Page 51 of Muscle Cub

Some of the men were familiar faces from the campground—Gunner, Hank, and a couple of other guys whose names I couldn’t remember. They looked different out of their staff uniforms and disco drag.

Gunner wore white basketball shorts, a white tank, and hot-pink high-top sneakers with a matching terrycloth headband. His boyfriend, Hank, provided a preppy contrast in plain gray basketball shorts and a navy Edgewood University T-shirt.

They called out to Ben and me and waved us over. I awkwardly negotiated their fist-bumps—failing on the first three pretty miserably but nailing the fourth—and they seemed genuinely happy to see me.

And of course, there was Austin. I’d sensed him the moment I’d entered, but I’d tried to play it cool. Seeing him again for the first time in a completely different environment was faintly surreal like a celebrity sighting.

Austin looked covered up—for him—in a bright-yellow crewneck T-shirt and long, gray basketball shorts. Only his kneecaps showed above tall, yellow-striped tube socks and a pair of classic black-and-white Adidas.

I understood why he hadn’t worn my crappy red Nikes, but I would’ve been lying if I’d said I didn’t feel a twinge of disappointment. However, my phone number was still visible on his arm.

Austin read aloud from a tablet screen to a tall woman, who taped signs around the room defining workstations with different equipment groupings—weights, ropes, wooden boxes, and yoga mats.

He glanced up. When he noticed me, he stopped talking to his assistant.

My face flushed.

Austin’s lips curled into a smile, his eyes flashed, and he up-nodded. The whistle around his neck gave him a sexy, coach/referee vibe.

I gave him a tiny, dorky wave.

Austin thanked everyone for coming and asked us to spread out.

I dashed to the back of the room, the safe haven for reluctant students in any class. Ben came with me. The location allowed me to check everyone out without their realizing it. I could always justify people-watching as character inspiration.

I’d expected there to be a bunch of younger fitness model types in this group, but the bodies… Jesus. The woman directly in front of me had the nicest legs I’d ever seen on anyone of any gender. She was lean and muscular, without an ounce of extra body fat, and she was also pregnant. Very pregnant.

Ben and I weren’t the oldest people in the room. A man in the first row with a silver military buzzcut had to have been in his late fifties or early sixties. He reached to scratch the back of his neck, and his biceps were so enormous he could hardly complete the motion. He was definitely not your average papaw. That a man his age could be so fit encouraged me and filled me with a sense of hope for my future. But of course he’d probably gotten that way as a result of doing classes like this.

I leaned close to Ben and muttered, “I’m afraid I’m about to make a fool of myself.”

He pulled a face and shook his head.

“All right, listen up!” Austin’s coach voice sounded affected, even compared to his bro speak, but it was commanding, capable, and shockingly hot.

If I’d never had a gym teacher/coach fantasy before, I definitely had one now.

As Austin led us through a series of stretches and calisthenics, I couldn’t decide which was more distracting—dissecting his vocal performance, trying to watch him while also attempting to follow the movements, or getting winded five minutes in.

I kept glancing at the clock, wishing I’d asked how long the class was supposed to last.

At thirty minutes, Austin blew his whistle, called for everyone to stop, and told us to grab a sip of water.

That hadn’t been so bad.

I was thinking—naively—that I could do that every day when Austin said, “Now that we’re warmed up, we can move on to today’s workout.”

Oh shit. That was the warm-up. I whispered to Ben, “What the fuck have I done?”

He tilted his head and grimaced. “Pace yourself.”

After a five-minute break that felt like it lasted ninety seconds, Austin asked everyone to line up along the mirrored wall. He divided us into five groups of four and told us to choose a station.

Ben and I ended up with the pregnant woman, who introduced herself as Ashley, and her friend, Mary Beth. They were perfectly lovely. Neither of them appeared to have broken a sweat. Since they were clearly our superiors, we followed them without question to the station labeled Dead Lifts.

All the groups had erupted into conversation, and Austin allowed it to go on for a few minutes before whistling for everyone’s attention. He announced we would be doing something adapted from Spartacus. “It’s based on part of the official training regimen used by the actors on the TV series.” Austin’s eyes gleamed. He loved this shit. This was his element.

I’d never watched the show, but I could see several people there portraying gladiators with the right costumes.