52. Athena
CHAPTER 52
Athena
JUNE 2ND
B eing back at the gym is fucking hard.
Sweat’s streaming into my eyes, the blood’s being cut off to my brain, I mean boobs, by this shrink-wrap torture device they call a sports bra, and my body is burning under the strain of all fifteen pounds on the lat pull down machine.
It doesn’t help that there are two freshmen in the corner on the treadmills who keep looking over at me like I’m some kind of famous person they’ve spotted on a trip around town.
Ares was here for a while. He tends to like hanging out in this gym instead of the fancy, schmancy team gym. If the roles were reversed, I’m not sure I could stand the stench of the hockey team’s gym, either.
I finish out my fourth set of lat pull downs and contemplate increasing the weight. I stare at it for a moment, scowling while I decide whether or not I should level up on my first day back. I got my cast off a while ago, but I languished in my misery for a while longer before feeling mentally in a place where I could re-enter the land of the gym.
This shit isn’t for the faint of heart.
Pretty sure there’s sweat running into my butt crack.
“Don’t do it.” Scott’s voice breaks the quiet from behind me. I don’t wear headphones in the gym anymore, maybe I will again someday, maybe one ear bud, or maybe I’ll start going to a gym that plays ambient background music. But for now, I like being able to be more aware of my surroundings than the dude with Bose, over-ear headphones in the squat rack.
“Why not?” I don’t look back over my shoulder, instead I eyeball the twenty-pound weight.
“Because it’s your first day back, Bright Eyes. If you break yourself on your first day back, you’ll end up bitching at me for days about how sore everything is, and it’ll be harder to get you back to the gym.”
“And why am I here again?” I sweep some of the sweat out of my left eye.
“Because you’re hella cute in that sports bra, yoga pants combo.” He grins at me.
“I hate working out.”
“Only for a while. Once you get into the swing of it, you’ll like it again.”
My head’s already moving from side to side as he’s talking. “Spoken like an athlete.”
“Want to do some bench press? I’ll spot you.” He jerks his thumb toward the bench.
My heart leaps. “Yeah?”
He points at me. “Empty bar.”
My stomach falls. “Fun hater.”
“I’ll happily hate fun if it means I get to love you.”
I open my mouth, pointing my finger into my throat, and make vomiting noises.
“I love when you’re gym-pissy.” He shakes his head, leading me to one of the three benches sitting side-by-side.
The Freshmen girls have moved from the treadmills to the Stairmasters, but they keep casting glances across the gym at Scott and me.
I sit on the edge of the bench, facing into the work out space, lean back, arch my spine, and accept the dumb bar from Scott. “What’s this? Fifteen pounds?”
He doesn’t answer, instead he simply says. “Press.”
“I’ll press this bar up your butt.”
He winks down at me. “I might like it.”
That makes me laugh. “Go workout. I don’t need a spotter for an empty bar.”
He tsks at me. “Always the independent one. I’ve already done my workout. I’m here to take my girlfriend to lunch, but she won’t hurry up and press .”
I grunt and do five sets with an empty bar, and he humors me for two sets with a little extra weight on the bar. I told him I want to take back control of my life, and this was part of it. I want to build up my strength at the gym, start self-defense classes, and make sure I never have to survive again.
“Feel better?” he asks, leaning over the bar to look down at me.
“I’m starving.” I don’t want to tell him he’s right, that I do feel better, even if I feel weak.
“Everyone has?—”
I bolt upright on the bench and spin to face him, putting my hand over his mouth. “If you tell me everyone has to start somewhere, I’ll definitely be inserting this bar where the sun doesn’t shine.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “Promise?”
With an eye roll, I hit the showers, relaxed, satisfied at having done some semblance of a workout, and fucking famished.
What’s that I feel? Perhaps the start of my old self coming back, but I’m not ready to declare her back off the bench and in the game, you know?
If I did, I’d have to address the business plan I’ve been working over in my brain for the last few weeks. I haven’t decided on a name, yet, but I’ve got the bare bones in my head, and I think I’m ready to move it to the next level.
But I’m scared. It’s not even a for-profit business, but the idea of putting something of my own out in the world… it’s… wild. It’s scary, and exciting, and kind of overwhelming.
