CHAPTER 1 #3
Denise walked over to the heavy Olympic bench press, grabbing two forty-five-pound iron plates from the tree and sliding them onto the steel bar with a sharp, metallic clack. She added a pair of twenty-fives, sliding the spring collars on with practiced ease.
Monique raised a single eyebrow. "Two-fifteen? You sure about that weight, Richards? That’s heavy iron for a netball player."
Denise lay back on the bench, her long legs planting flat on the black rubber floor, her back arching slightly as she settled her shoulders into the pad.
Her hands gripped the knurled steel bar wide, her knuckles white.
"Trust me. But I still need a spotter in case my ego gets bigger than my triceps. "
Monique stepped up behind the bench, placing her feet wide and leaning her thighs lightly against the top of the headrest. Looking down from above, she could see the swell of Denise’s chest beneath the maroon sports bra, the rhythmic rise and fall of her ribs, and the dark, focused intensity in her brown eyes as she stared up at the bar.
"Alright," Monique said, her voice dropping into a professional tone. "On three. One, two, three—lift."
Denise un-racked the weight. The iron bar dipped an inch under the sudden load, and Monique’s hands immediately hovered two inches beneath the steel, her palms open, her body ready to take the weight.
But Denise held it. She took a deep, filling breath that expanded her ribs against her top, then lowered the bar down to her sternum with total control.
Touch.
She exploded upward, her chest muscles flexing hard, her teeth gritting as she drove the iron back up into the racks.
"One," Monique counted.
Denise dropped it again. This time, midway through the ascent, the bar stalled. Her arms began to quiver, her left elbow flaring slightly outward as the two hundred fifteen pounds of cold iron threatened to reverse direction.
Monique didn't wait. She stepped into her hips, slid her fingers under the center of the bar, and pulled upward with a smooth, effortless lift, helping Denise guide the iron back onto the heavy steel pins until it settled with a loud CLANG.
Denise lay on the bench for three seconds, her chest heaving, her nostrils flared as she caught her breath. Then she sat up, rubbing her forearms, a soft, self-deprecating laugh bubbling up from her throat.
"Okay, okay," Denise breathed, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. "You were right. I thought since I set it up on the machine last week I could press it cold on the free bar. Pride before the fall and all that bullshit."
"It’s alright," Monique said softly, her hand coming down to rest briefly on Denise’s shoulder—a quick, reassuring touch that felt surprisingly warm through the thin fabric of her sports bra. "I’ve made that same mistake a hundred times. You good?"
"Yeah," Denise said, looking up at Monique with an open, appreciative gaze that lingered on the swell of Monique’s chest and the tattoo climbing her ribs. "But damn, Gray... you lifted that off my chest like it was a sack of groceries. Where’d you get all that force from?"
Monique shrugged, though she couldn't hide the slight tilt of her head that showed her pride.
"Told you. My Uncle Dave. He didn't let me touch light weights until I could do thirty push-ups with a twenty-five-pound plate on my back.
And I live in this place. Cardio at six a.m., calisthenics after class, weights three times a week.
Keep my body right so nobody out there can tell me shit or think they can push me around. "
Denise’s eyes tracked down Monique’s frame slowly—taking in the cut of her shoulders, the small waist, and the full, heavy line of her thighs pressing against the compression fabric.
"Well, it shows," Denise murmured, her voice dropping into a tone that was lower and far more personal than before.
"Most girls who lift heavy look like they’re trying to turn into men.
You look... soft. Soft in the right places, but solid under it. You look real good, Monique."
The compliment hit Monique low in her belly, a warm, heavy weight that made her fingers twitch against her thighs. She didn't know what to do with the word soft—she’d spent twenty years building a shell so hard nobody in Detroit could crack it—so she stepped past the feeling and grabbed the bar.
"You wanna see how it’s done?" Monique asked, a playful, arrogant edge creeping into her voice.
Denise slid off the bench, taking two steps back and crossing her long arms over her chest, her dimples deep as she watched. "Show me then, big girl."
