David waved a hand in his direction. “Fine. Fine. I’m just joking, man. I’ll be out on the floor, waiting for you.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
“Ah…” The older man could be a bit of a curmudgeon. He’d calm down as soon as they started working out.
Crois unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down while he towed off his shoes. When he’d dropped his pants down, he stepped out of them and reached into his bag for his boxing trunks. He shook them out and pulled them on over his underwear.
The door to the locker room opened and Crois looked up.
Hank Berg walked in.
The man was built like a truck. Broad across the shoulders and arms that looked like he lifted small cars for fun.
Crois knew him from the First Responder community. Hank worked out of Firehouse Twenty-Nine where everyone called him ‘Pitts.’
Crois’ mind worked over that reference that had to be explained to him before. ‘Pitts’ Berg.
Ha!
Internally he rolled his eyes.
“Hank, it’s been awhile.”
Hank nodded and continued wiping off the sweat from his face and neck. “Cajun boy. Long time no see.”
Cajun boy?
“What are you doing at the gym?”
Crois watched as Hank stopped walking and ran his towel over his shoulders and chest as he stared back.
“They didn’t tell you?”
Crois let out a breath. “Obviously not.”
Hank grinned and nodded his head. “I’m the one who’s going to kick your butt in the ring.”
Ah.
Okay.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Crois had more than a moment of pause. “We’re not in the same weight class are we?”
Hank dropped his towel around his neck. “Weight class? This isn’t a professional fight, Crois. You don’t need to whine about this, do you?”
Crois shook his head. “I’m not whining, Hank. It’s just a question.”
He wasn’t whining. He just didn’t like the odds.
Crois was good to fight pretty much anyone, but just at a glance, Hank wasn’t in his class weight wide.
Hank was about three or four inches shorter, but the bulk of his muscles outweighed Crois’.
The man was a firefighter and broke down doors for a living.
Of course he’d be bigger.
Bulkier.
