“Two more?” Marcello practically whimpers.
“You can do it!” I pat him on the shoulder and hope he doesn't ask why I insist on him reaching twenty-four. “Inhale and then exhale slowly as you resist and release the hold.”
Marcello extends his arms and they start to shake.
“Fuck!” he swears again. He’s very… vocal.
I swallow. “That's it. Last one!”
Marcello trembles his way through one more pull and then he releases suddenly and noisily, the weights clanging back into place.
“Fuck me!” he says, loudly.
So loudly, I find myself chuckling.
“I swear, if you tell me I need to do two more sets of twenty-four of those bastards I will leave right this minute and go and eat a kebab, with fries, just to spite you.”
I pat Marcello on the back then stand up. As I hold out my hand to pull him up, I give him what I hope is a moustache-bouncing smile.
“You can't afford that surely now you've paid for six months up front. This isn't exactly the cheapest gym in the area.”
Marcello takes a generous swig of water from his bottle. “To be honest, they had me at sauna and steam room.”
I laugh at that. “Well, just a few more sets and you can be sitting smug in that steam room in no time. Let's do some of those tricep pulls I showed you a moment ago.”
I reach out for the rope and place it in his hands again.
“Why do I feel like masturbating is going to hurt the next time I try,” Marcello mumbles. Maybe it wasn’t for me to hear, but I can’t resist replying.
I lean in a little so only he can hear me. “But just wait until we start working your forearms. Those are some serious gains in the wanking department.”
“Facciamolo!Who knew that was the motivation I needed all along!” he says, and he does indeed tackle his first set of twelve tricep pulls with new vigour.
Chapter Five
Marcello
"So is this what you call a gym high?” I ask as I re-rack the bar above my head. I mean, the fact I just know to call it re-racking makes me a little giddy but truly, I am feeling a real rush of endorphins right now as I sit up after that drop set of chest presses. And yes, I do know what a drop set is, another thing that makes me feel irrationally good.
“Heart pumping a bit faster? Head feeling light and clear? Your skin feeling just a little bit too tight for your body, like you've literally just grown your muscle?” Giles moves to stand beside me with his hands on his hips.
“Pretty much.” I nod.
“Yep, that's a gym high.”
“That's a good sign, right?”
“It's a great sign,” Giles says and I'm pretty sure I hear pride in his voice. “And tomorrow we'll make sure you experience a runner's high too.”
“Fuck, I forgot about that. We're running tomorrow.”
“Yes, we are.”
I wish I could share Giles' enthusiasm but I haven't run further than the distance between my mother's house and the Tube in over a decade. Tomorrow's planned six-kilometre run around Hyde Park could put me in the hospital.
“You look worried,” one of Giles' large hands claps me on the back, “but you needn't be. We will go at your pace.”
“You actually run?” I ask still a little disbelieving that a man with Giles' stocky and solid physique can haul it around at a decent pace.
