Chapter Twelve
Giles
I can’t believe we’re doing this. Marcello and me.
Being normal. It’s been three weeks since that incident in the shower and it feels like a lifetime ago.
Well, it does most of the time. Sometimes, when I close my eyes I am right back there, Marcello tall and hairy and hard in front of me.
But all I need to do is open my eyes and he disappears. It’s simple really.
His training is going well too. Really well.
We did our first nine-kilometre run at the weekend and today he’s just got a full round of personal bests on several of the machines in the gym.
I’ve also devised the perfect way to avoid having more awkward shower moments as I hang back to do some extra sets once his workout is complete, which is what I just explained to him I planned to do now.
It’s perfect. I get to feel the burn myself.
Marcello gets to shower in peace. And nobody gets hard in front of each other.
I ready myself to shake hands with Marcello and say goodbye until the next time.
But that’s not what happens.
“Well, I can stay back and spot you, if you like,” Marcello says before taking a big swig from his water bottle.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I say in a rush. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”
It’s the closest I’ve gotten to asking Marcello if he’s had any other dates.
He mentioned how it didn’t work out with Daisy but he didn’t seem bothered by it at all.
He muttered something about plenty more fish in the sea and then we’ve not spoken about it since.
He’s also not asked me about Jeremy, who has finally given up on me.
Thankfully, since coming to the gym with Marcello when he finishes his early shift, I’ve also not bumped into Tony and that brings me even more relief.
“Nope,” Marcello says with an easy smile. “Nothing better to do. Also, I’d like to see the master at work.”
He winks at me and I have to tell myself three times in a row that it means nothing. It’s just banter. It’s just friendly banter.
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“Unless, you don’t think I can spot you?” Marcello’s brown eyes narrow. “Am I not strong enough?”
“You’re strong enough,” I say with a light chuckle.
“So come on, let’s see you sweat for a change!”
It’s not that I don’t work out when I’m having my training sessions with Marcello. I do my reps. I do enough. But I don’t exactly push myself. I don’t want to intimidate Marcello. I don’t want to detract from the fantastic progress he’s making. That’s why I stay back, or I come by myself.
“Okay, let’s go do some bench presses.” I gesture to the bench in front of the mirror.
After quickly explaining to Marcello where I need him to stand – at one end of the bench behind my head and between the racks – I then stack the bar with my desired weight.
“Woah, that’s impressive,” Marcello says as I place a 10kg circular weight on each end.
“You’ll be doing the same in no time,” I say as I reach for another 10kg plate.
“You’re adding more?” He sounds horrified. “I’m not even sure I’m going to be able to spot this.”
“Yes, you can. But hopefully you won’t need to step in,” I say. The man can deadlift 180kg. This should be fine. “This should be just a warm-up.”
I don’t say it to sound obnoxious but that’s my immediate worry after Marcello gives me a brief smile and the sparkle in his eyes dims a little.
“Ready?” I ask once I’m lying under the bar and looking up at him.
He gives me an apprehensive nod, pulls his lips into his mouth and then frowns in what looks like concentration.
And it shouldn’t do things to me. It shouldn’t make my heart beat a little quicker even though I haven’t even lifted the damn bar.
It shouldn’t have me wondering if that’s what he looks like when he’s tugging on himself, concentrating hard on his pleasure and only his pleasure.
Feeling a rush of blood make its way between my legs, I quickly switch off my imagination and grip the bar above my head.
I refuse to get a hard-on right now. I refuse to undo all my hard work moving my thoughts of Marcello firmly into a friendship-shaped box in my mind.
I refuse to let him walk back into my sexual fantasies after keeping him out of them for the last week.
“One… two… three,” I grit out as I pump the bar feeling the burn in my chest and arms. “Four… five… six!”
“Fucking hell, man,” Marcello says as he crouches down and keeps his hands under the bar like I asked. “You could at least try and make it look hard.”
“Seven… eight… nine.”
“You’re not even sweating! Do you ever perspire?”
“Ten… eleven… twelve!” I push the bar up and re-rack it. I let my arms fall to my chest and feel my ribs expand and deflate with deep breaths.
“That was… impressive,” Marcello says behind me.
“Can you add another five kilos on either side?”
“Are you pulling my leg?”
I shake my head and give him what feels like a humble smile.