Monique lay down on the bench. She adjusted her shoulders, grabbed the knurled steel, and lifted two hundred fifteen pounds off the pins without a spot.
She lowered it slowly until the cool metal brushed the fabric of her olive tank top, then pressed it back up—one, two, three, four...
smooth, rhythmic, controlled reps that looked like a machine working in an oil bath.
By fifteen, Denise took a step closer, her hand coming up to rest on the edge of the rack, her eyes wide. By twenty, Monique racked the iron with a final, hard metallic snap, her breath steady, her skin glowing with a thin coat of sweat.
She sat up, pulling her ponytail back over her shoulder, and looked at Denise.
Denise was biting her lower lip, her eyes dark, her gaze locked onto Monique’s mouth. "That was... fucking hot," Denise said quietly.
Monique let out a breathless laugh, her cheeks warming despite her best efforts. "You wild for that, Richards. Come on, let's go hit the cables before you start writing poetry about my bench press."
They moved through the rest of the gym like two gears grinding into the same box.
Denise was athletic and powerful, but her movements had the wider, looser range of a court player; Monique was compact, efficient, and precise, every angle calculated to maximize force.
Monique corrected Denise’s stance during the cable rows, reaching out to place her bare hand on the low middle of Denise’s back to show her how to engage her lats without straining her neck.
When Denise hit her third set of Bulgarian split squats, her back leg slipped on the bench, and she began to tip sideways. Monique moved in instantly, her strong arms coming around Denise’s waist from behind, her chest pressing flat against Denise’s back to steady her.
The contact was immediate and total. Denise was damp with sweat, her body hot through her maroon gear, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Monique held her for two seconds longer than necessary, her fingers digging slightly into the soft, thick flesh above Denise’s hip bone.
"I got you," Monique whispered against the nape of Denise’s neck, where small curls of hair were stuck with sweat.
Denise turned her head slightly, her cheek almost touching Monique’s temple. "I know you do," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "I knew that when you pulled Josh off your back."
They moved to the treadmills for their cool-down, setting the incline to four and walking side by side as the evening outside turned into a deep, velvety indigo. The gym was emptying out; the heavy lifting crews had gone home to eat, leaving only a few lone runners on the far side of the room.
"I gotta tell you something," Denise said, her long legs moving with a steady, rhythmic stride. "I was nervous as hell coming over to you outside the food court today."
Monique glanced over, surprised. "You? Nervous? You slapped six-foot-eight off his feet and threatened to have him thrown off campus."
"That was easy," Denise laughed softly, her hands resting lightly on the handrails.
"That was just dealing with a dog that didn't know how to stay behind his fence.
But coming up to you... that was different.
You got that 'don't fuck with me, don't look at me, don't even breathe in my direction' energy.
I almost chickened out three times while I was standing by the fountain. "
"Why didn't you?" Monique asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the red digital display counting down her miles.
"Because the alternative was watching him put his hands on you again, and I couldn't stomach that," Denise said, her voice turning quiet and serious.
"And because... like I said. You’re cute as hell.
And I like the way you move through this world like you don't need nobody’s permission to take up space. "
Monique stared at the console, her pulse hammering against her ribs. "I’m not used to people just... saying shit like that to me. Most people around here talk around what they want."
"Get used to it," Denise said softly. "I say what I mean, Gray. Always have."
By seven-thirty, they walked into the locker room. It was completely deserted, the long rows of gray steel lockers standing silent under the dull yellow buzz of the overhead fluorescent tubes. The air was thick with humidity from the shower stalls down the hall.
Their lockers ended up three stalls down from each other by random assignment.
Monique unzipped her bag, pulled her shirt over her head with a quick, single movement, and tossed it onto the bench.
She stood there in her sports bra, her dark skin glistening, the tattoos on her ribs sharply visible against her tone muscles.
In the mirror across the aisle, she saw Denise stop with her hands on the waistband of her leggings, her eyes fixed on Monique’s reflection with an intensity that made the skin on Monique’s arms prickle with goosebumps.
Monique didn't cover herself. She met Denise’s gaze in the glass, her chin up, her chest rising and falling slowly.