Faking It with the Omega (Foundry Boxing Gym Alphas #3)

Aiden

Here we go. Gym number five. The Foundry.

As soon as I walk in, my stomach sinks, because the place reeks of alphas.

And as I walk through the entrance, they’re all I can see: alphas to the right, alphas to the left.

Alphas on the heavy bags, alphas on the machines.

There are two alphas sparring in the boxing ring that dominates the center of the cavernous space, both of them built like brick shithouses.

One of them is cursing in French, but he’s still an alpha.

No one turns their heads when I walk in, because to them, I look like just another alpha. Six foot, muscular, broad-shouldered. But if I wasn’t wearing the strongest blockers I could find to neutralize my sweet orange blossom—distinctly omega—scent, they’d be staring.

I know because I’ve been in that exact situation more than once.

This is my fifth gym across two cities in four years—I’ve been kicked out of all the others within a few months of joining, although they never call it kicking me out. It’s always been gently phrased as something that sounds well-meaning but stings just the same.

“We think you’d be better suited to a different environment.”

“We think you’ve outgrown our capabilities as a gym.”

“I’m sure you understand. You don’t want to make the other omegas uncomfortable, do you?”

Other omegas either think there’s an alpha wandering around their gym, or they’re afraid I’ll break their ribs if they spar with me. Which, to be fair, I probably would.

I’ve only tried one other alpha-dominant gym, which wasn’t quite as tactful as the omega-only kind.

“You’re distracting the alphas. Maybe you should stick to omega-only gyms?”

So this is attempt number five. The Foundry’s website doesn’t say anything about them being alpha-only, and it’s common knowledge to anyone with even a passing interest in the local boxing scene that the owner is dating another alpha, so maybe they’re… progressive? Not total assholes?

An alpha with a scent not unlike gas fumes waddles past me. I give it ten minutes until someone figures out I’m an omega and asks me if I’m looking for the Pilates studio down the street.

Before I can even find a front desk, a guy leans out from behind a counter stacked with clipboard sign-ins and tubs of protein powder.

He’s mid-thirties, a couple of inches taller than me with a shock of auburn hair, and a crooked, impossibly bright smile.

He’s wearing a faded Foundry hoodie with the sleeves pushed up his strong forearms, revealing a haphazardly placed array of ink, and his scent hits me before I’ve even gotten close enough for him to notice me.

He smells like cherries and something mature—bourbon, maybe.

Not gas fumes. Definitely not gas fumes.

I instinctively take a deeper inhale.

“Afternoon,” he says easily when he spots me, his smile widening. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before—looking to sign up?”

“Potentially,” I reply, keeping my voice flat, my arms automatically crossing over my chest. “Maybe looking for a trainer.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he says cheerfully, walking round the counter and sticking out his hand.

I take it cautiously, bracing for the moment he figures out he’s not talking to another alpha.

I put my dynamic on the form I filled out online, but something about this guy makes me think he’s probably not the form-reading type.

“I’m Jed. Officially The Foundry’s evening trainer, but you’ll find me here at all times of the day.

Can’t stay away from the fucking place. What’s your name, big guy? ”

“Aiden.”

“Aiden,” Jed repeats. “Good to meet you, Aiden. You a newbie, or have you boxed before?”

I blink, a little thrown off by the lack of preamble, and by this guy’s vibe. He’s not at all like any other alpha trainer I’ve encountered in my ill-fated gym search. He’s sort of… bubbly? Affable? It’s putting me on edge.

“I’ve trained for four years,” I say cautiously. “Partly with trainers, but partly self-taught because gym owners keep deciding I’m a liability.”

Jed snorts a laugh, raising an eyebrow. “A liability? Why? Do you like biting your trainers or something?”

A smile threatens to tug up the corners of my lips, but I push it down. “I’m an omega,” I say bluntly. May as well rip the band-aid off. “I’m too big for omega gyms, too omega for alpha gyms.”

Jed squints, slowly raising a finger to point at me. My muscles tense, already primed for the rejection. “Yes,” he hisses. “Yes. Marcus mentioned that an omega was coming in tonight. You filled out an online form, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Shit, sorry, yeah. The online stuff is kind of over my head; it’s a new thing Marcus brought in recently, and sometimes I just don’t listen when he talks about it. Don’t tell him I said that.”

I pause, wondering if he’s telling me this because his boss—I’m taking a wild guess that’s who this Marcus guy is—has already warned him I was coming and he’s about to turn me away. “Okay. So… is that going to be a problem?”

