“I’m good,” you say. You are. You track every meal, all your macros, you—
“When’s the last time you had a slice of pizza?” he asks. “Or a cookie?”
You gave them up. You’re not bulking right now, you’re trying to build lean muscle.
Coach Nico blows out a long breath and looks away from you. He runs a hand over his buzzed hair and blows out a raspberry. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Huh?”
He looks back at you, and there’s something new in his gaze, something that gets your hackles on the rise.
“You know why I don’t compete anymore?” he asks.
You shake your head.
“All the weigh-ins,” he says. “I’d track all my eating. Starve myself. Dehydrate myself to make weight. Maybe I’d win in thering, maybe I’d lose, but you know what I got a hundred percent of the time?”
You shake your head again.
“An unhappy wife and kids. And a miserable me.” He sighs. “I’m so proud of all the progress you’ve made, but I’m worried about you, too. You’re fourteen. You’re not supposed to be jacked. You’re not supposed to be counting calories. You’re supposed to be eating junk food with your friends. You’re supposed to be growing up.”
You can’t eat junk food. That’ll ruin everything. That’ll…
He rubs his head again, stares at the woman on the speed bag, who’s just doubled her tempo and is going to town. She’s lean and strong and truly S-tier, her abs showing beneath her sports bra. You wonder what her food plan is like. You’re trying to mentally calculate her body fat percentage when Coach Nico clears his throat.
“You know what body dysmorphia is?”
You turn back to him. Shake your head.
“It’s when you have a messed-up sense of what your own body looks like.”
“What?” You can see yourself in the mirror. “I know what I look like.”
“I’m not explaining this well.” He rubs his chin. It’s the tiniest bit crooked from his days in the ring. “Listen. I’m not your doctor, and I’m not your therapist. But Iamyour coach, and Idocare about your well-being. Not just about how hard you can hit but about how happy you are. And I really think you need to talk to someone about this, because I don’t think it’s healthy for you, Farshid.”
“I’m fine.”
You are fine.
You are.
You’re not scared anymore. You came out to your mom, to some of your friends. Soon the whole school will know.
“I’m gay,” you blurt out.
You wish you hadn’t.
But Coach Nico laughs and musses your hair, then makes a face and shakes the sweat off his hand. He pulls a towel out of his bag, wipes his hands off, then pats your back.
“That’s cool,” he says. “Thank you for telling me. But that doesn’t change anything. I want you to let me talk to your parents about this.”
“Don’t—”
“And until you do,” he adds, an edge to his voice. “I’m not coaching you anymore. I’m supposed to be helping you, not making you unhealthy.”
“You can’t do that!”
He shakes his head. “I should’ve done it sooner. But better late than never.”
