“More like someone who’s never met a squat rack,” I say, finally getting the spandex up to mid-thigh.
Victory, however, is short-lived. Because now I’ve reached the final boss: my ass.
I catch my reflection in the fitting room mirror and immediately wish I hadn’t. My face is tomato-red, hair sticking up in seventeen directions, and the purple spandex is stretched across my thighs like a tourniquet, bunched up in a stubborn roll just below my hockey butt.
God, I look like a deranged grape trying to give birth to itself.
“Come on,” I mutter, grabbing the waistband with both hands. “Get. Over. The. Hump.”
I pull. The spandex doesn’t budge.
I pull harder. The fabric whines ominously but holds its ground.
From the next stall, I hear Jackson grunt with effort, followed by the distinctive sound of fabric snapping against skin. “Ow! Fuck!”
“You good?”
“These pants just assaulted me!”
I take a deep breath, plant my feet, and give three violent, desperate tugs that would make a CrossFit instructor proud.
The first tug: nothing.
The second tug: the fabric inches up a millimeter.
The third tug: sweet, sweet release.
The spandex finally surrenders, snapping over my ass and settling into place with a finality that should feel better than it does. Sweat trickles down my temple as I let out a triumphant exhale that fogs up the mirror.
“I’m in,” I announce, slightly breathless. “The pants have been conquered.”
“Same,” Jackson says, sounding equally winded. “But I think I pulled something in the process.”
I turn to examine myself in the mirror, and a shocked gasp escapes my lips as my hand flies to my mouth.
The spandex hides nothing. Absolutely nothing. Every curve, every line, every single thing I possess is on full display, wrapped in shiny purple like an extremely inappropriate Christmas present. The fabric clings to my thighs, cups my ass better than a jockstrap ever could, and the front?
Well. Let’s just say there’s no mystery left about what I’m working with.
“Ready?” Jackson asks, pulling me out of my narcissistic moment.
“No.”
“Me neither. On three?”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“One.”
“Jackson—”
“Two.”
“We don’t have to do this.”
“Three!”
I yank open my curtain at the same moment Jackson yanks open his.
