Giles’ face changes from something teasing and playful and possibly a little bit confident, to crestfallen, which takes me completely by surprise. Surely he can’t bedisappointedthat I’m withdrawing my offer, which wasn’t actually an offer but more an order.
I’m such a fucking idiot.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I should never have assumed that just because you’re a queer man and I’m questioning whether I’m a queer man, that we should fuck.”
Giles’ mouth quirks when I say the word fuck and I can’t tell if it’s with interest or disgust. I tell myself it’s the latter.
“I wasn’t offended,” he says ina quiet voice. “If anything, I was flattered.”
“Well, that’s cool,” I say. Because it is. If we can get past this weird blip with our friendship intact, I will be happy. “But regardless, I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” he says with an affirmative nod.
My exhale is long and loud. “Phew. So what’s next? My legs have stopped shaking which I’m pretty sure means we’re not doing leg day properly at all.”
Giles’ short laugh is full of heart and it has me grinning with him. “You shouldn’t be so honest with me.”
“Didn’t our last conversation just confirm, I have no filter and am prone to saying things I shouldn’t?”
“Better to be honest than live a lie,” Giles says and when I glance over at him, his smile has completely gone. As if he notices me observing this, he scrunches up his features quickly, eyes squeezing shut, and then he claps his hands and a strained smile appears. “Time for weighted bridge lifts.”
I groan like he expects and also because it’s the only rational response anyone should have after being told they have to do weighted bridge lifts.
“I’ll rack you up,” he says, pointing at a free mat in front of the mirror. “Go get comfortable and give me eighteen lifts without weights to warm-up.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, giving him a quick salute and his eyes stay on me as I walk away. I know this because I feel it. I tell myself he’s checking I get a good spot and that my feet are in the right position once I start to thrust up.
I must be doing it acceptably because when he returns with a bar and circular weights, he doesn’t say anything about my form.
“Twenty,” I say, informing him that I’ve done two more than what he asked for.
“Oh,well, if you’re trying to show off,” he says, “go all the way to twenty-four.”
I groan again, but I do it.
“Twenty-four!” I declare and then lie back down on the mat.
“Legs down and keep still,” Giles says from above me and then he rolls the bar up my legs and up to my hips. He’s already applied the foam pads to the bar and I look down my body to see him tentatively adjusting them so they’re on my hip bones. Holding my breath, I’m suddenly very aware of how close my hip bones, and therefore his hands, are to… other parts of my body.
Cazzo di puta. Do not get an erection now.
I close my eyes and think about my mother’s ravioli, about how she makes it from scratch, about how she sings opera out-of-key while she rolls out the dough and cooks the filling.
“What are you waiting for?” Giles taps the side of my thigh with his foot. I open my eyes and can tell that’s not the first thing he’s said to me.
“Sorry,” I say. “Mentally preparing myself… for hell!”
He rolls his eyes but his moustache lifts with a smile.
“Get on with it,” he says and I can’t help but feel another wave of relief that we’re back to bantering and teasing and just being two guys who train together. Two guys who are fast becoming good friends. Two friends, absolutely zero erections.
“One,” I lift up and then lower.
I push up eleven more times and then stop at twelve, knowing Giles wants me to hold this rep.
He nods approvingly as I keep my hips in the air and engage my glutes. “Let’s count down from six,” he suggests and I nod, teeth gritted as I start to shake.
“Six, five, good! Four. Three, two…” His voice gets slower and slower.
