But maybe… Maybe I can try? Maybe I could be good at it? Maybe I could lose all the extra weight and feel fit and sexy again, and maybe that’s exactly what I need to feel confident enough to try dating again?
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay you're going to do a triathlon?” Chloe asks, disbelieving.
“Don't sound so shocked. You suggested it.”
“Yeah, but I thought you'd tell me to fuck off and get back to work.” Chloe scoffs out a laugh.
“Oh,” I say and I realise the trap I've fallen into. Me and my hopeless optimism and terrible impulse control. “Let's pretend that I did do that? Fuck off and get back to work!”
Chloe shakes her head, making her afro bounce again. “No way, José. You just agreed to do a triathlon and I was a witness. I'm going to hold you to it. Deal?”
She holds out her hand.I look at it and feel like I'm looking at a future of literal blood, sweat and tears. I haven't run further than the Tube station in nearly a decade. This has the potential to not end well at all.
But maybe it also has the potential to end really well. I could get fit. I could lose that little bit of weight that makes my jeans uncomfortable. I could get my confidence back. I could... enjoy it?
I take her hand and shake it.
“Deal,” I say.
Chloe's gleeful grin is damn well contagious. "Just wait until I tellRadia about this!”
I roll my eyes andnod at the door which now needs to be unlocked and open for imminent customers. “Now you really can fuck off and get back to work,” I say with my first real smile of the day.
Chapter Two
Giles
"One, two, three, four, five, six,” I grit out barely under my breath as I curl my arms up and bring the 30kg dumbbells to my shoulders.
“Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.”
Can I do more?I ask myself.Yes,I decide.
“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.”
Do I have another three in me? Let's try. Let's try.
“Sixteen, seventeen... shit.” This last rep is going to kill. But I'm going to do it. I have to do it. I have to make it to eighteen. If I don’t…
I just have to make it to eighteen.
“Eighteen!” I pant and I see a flash of light behind my closed lids as I've scrunched up my face with all the effort.
That was my last rep of my third set.Thank fuck.
With arms still on fire, I return the dumbbells to the rack, wipe my towel over their grips three times each, and then move back to my position and extend my arm, engaging my tricep. It pops under the gym's very deliberate lighting and I am pleased enough with the results. Because it could always be better. I could always be better.
Relaxing out of the flex, I roll my shoulders and get ready to move on to some shoulders and back training. Today is mostly about arms, but I like to incorporate other exercises into arm day, to give everything a bit of a boost whenever I come to the gym, which is around four or five times a week at the moment. Apart from legs. Legs are strictly for leg days and those days are my most hated.
However, after training like this for over twenty years, I've learnt that nothing comes easily. And as much as I hate leg day, I fucking love my quads. Most of the time.
I'm facing the cable machine and contemplating what weight to start with when a voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
I turn my head and blush, furiously.