By the time we enter Parlor City, Ophelia’s already at a table. She waves over to us, a warm smile on her face. Scott was right, she’s stunning. She stands up, opens her arms like she’s ready to hug me, but changes course and hugs Scott instead.
“Hey, good to see you again.” She smiles at me. “Hi, I’m Ophelia. My friends call me Ophelia, or Ophie, or Effie, or FiFi or…” She shrugs, her cheeks blossoming with an adorable blush. “You get the picture.”
She holds her hand out for a shake, but I open my arms. “We can hug if you’re a hugger.”
Her face lights up, and I swear the sunlight in the building grows a little brighter as she launches herself at me for a hug. It doesn’t feel like a pity hug; it’s like she’s sharing whatever strength she has with me through her arms.
It’s an embrace I want to hold onto until someone tells us it’s time to stop.
Scott raises his eyebrows behind Ophelia. He knows I’m not generally a hugger. I roll my eyes at him. So what if I like this chick’s hug?
We peel ourselves apart, and Ophelia ushers us to sit. “I already ordered some corn nuggets, fried green beans, and pickle chips. I fucking love pickles.”
Scott scrunches up his nose. “Aw shit.” He shakes his head. “So does she.” He thumbs my direction. “They’re just so… slimy.”
“They’re fried.” She’s fighting a losing battle trying to convince Scott to eat pickles.
“More for us,” I tell her.
Scott flags the server down and asks for bacon cheese fries and onion rings, I guess we’re doing apps and sides for lunch today. I’m not mad about it.
For the next ninety minutes, we chat like old friends over baskets of steaming hot, fried food. Well, Scott and Ophelia chat like old friends, I don’t take to strangers as easily as he does, but she seems like good people.
Scott suggested we hang out with her together, he said that even if we didn’t take her into our bedroom, there was every chance I’d enjoy just being in her company. As usual, he wasn’t wrong.
There was also a pointed comment from my shrink in our last therapy session about how I’ve spent my life building up walls, isolating myself and missing out on potential, loving relationships. So I’m doing my best to be open to new people in my life.
“Have you been to the Pickle Palace?” Ophelia waves a fried pickle in my direction. “They do the best fried pickles, and that rooftop view?” She whistles, then pops the pickle in her mouth. “Such good vibes.”
We don’t have plans for the rest of the day, and it seems Ophelia doesn’t either, so we kick back over dessert and spend the afternoon just… hanging out.
Other than Savannah, my brothers, and Mamá and Abuelita, I don’t remember the last time I simply sat and spent time getting to know someone.
“I think you should do it.” Ophelia slurps on her milkshake.
“Do what?” I get pulled back from my thoughts to the conversation.
“Your non-profit idea. Period poverty’s a real problem in our country, and beyond. I think you should totally start an organization to help people who need it.” She smiles at me. “You’d be great at it. I could totally help. I work in marketing and social media management. Well, that’s my side hustle at least.”
She doesn’t say what her not-side-hustle is, and it’s day one of our new friendship, so I’m not going to pry but I’m also not sure what to say right now, either.
Scott bails me out by picking up the conversational baton. “I think she should call it ‘The Red Revolution.’” He winks at me. “Or the Ovary Achievers.”
Ophelia groans.
“See?” I gesture at Scott. “This is what I have to put up with.”
She laughs, bringing out a dimple on her cheek. Scott’s right, I am most definitely attracted to the woman, and the ease with which she’s settling into conversation with both of us, the natural comfort she brings with her, it’s alluring.
“What about…” Ophelia taps her chin while Scott shovels a bite of chocolate cake into his mouth.
For an athlete, he sure does eat like shit.
“The Crimson Cause? Cycle Solutions? No, don’t listen to me. Those are shit.” She laughs and her hair falls into her face. I lean forward, fingers itching to tuck it behind her ear.
“May I?”
She nods, looking up at me demurely from under her eyelashes. I’ve seen that look before, I’ve given that look before, and a quick glance over at Scott confirms he’s seen it too, that he knows.
I’m most definitely going to sleep with this woman.