Marcello tuts and says something in Italian that I’d put money on being a curse, but he moves and does as I ask.
“Ready?” I ask when the weights are locked in place.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you if you are?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“Go on then, ask me.”
“Are you ready?”
“Locked and loaded.” I kiss my biceps and expect Marcello to roll his eyes or tsk me again, but he doesn’t.
His eyes dutifully watch the movement and then glaze over.
But then he shakes his head and it all changes.
That cute little frown is back and he squats down with his hands hovering under the bar.
“Come on then, Arnie.” He nods. “Give it your best shot.”
Those extra ten kilograms make themselves known quickly in my next set. The burn in my pectorals intensifies and I find I’m grunting out each rep rather than saying the number. When I get to nine, I start to slow down.
“Come on, Giles,” Marcello says, bending lower and closer to me. “You’ve got this. You’ve fucking got this.”
And suddenly I do. I speed up again and pump out another three reps easily. So easily, I go ahead and make it to fifteen before re-racking the bar.
“There you go!” Marcello declares. “Shall I swap those tens for fifteen?”
I quickly do the maths. I’ve bench-pressed more but that was when I was training a bit hard, more regularly.
“You know you don’t have to pretend to not want to. You can be a cocky bastard about it.”
“A cocky bastard, moi?” I place a hand on my chest and give him my most teasing smile.
“I think you’ve got it in you to be very cocky.”
That’s about one too many times I’ve heard the word ‘cock’ come out of his mouth and now my own cock is twitching.
“Rack them up,” I tell him, determined to lift my way out of this crush, to sweat away the filthy thoughts I keep on having about Marcello despite myself. “But make those tens twenties.”
He pauses in his movement. “You serious?”
“As serious as a coma.”
“Funny, because that’s exactly what I'd put myself in trying to lift this weight.”
“Today, maybe. Not in the future. Have faith in Future You.”
“Future Me,” Marcello muses as he adds another plate to the bar. “I like the idea of what Future Me could be. Fit, buff, strong.”
“More than that. Future You is confident, self-assured, resilient.”
“Hmm,” he says, securing the final plate. “That might be asking a bit too much.”
“Aim high,” I say as I lift my hands and grip the bar again. “Don’t limit yourself.”
“You sound like a middle-aged white man with a podcast.” Marcello chuckles. “Okay, all set.”
“I am a middle-aged white man,” I point out. “No podcast though.”
“I’d listen to a podcast if you had one. You’re a very wise man, Giles.”
I pause before lifting the weight and look up at Marcello.
Lying down on the bench like this, not only is he upside down but the angle has me looking at him past the slight curve of his belly.
But even with the strange perspective, I can see clearly his syrup-brown eyes and the earnest look on his face.
He really does think I’m wise. I don’t know exactly why, but I can’t help but feel incredibly flattered.
At the risk of sounding big-headed, I get a lot of compliments.
The way I dress, the way my body is, even the way I style my damn moustache, people like to comment on it.
And I like it. To a point. What I value more is when a customer thanks me for my hard work when they look in the mirror and see a suited version of themselves they’re proud of.
What I enjoy more is being told by Radia that I’m a good boss, that she really enjoys working with me.
And what I apparently really like is being told by Marcello that he thinks I’m wise.
I like it but I don’t know what to say back to it. Should I thank him? Should I bat the compliment away? Should I respond by telling Marcello the same thing or an alternative accolade? Or is that too much? Am I being too much, again?
Lucky for me I can throw myself into another round of reps, and it’s hard.
Harder than I expect. A forty-kilogram jump is not to be scoffed at and I’m counting numbers out loud while also doing more maths in my head.
This is pretty close to my personal best, and I am nowhere close to being at my personal best form.
Fuck.
“Seven… eight… nine.” I push through an unholy burn and look up at Marcello. He’s staring back at me, eyes wide with something like wonder.
“Ten… eleven…” My arms start to shake. And hurt. My arms, my chest, my back, everything hurts. “Twelve!”
It feels like a miracle that I make it there and I feel relief wash over me.
“Ah, come on, Giles.” Marcello taps my extended arms. “I know you’ve got one more in you.”
One more. One. If only it was that easy.
“You’ve got this, man!” He bends low, and I can smell him. Sweat and coffee and something else that is a little bit sweet, a little bit aromatic, a little bit like something I want to lick and taste.