Jed looks confused. “What?”

“Me being an omega. Because if you’re going to give me some line about how boxing is too aggressive for omegas, or how I should be sticking to light cardio—just save us both the time.”

I brace myself for the reaction—the polite brush-off, the awkward cough, the sudden micro-aggression.

Jed just stares at me for a couple of long seconds. Then he lets out a loud bark of laughter that makes me jump and echoes up to the high ceilings.

“Light cardio?” he grins, grabbing a pair of wraps from behind the counter and handing them to me. “Buddy, if I gave you light cardio, my bosses would fire me for wasting equipment. I don’t give two shits what your dynamic is. You could be a crab for all I care—do you like to hit things?”

“Obviously,” I grunt.

“Great. Put those on and get in the ring. Let’s see what we’re working with.” He turns to the two alphas in the ring. “Dyl, Levi, go do your weird foreplay somewhere else; we’ve got new blood.”

Five minutes later, I’m standing in the center of the canvas, leather wraps tight around my knuckles, staring down Jed. He’s strapped on the focus pads, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He moves with a fluid, erratic grace that I find difficult to look away from.

“Alright, Aiden,” Jed says, popping the pads together with a loud thwack. “Give me a basic one-two. Show me what those four years bought you.”

We spar for nearly fifteen minutes, Jed’s bright blue eyes barely leaving mine, a near-permanent smile plastered on his face.

I find myself relaxing into it despite myself, and every time he doles out some praise, it’s like a little shot of motivation.

He gives plenty of corrections too, small adjustments to my form that feel good the moment I apply them, and not one of them is like the feedback I’m used to hearing: omegas are built for speed, not power.

You’ll bulk up too much if you don’t pull your punches.

Jed just treats me like I’m any other boxer.

“Yes, Aiden, the fucking power behind that right hook is dangerous,” he grins after a particularly strong combination, a wild spark dancing in his eyes that’s irritatingly infectious.

I pull back, catching my breath. “I’ve been told more than once that it’s too much for an omega. Something about it throwing off our center of gravity.”

Jed snorts a laugh. “What a load of bullshit. Whoever told you that is a charlatan. Physically, you’ve got the build of a middleweight like me. Biology doesn’t change physics. You’ll get none of that backwards fuckery from me, I can tell you that.”

For the first time today, I think my smile might match Jed’s.

He steps back towards the ropes, unstrapping the pads with his teeth and tossing them onto the canvas, my eyes lingering a beat too long on the movement before I whip my gaze down to my own hands, concentrating on unwrapping them.

When I look back up, his eyes are trained on the flush heating my face, and I swear I can sense his scent flaring warmly, probably out of exertion.

“You’ve got real promise,” he says. “I mean that seriously. I can tell you’re partly self-taught—you’ve picked up some bad habits, but it’s nothing that can’t be drilled out. And we need to loosen you up a bit.”

“Okay,” I nod, already waiting for the catch. The but. The bit where he tells me he doesn’t have any slots, or that there’s some extortionate extra fee for omegas to cover ‘insurance’. “How much do I owe you for the trial?”

“Trial’s free,” Jed says smoothly, dropping down out of the ring and waiting for me to follow, his eyes dancing with that wild spark that’s starting to make me feel less and less on edge.

“Membership’s a monthly fee, and you can use the facilities whenever.

And I’ve got an opening in my evening schedule, if you’re interested. ”

“You do?” I ask.

“Yup,” he says casually, guiding us back to the front desk and tapping out a fast rhythm on one of the plastic protein powder tubs. “Same time Thursday?”

My brain immediately starts running through a list of reasons why I should say no. I haven’t seen any other omegas here, and aside from Jed, there’s no indication that this place is any different from any other gym I’ve been burned by.

And there’s Jed himself: he’s painfully cheerful, annoyingly charismatic, and yeah—he’s attractive.

Maybe distractingly so. He’s going to get annoying within two weeks, and then he’s going to realize I’m a sarcastic, self-deprecating mess who doesn’t know how to respond to easy-going alpha banter with anything other than my own uniquely offputting brand of social awkwardness.

“Thursday,” I hear myself say before my brain can catch up. “That works.”

Jed laughs warmly even though I didn’t say anything funny, and I laugh too, because I’m an idiot.

Okay, so maybe gym number five deserves a shot. As I walk back out into the crisp spring air, I tell myself I’d be surprised if I make it more than a month, even if my chest is fizzing with something dangerously close to optimism.