After doing the requisite five reps, Michael close by, I walk back to the squat rack and place the barbell back on it, making sure it’s secured before leaving it behind.

  I stretch out my chest and upper back by swinging my arms forward and back, rolling my shoulders. I felt that everywhere and I didn’t even do a full set, didn’t even do a full workout.

  “What’s up? Are you hurt?” Michael asks, his voice leaving that realm of calm (especially when he was holding onto me after I passed out) and looking over me as if he can pinpoint an invisible injury through all the clothing I’m wearing.

  I shake my head, bringing my hands to my hips. “Just disappointed. I didn’t expect to feel that as much as I did. It’s going to take forever to get where I want to be.”

  “Oh, okay, I’m glad you’re not hurt. I’d have to get used to a new next-door neighbor, and I don’t think the next one is going to keep me in Golden Oreos.”

  I gape at him. “You still have those?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have a vendetta against sugar or something? I ate a whole box just last night.”

  Michael grins, his smile almost blinding under all these fluorescent lights. “Yeah, diet and nutrition is also a really important part of any fitness journey.”

  I blink at him. “You sound like you memorized that. Did you?” I tilt my head at him, huffing a little because I’ve only done two exercises and it’s already a lot. When did all of this happen, when did I allow myself to lose all the pride in my body that I had before?

  Why does it always feel like something gets sacrificed in my life: social relationships with my friends and cousins, taking care of myself, working my ass off to somehow prove to my parents that this is a legitimate job even if they have concerns about the future, plus there’s the whole dating thing which I haven’t touched in forever.

  Why can’t I have it all?

  Even if I’m sorely disappointed in myself for sucking in the strength department, that can be easily fixed. It’s going to take a lot of work, I know, but it’s going to be worth it in the end, especially if I’m going to catch glimpses of Michael working at the gym whenever I do.

  He takes me to other machines where I’m tasked to do different reps and stances, after doing the big compound movements (squats, deadlifts, shoulder press and bench press) all while adjusting it to my size and stance, making it Vick-proof.

  Michael takes me through all of it, writing everything up for me in his neat writing, promising to email me a nicer copy by the end of the day after he takes a photocopy of the original schedule.

  “Other than gaining strength, do you have any other specific goals?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know, I always thought it would be cool to enter a fitness competition, try to win one.”

  It’s the first time I’ve admitted that out loud, the passion for weight training coming out now that I’m officially on hiatus from the pro-gaming world. I’ve been off all of my gaming socials, not paying attention to what’s being said, or smack-talked, or any of that, instead giving myself time to rest.

  I slept thirteen hours last night and it was glorious.

  “We could work on that if you want. My dad used to do that professionally, even won a Mr. Olympia title. I could help you with that.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, I am a female, and I identify as a female, Michael. I don’t know how much testosterone you think I have, but I promise you it is not enough.”

  A surprised laugh comes out of him, a hand coming up to run through his inky hair, tugging at the mass until it’s out of his eyes. He shakes his head, like what I just said was wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “I could still help you out, though. We can discuss my fees, and setting something up when I send you that email later.”

  And again, there’s only one answer I want to give him. “Sure thing.”

  SIX

  “Don’t push yourself too hard,” Michael says, staring down at me from his lofty height, the jerk, while I stand here, clutching at the barbell, my hands slippery in my training gloves, burning with heat. It’s not the only part of me burning, either.

  My face rivals that of a boiled lobster, and I’ve got sweat dripping from places I didn’t know could sweat. All of my muscles in my body are quivering right now, just holding up the barbell across my shoulders, my feet planted underneath my hips in the stance that’s most comfortable for me.

  The truth of the matter is, I don’t know if I can do one more squat at this weight. I don’t think I can, my brain keeps telling me I can’t, but I really want to give it a try.

  I’m two weeks into my program, seeing Michael more often than not (honestly, I think the guy works twelve-hour days in here), and we’ve already added fifteen pounds to the barbell I’m currently keeping upright with my weakling body.

  It gets like this, sometimes, in a game, when you’re low on energy, and there’s only one crazy move you can make, to risk it all to win.

  But gaming isn’t real life, and it’s not like I’d recover all that well if my kneecaps decide to pop right out of my skin, or I injure my spine because I compromise my form in the squat.

  So, I know it’s the right thing to do, even if I don’t want to do it.

  “Yeah, I’m done,” I say, and Michael hums in approval, putting his hands underneath the barbell until it doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore, and we both walk towards the squat rack, putting it in its place.

  I stoop underneath it and turn around to face him, crossing my arms over my chest while hanging off of the barbell, stretching my neck from side to side, trying to get the ache in my upper shoulders to leave, and I don’t want to talk about my legs.

  “Shit,” I murmur to myself, disappointed as usual, at the demands I’ve made of my body and it just hasn’t measured up—yet.

  Michael’s good about that, playing the part of psychologist when I have to bow out earlier in a set than I would like to.

  It’s literally only been two weeks—so how come I’m not ripped yet?

  “You’re getting stronger,” Michael says, and I glance up at him, wondering if I said anything out loud. I mean, I’ve been pretty vocal about it all, so I don’t think it takes much to guess at what I’m thinking. “Everyone starts somewhere, right? Just as long as you start.”

