“Check the donation page and the response from locals onBarbell-ella’ssocials.”
It took me a second to connect the dots. Trent’s gym.
“And check comments under your article online.” She squeaked.
“Thanks. I’ll call back later.” I opened the website and scrolled through hundreds of comments.
The community initiative we needed.
We deserve a gym like that!
A gif from The Simpsons with the captionShut up and take my money.
Dozens of pride flag stickers.
My door burst open, and Trixie barged in. “Check your socials, man. Holy shit.”
“I’m looking!” My hands shook. This was better than morning coffee.
“The article drove traffic to the website, then the influencers picked up the topic and posted about it. It’s wild.” Trixie sat next to me, patting me on the back.
I continued scrolling.
You had me at pink towels!
No hate? Means I could get ripped without being called names. Bring it on!
Dude is hot. Is he single?
Rawr, come to mama!
Several spam comments underneath those and so many more positive ones. Of course, a bunch of haters got wind of it too, including one that said:
you want your separate bathrooms, clubs, and now gyms. is there any place left for a normal man anymore?
Oh buddy…Delete, report. Done.
“Look at the numbers.” Trixie pointed to the corner of the screen where a ticker was adding money Trent needed. “He’s got it.”
“Fuck me. I gotta call him.” I dialed his number.
“Morning babe,” he said, panting.
“Are you working out? You sound out of breath.”
“Sort of.”
I grinned. My horny Cupcake.
“Trent. You’ll have the gym you wanted. The community will have it. We all will. The fundraiser reached the minimum quota you needed for internal renovations, and donations are still pouring in.”
“You set it up already? Wait, what did you say? How did you pull off that kind of publicity?”
“I wrote an article and included your video.”
“Oh, babe.” Trent sniffed. “I’m coming over to your place.”
“Don’t you have work today?” I asked, while sending him the link to the fundraiser and my article.
