Marcus
The gym is getting busier by the month, which is great for my bank balance—and my ego—but terrible for my time management. Who knew admin and accounts could be such a fucking time suck? These days, they seem to take up more of my time than actually training my fighters.
“We could think about hiring someone to do that, you know,” Max, my business partner and co-owner of The Foundry, says when I swear at my computer for the fourth time in as many minutes. He’s perched on the edge of his desk on the other side of the room, casually sipping on a protein shake.
I grunt noncommittally. “We don’t need another salary on the payroll. We’ve built this place from the ground up. I can handle a few spreadsheets.”
“If you say so, buddy.” Max chuckles, unbothered by my sour mood. He’s probably used to it by now. “Just something to think about. It’d free you up to spend more time with clients who actually need you. Y’know, the bit of this job that you actually like.”
He’s not entirely wrong, but I’ve never been good at giving up control—partly because whatever Max calls it, the gym isn’t just a job to me. It’s my life. I look back down at the screen, but the numbers are blurring into one. My mind keeps drifting to my schedule for this evening.
Alex.
I’ve been training him for two weeks. I don’t usually work evenings, but when he said evenings work better with his current schedule, I agreed without even giving it a second thought. Jed, our late-night trainer, offered to take him on for some sessions, but I didn’t even entertain the idea.
I’ve been telling myself it’s because he’s a unique client, which is certainly true.
It’s been a long time since I was challenged like this as a trainer—the night after our initial consultation, I stayed up until 3 am reading up on the mechanics of a dancer’s physiology, coming up with an in-depth training plan to hone his fast-twitch muscle fibers and improve the rotational power through his core.
So, yeah, I’m invested in him professionally.
That doesn’t explain why, for the last two weeks, I’ve been counting down the minutes to every one of our sessions. Why, as soon as he leaves, all I can think about is when he’ll be back again. Trying to figure that out makes my stomach churn, so I’ve been leaving it well enough alone.
“Alright, I’m out,” Max chimes. “I’m meeting Kyle at Duke’s. Come meet us for a drink after your session, if your dancer hasn’t worn you out. Who knows, tonight might be the night you finally meet an omega and put an end to your lifetime of singledom.”
I raise an unimpressed eyebrow at Max, because cruising for omegas sounds like my idea of torture right now.
In fact, aside from roughly 24 hours every six months when I’m deep in the peak of my rut, cruising for omegas sounds like torture pretty much all the time.
“These spreadsheets are all the company I need. But thanks for the offer.”
“Whomp whomp,” he throws his shake in the trash, and I give him a curt wave as he leaves. “You know where to find us if you change your mind.”
I’m already on the gym floor, wiping down equipment just for a reason to look busy, when Alex arrives, perfectly on time. I smell him before I see him; the sharp, clean scent of cedar and mint cuts through the gym’s atmosphere and makes a beeline straight for my nose.
When I turn, Alex is already dropping his bag on the wooden bench near our usual spot, wearing a loose charcoal tank that completely exposes his insanely defined obliques, with another pair of his trademark leggings.
The sculpted muscle of his thighs shifts hypnotically as he takes a few steps towards me, before I meet him halfway.
After he came for his induction, I wondered if he’d take note of the vibe of the gym and come back in a loose tank and sweats like everyone else.
Needless to say, he didn’t. Iif anything, he doubled down on the skin-tight clothes, even venturing into crop tops and the occasional pair of leg warmers—and I surprised even myself by how quietly pleased I was when he showed up for our first official session looking like he’d just stepped out of a barre class. I suppose he probably had.
“Alex.”
“Marcus,” he smirks. I don’t know if he’s capable of conversing without that damned expression on his face at all times, his eyes taking on a feline slant and his cheekbones sharp, like he’s in possession of some salacious secret no one else is in on.
“I’ve spent the last three hours lifting a ninety-pound omega prima ballerina over my head on repeat, so tell me you’re not going to torture my arms any more today. ”
I walk around him, picking up a pair of practice pads. “Ninety pounds? Sounds like short work for an alpha of your physical prowess.”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” he says, leaning one hip against a pull-up rig and letting his temple fall against it lazily, the stance emphasising the long, lean curve of his neck.