  I blink at him. “Should I be paying you more by the hour? ’Cause you keep throwing out life advice and I think you should be compensated.”

  Wow, look at me, talking to Michael instead of making weird grunting noises or blushing like a kid with a high school crush. I mean, granted, I do have a crush, but most of the time I can push past it when I’m lifting heavy things with different parts of my body.

  It doesn’t pay to hurt myself if I’m not focusing on my form.

  Michael grins, a quick quirk of his mouth, a flash of teeth, and he glances down at his feet. I do, too, to find out what’s so interesting. My yellow Chuck Taylors are in a bad need of a cleaning, especially in the face of Michael’s pristine white training shoes.

  And here we are again, with me fumbling for conversation topics and trying to throw them at him in a verbal game of hot potato, throwing words back and forth and calling it a conversation.

  I was never really this bad at socializing, I don’t think. I don’t know, I can’t quite remember.

  Max and I went to the same schools growing up, while I took a year off instead of going to university, and Max went the commerce route.

  Taking time off from my job has me asking myself a lot of questions, thinking long and hard about my future.

  Can I realistically keep going the way I have for years on end? Or does my schedule need reworking? Can I do something else to keep the money coming in?

  Despite trying to figure out my financial future, I know that I’ve never felt this weak in my entire life, this tired all the time. Even after only two weeks going back to the gym, doing five sessions a week (despite the incredible soreness, oh my goddddd), I already feel a difference.

  “Come on, let’s try some pull-ups.”

  “Are you trying to make fun of me?” I wave my skinny arms around, the way the muscles are hidden beneath a layer of fat. I can’t even do push-ups on my toes, what is he playing at?

  Michael turns to look at me, an eyebrow raised. My heart gives a painful squeeze, but I ignore it. “I would never make fun of you, or anyone. I’m just asking that you try.”

  I shake my head. “I’m telling you right now that I can’t do it. I can’t. It’s not possible.” I cross said skinny arms over my chest, hunching my shoulders in, glancing around. Honestly, though, everyone’s so wrapped up in their own heads either doing cardio or weight-lifting that no one’s going to notice me failing miserably at trying to lift my body weight in a pull-up.

  “We’re going to do assisted pull-ups. Come on, let me show you.”

  I follow after him, extremely doubtful, but Michael’s standing tall next to the pull-up rack, stooping down to bring up a thick elasticated band. He loops it around the top, looping it through to form a knot, pulling on it so it tightens up. He holds out the bottom loop for where my feet are gonna go, and I just give him a look.

  “Come on, Victoria,” he says, refusing to use my nickname that I expressly gave him permission to use. “Give it a shot.”

  I huff out a laugh, moving closer despite knowing I’m going to look stupid struggling to pull myself up. Shit. But Michael’s waiting, and it’s weird that he thinks I can do something I know I can’t.

  Fine, whatever.

  Let’s give it a go.

  I step into the loop of band he’s holding out for me, frowning down when my other foot doesn’t quite make the cut. I’m instructed to keep my other foot outside of the band.

  “Do you need help reaching the bar?” he asks, still crouching by my feet. I mean, he looks great like that, and someone incredibly lucky is going to see this when Michael proposes to them, and it’s a lot, suddenly, too much. Michael’s super hot, and I have a crush on him, and he’s my trainer, and I’m super awkward and haven’t dealt with real, live humans outside of a game in what feels like generations.

  I don’t know how I’m supposed to act or what I’m supposed to do.

  Answer the question first, Vick, huh? Give the guy an answer.

  Right. Right.

  I clear my throat, gathering up my dignity to me like it’s loose and slippery treasure. “Yes, I need help.” I state the obvious.

  Michael nods. “I’m going to hold onto the band as it lifts you up. But if I need to grab a hold of you in case you lose your balance, do I have permission to do so?”

  The standards are so low that a man asking permission to touch me has me practically swooning, eyes rolling in the back of my head, passing right the fuck out. Shit.

  I nod, chewing on my lip.

  Focus, Vick, focus. You’re about to make an idiot of yourself and your anonymity won’t save you here.

  Well, at least no one knows that NIKTORIOUS is getting her ass kicked by the pull-up bar.

  At least there’s that.

  I’m like a superhero with an alter-ego and everything, but it’s not glamorous, not one bit.

  I bet Spider-Man feels the exact same way.

  “All right, I’m going to gently let go from here,” Michael says, talking me through it, letting go of the band wound around my foot, coming to stand in front of me, grabbing onto either end of the band as it retracts, like elastic does, bringing me up with it as I reach for the pull-up bar, snagging it, and just letting myself hang there for a second, heart beating too hard.

  “Feel good?” Michael asks, still holding onto the band, in full view of all my sweat stains seeping through my giant t-shirt, the sweat trickling down my face from my sopping wet hairline. I’ve never wanted a shower so badly, never ever.

  “Uh…”

  “Victoria?”

