Juno works as a lab assistant in the genetics lab and always claims to be lucky to even have a coat hook for their lab coat, forget having their own office. Of course, that’s leaving out the part where they make a legit salary while I barely get paid enough to cover bus fare to and from campus. Plus, the tiny office I share with another TA doesn’t count for much. It’s a quiet place for us to share lunch, at least.
“As usual.” I give them a kiss on the cheek and sling my messenger bag, which today contains a neatly folded pair of khakis and a polo shirt—yes, I’m predictable—along with all of my various textbooks and notebooks, over my shoulder. “Catch you later.”
I finally give in to their nudging and head out the door, questioning my sanity with every step down the stairs and out onto the street. Not going back to Sweat is totally an option. Instead of walking the handful of blocks to Boystown, I could just get on the bus at the corner and go straight to campus. I could avoid ever walking down that particular street again and never have to face Butch or his disappointment.
I stand on the sidewalk for at least a minute, considering my options. It’s the memory of Butch’s hopeful smile that ultimately gets my feet moving. I’m such a sucker. It’s a really good thing I don’t go to strip clubs.
If I drag my feet the whole six blocks to Sweat, it’s only because I don’t want to waste all my energy on the walk there. I have to save some for the upcoming humiliation. What does a personal trainer even do?
I picture Butch dressed like my middle school gym teacher, with a whistle around his neck and a scowl on his face, shouting at me to “get my string bean ass up that rope.” I shudder and recoil a little. It’s no wonder my stomach squirms at the thought of recreational exercise. Honestly, the whole thing is a minefield of horrors, from the locker room to the bench press. And don’t even get me started on the pull-up bar. If there is a hell, public exercise is definitely the kind of torture that would be designed just for me.
And yet, here I am, pulling open the door to Sweat of my own free will, like a baby gazelle walking right into a lion’s den.
Part of me is expecting to be instantly hit with the overpowering stench of gym socks, or maybe that every one of the muscled-up jocks currently pumping iron will stop and stare at me, sensing an outsider in their midst instantly like a group of wildebeests at the watering hole. Not that any of that happened yesterday. But yesterday I came in by accident and didn’t paymuch attention to anything other than the gymbo offering to rip my arm out of its socket for fun.
To my surprise and relief, it smells like lemon cleaning solution with just a hint of sweat, and no one so much as glances in my direction as I walk in.
There’s generic pop music playing from somewhere and several different rhythmic sounds, from the whirr of the treadmills to the clang of weight machines, all coming together to create a hypnotic cacophony that might be soothing if it wasn’t so intimidating. The pull-up bar on the far wall taunts me. My heart jackrabbits in my chest and I consider turning around and walking out.
“Rocky.” Butch’s familiar voice booms with excitement, and I tug on my crop top again, wishing I’d pushed harder for Juno to give me something a little less conspicuous from their closet.
“Uh, it’s Percy, actually.” Of course he doesn’t remember my name. Why would he? Just because I spent all of last night reliving the feeling of his massive hand wrapped around mine and the low, throaty sound of his praise doesn’t mean he thought about me after I scurried out of the bakery.
“Rockton, Rocky, The Rock,” he repeats the same nonsensical combination of words he said yesterday, and it hits me that he’s giving me a nickname.
Oh.
A warm feeling blooms in my gut, and what I’m sure is a dopey smile spreads across my face.
“As long as you don’t expect me to run up a million steps or punch out a muscular Russian with a body count.” I chuckle.
“Not on your first day,” he says seriously. “Today I’m going to show you around and do an assessment to see where we’re starting.”
The warmth fades just as quickly as it came and my stomach squirms anxiously. Where we’re starting? I wonder if they haveweights that would be acceptable for a baby who’s only just learned to lift his head. Or, like, someone who’s recently come out of a coma and has little to no muscle mass. That’s where we’re starting. Not that I’m going to say that to He-Man here. But, fuck my life, he’s going to find out soon enough.
I give him an awkward thumbs-up like an idiot, and he lets out a laugh that’s just as booming as his greeting, slapping me on the shoulder forcefully enough to make me stumble.
“Come on.”
“Paperwork,” the guy sitting behind the desk calls out. He’s as big as Butch, with a slightly rounder stomach, dark hair, and a vintage Ghostbusters T-shirt stretched across his massive torso.
“This is Silas,” Butch says, leading me over to the desk. “He has a weird fetish for paperwork. Not that I’m kink shaming.”
Silas gives him a dry look. “It would be a lot more fun if keeping you all in line actually got my dick hard, but unfortunately, I’m just trying to avoid getting a lecture from Dre.”
“See, that’s where you went wrong. Dre lectures you and you fall in line. If you let it go in one ear and out the other, he gives up.” A different man saunters over to offer this bit of wisdom.
Unlike Butch and Silas, he’s much more slender. His arms are still jacked, and I’m sure he could run circles around me, but he couldn’t smother me with his pecs like the other two.
“Fender.” Butch nods towards him before reaching over the desk to grab a clipboard with a form attached for me to fill out.
Silas hands me a pen and I hesitate.
“You’re not signing your life away or anything, man, it’s just so we have your info on file in case you break your arm and have to be rushed to the hospital or something,” Fender assures me.
“And to collect payment,” Silas adds.
“Right,” I mutter.
