Chapter Six #2
At that, an idea hits me. If I work him hard enough today, maybe he won’t want to come back. If I can somehow manage to power through seeing him get all hot and sweaty for a few unrelenting sessions, I bet he’ll cave and lose interest in continuing to come.
I see it around the start of every new year.
Resolutioners will come, give it their all for a few sessions, and then fizzle out—spending more time lounging on the water massagers than on the ellipticals.
Before long, Gannett will join their ranks, and then after that, he will be out of my house too.
I just have to suffer through all the on-display, off-limits torture of trying to keep my wandering eyes off of him first.
I take a deep breath as Gannett and I enter the gym.
There’s just something about taking in everything at Forge Fitness that does it for me.
The vibes as Taryn would call it. Would I want sweaty gym rat made into a scented candle?
No, but if there were a way to bottle up the energy that you get as soon as you walk through the door, I’d take it.
Unlike the bar, the local gym is a place where the regulars—albeit there aren’t as many here—come to better themselves, as opposed to drowning out their problems.
Micah, the current owner, has been trying to convince me to buy the gym off him for a bit.
He’s been looking to expand his MMA training program by moving down to the city of Portland so that he can focus less on the "running a business" side of things. From what I’m told, his step-brother Tyson frequents a gym there that needs the help, and he could just focus on coaching there.
He tells me that I’d be the perfect fit, having had the experience of already running a business and an extensive history of personal training, but I’m not so sure.
It’s my people skills that leave me a bit lacking. I push myself for all the wrong reasons, and I know that. What those seeking to get fit need is someone who isn’t a wire who is strung taught, ready to snap on a moment’s notice.
I also loathe to think of Micah leaving town, though I know it’s what he wants, since he’s not much of a small-town personality.
With the fighting skills he possesses—some of which he’s passed on to me—he’s built for somewhere bigger than Ternbay.
He and I spar on the mats in the back quite often, which is, as of late, the only form of therapy I get.
In fighting, I get that release I crave.
As soon as my knuckles are wrapped, I allow myself to channel all that rage—all that hurt—into grappling my opponent.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have someone as strong and skilled as Micah to absorb the brunt of my beatings.
If he leaves, I doubt I’ll find the same push-back in a punching bag.
I start stashing my things in a locker while Gannett strips off his—no, my—hoodie.
It catches on his new athletic tank below it and pulls that up too.
I try—and fail—not to, once again, notice his naked torso as he does.
He’s not all carved lines and stacked abs, but everything about him still screams all fuckin’ man anyway—god, it’s fuckin’ infuriating that I’m attracted to him the way that I am.
Good thing he’s too busy trying to wrestle his sweatshirt off to notice me tenting in my shorts a little.
Shit. I knew I should have worn a jock today.
“Ready?” he asks me, quirking an eyebrow as he takes me in.
Then, he lets out a low, drawn-out whistle.
“Holy shit, dude. You aren’t going to wear a shirt?
Those friggin’ chest tats are killer, but I worry about those pecs…
and those guns. Someone could have an accident and fall off a treadmill if they’re not careful and gawk at them.
You going to get me just as ripped, Hulk-man? ”
Great. He’s checking me out again, which only makes things that much more awkward for me.
Since Evan’s official coming out with Brooks, Gannett’s been less discreet about letting comments like that slip out.
It’s almost as if he’s subtly trying to suss out who else might be batting for the same team.
Well, he’s not going to get anything from me.
I roll my eyes and then yank a t-shirt from my locker and slip it on, and I swear I hear him huff something to himself. “What?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” is his quick—suspiciously quick—response.
One I don’t want to read more into. I swear I hear him mutter something to the effect of David Beckham under his breath before he asks, “So, where do we begin? Ellipticals? Rowers? Recumbent bikes? I did a little online sleuthing on the ride into town.”
“Stretching. Before anything, we need to stretch.”
He nods. “Right. Loosen the ol’ goosen. Limber the mighty timber.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I quip, actively trying not to envision how mighty his timber is.
He chuckles, then his expression turns morose.
“I used to think it was one of my better qualities… ya know, before Sarah pretty much told me it made me seem like an asshat. Evan, too. But I see no point in being so hardened all the time. At the risk of sounding like The Joker from Batman, ‘why so serious?’ I mean, we’ve all got our shit, you know?
No point in being resigned to it for all of eternity. ”
I nod, though I have to disagree. There is plenty of bad shit to be resigned to for all of eternity. If only I could be more like Gannett and let it roll off my shoulders, but that’s just not me. If anything, I’m inflexible, and the stuff I’ve done? Unforgivable.
Doesn’t matter what I went through to get me to this point, I’m anchored in this endless sea of worthlessness nonetheless.
Upon the realization that I am forever trapped in the undertow, I bristle. Unease washes over me, and suddenly, my body is thrumming with the need to unleash it. I need to fight.
I catch Gannett’s head dipping so he can look me in the eyes. “Hey, did I say something wrong? I’m sorry if—”
“No,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “Let’s just go workout. Stretch first, then I want to skip the equipment and head for the sparring mats today. How do you feel about learning some MMA?”
He warily eyes me. “Like… fighting?”
I nod.
“Won’t I have to break rule number one—no touching?”
I smirk, then toss back a taunt, hoping it’ll get him riled up enough so that he’ll forget I made that rule, which I created for his own safety.
Right now? I just want him to know why I made it in the first place.
Gannett’s the type who only learns by fucking around and finding out.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Wee-Waters.
I doubt you will even land a punch.” On that, I stride out of the locker room.
“Oh, fuck all the way off, asshole,” I hear him grumble as he jogs to catch up to me.