I avert my gaze and focus on wrapping my hands.
“But after the 87th time, your shoulders start to twinge a little. Nothing I can’t handle, of course. ”
“Of course.” I exhale a laugh. “87 is an oddly specific number.”
He looks at me with faux-seriousness, and I’m struck, not for the first time, but how piercingly blue his eyes are. The guy’s like a damn painting. “That’s because it is the actual number of times we practiced this lift. I was counting.”
I raise my eyebrows, more than a little impressed at the dedication.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve gotten snippets of insight into Alex’s day-to-day training, and every time it takes me by surprise all over again.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always known dancing is tough, but the mind-numbing repetition Alex subjects himself to is on par with any world-class fighter.
Which is probably why he’s already throwing punches twice as fast as alphas twice his weight. Not as hard, yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.
“Well, lucky for you, dancer boy, we’re doing endurance today,” I say, and he groans dramatically. “On the mat, facing me.”
He peels himself off the metal rig smoothly, getting into position. “So bossy, Marcus,” he drawls. “I love it.”
I try not to flush, gritting my teeth and ignoring the way heat flares low in my gut, the way it always does when he makes a comment like that.
Which, I’ve come to learn, is often. Part of me finds myself goading him into making those flirtatious comments, only to kick myself for it when he inevitably does, and I’m left flustered and tongue-tied.
The guy throws me for a loop, and I don’t know how many times I can tell myself it’s just the clash of alpha pheromones. Because I’ve spent my entire career training other alphas, and none of them have ever made me fucking blush.
“Alright,” I say, forcing my voice into its flat, trainer persona. “Today we’re doing high-intensity pad work. I want to see if you can keep your center of gravity forward like we practiced on Wednesday.”
Alex grins, slipping a pair of lightweight gel wraps over his knuckles. “I’m a quick study, coach. Try to keep up.”
For the next twenty minutes, we move in a brutal, rhythmic dance.
I wear the heavy coaching mitts, feeding Alex combinations: jab, cross, hook, slip.
Where it takes most guys weeks to pick up the basics, Alex had them down pat within a couple of sessions, and he’s been terrifyingly fast ever since.
The kinetic power from his dancer's legs travels up his spine and explodes into the pads with a musical crack-crack-crack.
“Good,” I growl, moving backward as he presses forward, his cedar scent flaring with exertion. “Keep your chin tucked. Don’t look at my face, look at my chest.”
“Both good options,” he pants, his eyes flashing with that wicked, playful spark as he throws a blindingly fast right hook.
“Okay, that’s enough of a warm up.” I step back, dropping the pads. “Your brain’s engaged, let’s challenge your endurance for real.”
I hand him our heaviest medicine ball. In our first sessions, I started him on middling weights, but realized pretty quickly that wasn’t going to cut it when the bastard just smiled through the burn and asked for more.
“We’re doing wall slams, chest passes, and dynamic sit-ups with the med ball.
I want 12 reps of each, for five rounds.
I don’t want to see your form drop, Alex. I want your core locked down.”
The playful, teasing dancer evaporates as he begins the circuit, gripping the heavy med ball and slamming it against the wall with startling power.
The sound of it ricochets through the gym, and the muscles of his core visibly flex as he rotates.
By round three, his shoulders are gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, his chest heaving as he fights the lactic acid buildup.
It’s a brutal drill that leaves heavyweights gasping for air, but Alex remains somehow graceful throughout, his jaw clenched in pure, stubborn determination.
As he gets tired, his form starts to waver, and I make subtle corrections—a hand pressed against his slick lower back to help him brace, or a brush of my fingers drawing his shoulder blades down.
When he’s finished the final round, he lets the ball drop with a heavy thud, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as his scent flares in the space between us.
“Good session,” I grunt, tossing him a clean towel, deliberately keeping my hands to myself before I do something stupid like wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Go clean up. We’re done for the day.”
Alex nods, too wiped out to offer his usual parting shot, though he still manages a lazy, tired wink as he hooks the towel around his neck and heads towards the locker rooms at the back of the building, still retaining that fluid, floating gait of his despite his exhaustion.