  “This…this doesn’t seem so bad,” I say, grunting as I begin to lift myself up, succeeding in doing my first assisted pull-up, the first one I’ve done in my entire life. If I was that kind person, I would start crying, but I’m not. Well, I’m not the kind of person that bawls in public, that’s for sure. I bang out another three more pull-ups before all the muscles in my arms start to give me grief, and I know Michael’s going to end our session with me doing push-ups, and I hate push-ups with my entire heart and soul.

  I stop myself from doing any more, letting myself hang from the bar while my fingers start to go numb. Apparently, my grip strength is for shit, too, my hands not knowing what to do besides hold a controller or playing on a keyboard. “Uh, I’m not really sure how to get down?”

  “Yeah, just put your other foot down, and bend your other knee, great. Let go of the bar, but keep the leg in the band stiff,” Michael says, dropping down into a crouch when my other foot makes contact with the floor, and my foot in the band almost goes shooting up from the elasticity and my sneakered toes nearly go right through the guy’s nose.

  Shit, that would have been bad.

  “Holy shit, are you all right?” I ask, hopping backwards on one foot, disentangling my other foot from the band until I finally have both feet on the ground.

  Michael’s eyebrows are raised high on his forehead, and his lips are parted in shocked surprise.

  I cover my mouth with my hands, trying to stifle the nervous giggles that want to come out of me at the sight of his face. This is all so stupid, the only thing worse than kicking the guy I have a crush on in the face was if while I was doing squats I had let out an epic fart that the whole gym heard.

  Oh my God, I can never see him again.

  “Are you okay? Michael?” I ask, walking closer, crouching down a little, reaching out for his shoulder, but stopping myself just shy of making contact. He’s always the one asking me permission to touch him, and it should work the other way around, too.

  I close my fingers, make a fist, thump my thigh as if I always meant to give myself a charlie-horse, and any reaching out to check on him was only a momentary lapse in judgment.

  “Yeah, I’m good, I’m good.” He finally gets to his feet, dusts off his knees where they made contact to the ground when he was crouched. Michael looks a little bit overwhelmed and I can’t help but wonder if he saw his life flash before his eyes, if he thought I was going to hurt him.

  Maybe these kinds of accidents happen all the time at the gym, but I wouldn’t know.

  “Let’s call it a day, huh?” I say, taking a step back from him, nearly bumping into another guy decked out from head to toe in expensive gym gear, heading for the treadmills. I get a death stare in return, and narrowly avoid a collision with Michael when I take a giant step forward to overcompensate and overcorrect.

  I’m all up in Michael’s personal space now, smelling the laundry detergent he uses—something with vanilla, I’m sure of it—and practically, almost, breaking my face against his hard body. A guy doesn’t wear tight clothing unless he wants to show off his physique, and Michael’s been all about that life lately, the tighter the shirt, the more goddamn distracting it is.

  Get over it. You’re training, that’s it.

  You’re not friends.

  Right.

  “No, no. We should finish with push-ups. I’m fine, really. Nothing happened.”

  I look at him, canting my head down. “I nearly put my foot through your brain. You’re allowed to be freaked out about it. Hell, I’m freaked out about it, too.”

  “Why? Are you in pain?”

  I do not bring up the odd twinge in my hamstring. It’ll be fine by morning, I’m sure of it. I shake my head in answer. “I’m good. Are you good?”

  “I’m good.” Michael nods.

  “Good.” I nod back, my skin itching with the awkwardness of it all. It’s not like Michael is expecting titillating conversation when we’re training. I’m sure a lot of his clients don’t talk at all, unless it’s to ask questions about form. We’re not here to socialize, we’re here to work, so I don’t know why I’m trying to force something that isn’t there.

  “If you feel that badly about it, I’ll allow you to buy me a coffee one of these days.”

  My eyebrows leap up to the moon as I stand there, gaping at him. “Excuse me? What did you just say?”

  Michael freezes, and I freeze, too, while I try to process, try to analyze the pros and cons.

  “Uh, it was just a joke…”

  “No, no, you want me to buy you coffee?” I cough, staring at him.

  Fortune favors the bold, and if an opportunity presents itself…

  “Do you have something against coffee, Victoria?”

  I huff. “How many times do I have to tell you that you can call me Vick?”

  Michael shrugs. “You tell me that I can, yeah, but I like your full name better. If you really don’t want me to use it, then I won’t.”

  I frown at him. “Then call me Vick, please. And I have nothing against coffee. I can buy you a coffee.”

  Michael smiles, and it’s just as devastating as all the other times he’s smiled at me.

  I really need to get out more, seriously. If I see more smiles, then I won’t be so quick to lose my ever-loving mind at the beauty that is Michael’s smile.

  Shit.

  I mash my lips together so I don’t do something stupid like smile back, and then Michael makes me do ten push-ups starting out on my toes that quickly devolve into me doing them on my knees.

  “You have to keep your hips down,” Michael keeps telling me, and I don’t know what the fuck he means. My hips aren’t going anywhere but down.

  I growl something to that effect and keep cranking out push-ups at a slower and slower pace as I inch up to ten. I let myself collapse on the mats after that round of torture, struggling to catch my breath. My arms have turned into limp noodles and I don’t even have the strength to push myself up into a seated position.