Page 25 of Muscle Cub

I hadn’t known them back when they’d dated in college—I was a few years older—but I knew they’d been close for twenty years. I toasted them with my coffee cup. “It’s about damn time.”

Breakfast was a muted event compared to dinner. Most of the men looked a bit bleary-eyed, shuffling forward like zombies in the buffet line, drawn by the smells of bacon and biscuits. Other than mumbled good mornings, conversation was limited to ubiquitous complaints about hangovers and jokes about sausages that the staff surely had suffered before.

One exception was a chatterbox in a Golden Girls T-shirt who sat at our table and bragged about how early he’d gone to bed, how fabulously he’d slept, and all the remote work tasks he’d managed to accomplish on his smart phone by hiking out to the front gate. He went into great detail about the precise location of the strongest cellular signal—an electrical pole about a quarter mile up the drive toward the main road.

As if we were in the presence of a wild animal, we instinctively and collectively avoided making eye contact until his chipper monologue transitioned into chewing noises.

To distract myself from visions of his grizzly murder, I looked for Austin.

Austin carried a heavy urn, headed for the coffee table outside. “Hot stuff coming through!” he warned everyone in his path. His muscles strained under the weight of the canister, making everyone’s morning a little brighter for so many reasons.

Since I’d last seen him, he’d changed into a staff T-shirt a few sizes too small for his upper body and khaki shorts, but he still wore my shoes. He hadn’t spoken to me yet, but the shoes felt like a secret communication. Every time his duties brought him near our table, I had to raise my cup to cover the smile I couldn’t suppress.

Catching me grinning like a fool, Eric smirked through the entire meal.

I didn’t know what kind of attention I’d expected from Austin this morning. Maybe more of the glances I’d received last night at dinner, the overzealous drink refills, the cleared plates, maybe an extra smile or even a wink.

Austin struck me as the type who’d wink under the right circumstances, and serving breakfast to the man he blew last night sure seemed like it would have been in the ballpark.

I’d expected more than no attention.

Maybe I was a sad, middle-aged fool who’d gotten lucky at a naked campground bar with a guy who’d swindled me out of my favorite yard-work clothes.

But then, he was working, and he’d been running late this morning. Hell, maybe he’d been chewed out by his boss. Sawyer, the campground owner, was definitely glowering at someone.

Austin also had more at stake today than an early morning shift with a hangover. It was the launch of his fitness class, and considering his association with red shoes, he was probably really in his head worrying about how that was going to go. His lips moved as if he were muttering to himself, probably rehearsing what he was going to say when he got up in front of everyone.

That’s what I’d always done on the first day of a new class.

I should have wished him luck.

Austin stopped between Eric’s and Ben’s chairs, facing me. For a second, I thought he was finally going to say something to me, but then, in a loud voice, he asked for everyone’s attention. “Hey, guys! Listen up!” I realized we happened to be sitting in the middle of the room.

The murmuring voices ceased and silverware clattered to a halt. Every face in the room turned in Austin’s direction with either a smile or an expression of curiosity.

“If you wanna get rid of your hangover, I’ve got the cure.” Austin paused, looking around and making eye contact with a variety of men. “It’s a little routine I call the Morning-After Drill. It’s high intensity interval training with all bodyweight exercises that can be modified for any level of fitness including beginners.” The diners collectively groaned, but Austin ignored it and pressed on. “We’re gonna do some stretching, some light cardio, and just enough strength training to give you that little pump you’re gonna want when you’re strutting around the pool later.”

There was some heckling, negative enough that a cold tendril of dread crawled up from my stomach. Someone yelled, “The last thing I wanna do on vacation is work out, son!”

But Austin treated it as if it were good-natured trash talk. “You know you wanna look cute.” He didn’t seem bothered by his reception at all. Maybe he’d expected it. “This is gonna be a lot of fun, and”—someone said something to him that I couldn’t make out—“No, fuck you very much, my playlist is not all country music, and it definitely does not suck.”

The room erupted in crosstalk. Austin had completely lost the floor, but he cupped his hand around his mouth and attempted to finish up his pitch. “I promise you, hair of the dog is not the answer. Bring your water bottle and meet me in the gym next to Bathhouse Three at ten.”

I doubted anyone else had noticed the flash of disappointment that passed through Austin’s eyes. He projected a convincing smile. If he felt embarrassed or harassed, he didn’t show it. He was comfortable being in the spotlight.

Or at least used to being there.

“It actually is a pretty good way to get rid of a hangover,” I said to Eric and Ben. I hadn’t intended to speak so loudly, but it was one of those weird moments in a crowd where there was a sudden, random lull in conversation, and by contrast my voice had carried.

Austin held his hand out to me like he was presenting me to the room. “Thank you!” He nodded and beamed at me for a solid five seconds, vindicated, and then, before he turned to flee through the kitchen doors, he winked.

I knew he was a winker.

“You gonna go get you some of Austin’s drill?” Eric teased.

I placed a hand over my full, distended belly. “As much as I probably need to, I’m not about to make a fool of myself in front of him.” Not after what happened last night, I thought. “I can’t remember the last time I went to a fitness class.”

I’d tried to work out all through my twenties. When my ex, Charles, and I had been together, he’d had an eye for the young jock types. He always seemed to be tutoring some guy who was in danger of losing his athletic scholarship. Toward the end of our relationship, I’d avoided dropping by during his office hours, afraid I might interrupt him receiving some extra credit from one of his students.