessions free is the oldest trick in the book, and I’m not going to embarrass myself by thinking it’s anything more than a sales tactic.
That’s as bad as the guys who think the stripper is actually into them.
“Seriously, nobody cares what you wear to the gym,” Juno assures me, giving me a little nudge towards the door.
I narrow my eyes at them. “Why are you so desperate to get me out the door?”
“God forbid I try to get my bestie laid.” They roll their eyes, and I snort a laugh.
“You want me out of the apartment so you can take an extra-long shower without me lecturing you about using too much water, don’t you.”
“What? Never,” Juno says unconvincingly, giving me another nudge towards the door. “Now, go learn how to squat or whatever. And I wouldn’t be mad if you picked me up another Danish either.”
“I have to go straight to campus from there. I have to lecture for my one-oh-one class at ten,” I remind them.
“Duh, I forgot what day it was. I’ll swing by your office for lunch?”
Juno works as a lab assistant in the genetics lab and always claims to be lucky to even have a coat hook for their lab coat, forget having their own office.
Of course, that’s leaving out the part where they make a legit salary while I barely get paid enough to cover bus fare to and from campus.
Plus, the tiny office I share with another TA doesn’t count for much.
It’s a quiet place for us to share lunch, at least.
“As usual.” I give them a kiss on the cheek and sling my messenger bag, which today contains a neatly folded pair of khakis and a polo shirt—yes, I’m predictable—along with all of my various textbooks and notebooks, over my shoulder. “Catch you later.”
I finally give in to their nudging and head out the door, questioning my sanity with every step down the stairs and out onto the street.
Not going back to Sweat is totally an option.
Instead of walking the handful of blocks to Boystown, I could just get on the bus at the corner and go straight to campus.
I could avoid ever walking down that particular street again and never have to face Butch or his disappointment.
I stand on the sidewalk for at least a minute, considering my options. It’s the memory of Butch’s hopeful smile that ultimately gets my feet moving. I’m such a sucker. It’s a really good thing I don’t go to strip clubs.
If I drag my feet the whole six blocks to Sweat, it’s only because I don’t want to waste all my energy on the walk there. I have to save some for the upcoming humiliation. What does a personal trainer even do?
I picture Butch dressed like my middle school gym teacher, with a whistle around his neck and a scowl on his face, shouting at me to “get my string bean ass up that rope.” I shudder and recoil a little.
It’s no wonder my stomach squirms at the thought of recreational exercise.
Honestly, the whole thing is a minefield of horrors, from the locker room to the bench press.
And don’t even get me started on the pull-up bar.
If there is a hell, public exercise is definitely the kind of torture that would be designed just for me.
And yet, here I am, pulling open the door to Sweat of my own free will, like a baby gazelle walking right into a lion’s den.
Part of me is expecting to be instantly hit with the overpowering stench of gym socks, or maybe that every one of the muscled-up jocks currently pumping iron will stop and stare at me, sensing an outsider in their midst instantly like a group of wildebeests at the watering hole.
Not that any of that happened yesterday.
But yesterday I came in by accident and didn’t pay much attention to anything other than the gymbo offering to rip my arm out of its socket for fun.
To my surprise and relief, it smells like lemon cleaning solution with just a hint of sweat, and no one so much as glances in my direction as I walk in.
There’s generic pop music playing from somewhere and several different rhythmic sounds, from the whirr of the treadmills to the clang of weight machines, all coming together to create a hypnotic cacophony that might be soothing if it wasn’t so intimidating.
The pull-up bar on the far wall taunts me.
My heart jackrabbits in my chest and I consider turning around and walking out.
“Rocky.” Butch’s familiar voice booms with excitement, and I tug on my crop top again, wishing I’d pushed harder for Juno to give me something a little less conspicuous from their closet.
“Uh, it’s Percy, actually.” Of course he doesn’t remember my name. Why would he? Just because I spent all of last night reliving the feeling of his massive hand wrapped around mine and the low, throaty sound of his praise doesn’t mean he thought about me after I scurried out of the bakery.
“Rockton, Rocky, The Rock,” he repeats the same nonsensical combination of words he said yesterday, and it hits me that he’s giving me a nickname.
Oh.
A warm feeling blooms in my gut, and what I’m sure is a dopey smile spreads across my face.
“As long as you don’t expect me to run up a million steps or punch out a muscular Russian with a body count.” I chuckle.
“Not on your first day,” he says seriously. “Today I’m going to show you around and do an assessment to see where we’re starting.”
The warmth fades just as quickly as it came and my stomach squirms anxiously.
Where we’re starting? I wonder if they have weights that would be acceptable for a baby who’s only just learned to lift his head.
Or, like, someone who’s recently come out of a coma and has little to no muscle mass.
That’s where we’re starting. Not that I’m going to say that to He-Man here.
But, fuck my life, he’s going to find out soon enough.
I give him an awkward thumbs-up like an idiot, and he lets out a laugh that’s just as booming as his greeting, slapping me on the shoulder forcefully enough to make me stumble.
“Come on.”
“Paperwork,” the guy sitting behind the desk calls out. He’s as big as Butch, with a slightly rounder stomach, dark hair, and a vintage Ghostbusters T-shirt stretched across his massive torso.
“This is Silas,” Butch says, leading me over to the desk. “He has a weird fetish for paperwork. Not that I’m kink shaming.”
Silas gives him a dry look. “It would be a lot more fun if keeping you all in line actually got my dick hard, but unfortunately, I’m just trying to avoid getting a lecture from Dre.”
“See, that’s where you went wrong. Dre lectures you and you fall in line. If you let it go in one ear and out the other, he gives up.” A different man saunters over to offer this bit of wisdom.
Unlike Butch and Silas, he’s much more slender. His arms are still jacked, and I’m sure he could run circles around me, but he couldn’t smother me with his pecs like the other two.
“Fender.” Butch nods towards him before reaching over the desk to grab a clipboard with a form attached for me to fill out.
Silas hands me a pen and I hesitate.
“You’re not signing your life away or anything, man, it’s just so we have your info on file in case you break your arm and have to be rushed to the hospital or something,” Fender assures me.
“And to collect payment,” Silas adds.
“Right,” I mutter.
Hell, I’m here and it’s too late to turn back now. I, Percy Rockton, am getting a gym membership. Surprisingly, there aren’t even any obvious signs of hell freezing over as I fill out the form.
BUTCH
“And that’s the locker room.” I point it out. “The owner, Dre, wants us to tell all new members that sex in the showers is strictly forbidden, but most people don’t listen.” I wink and Percy’s face turns that same shade of tomato red as it did when we were arm wrestling yesterday.
I swallow back a laugh and let my eyes wander for just a second to his exposed stomach.
He’s so skinny his ribs are nearly showing, but if he lets me, I can have him sporting a six-pack in no time.
Not that he looks bad the way he is. If I’m being honest, there’s something about his not-quite-outie belly button that’s giving me some seriously not-safe-for-work thoughts.
Are there any rules about hitting on our personal training clients?
I should probably ask Silas. He would definitely know. He actually read the handbook and shit.
“I’ll try to resist fucking in the gym showers,” Percy mutters, using both hands to wring the strap of his messenger bag.
“If you want, you can put that in a locker for now,” I offer, pushing the locker room door half open.
His eyes get a little wider and he takes a step back, shaking his head like I just suggested he stick his hand into a running woodchipper.
“No, I’m fine.”