Safety Hazard
The tour was conducted by Lena, who had a mask of professionalism that was no match for the monumental effort required to not blatantly stare at my face.
She walked us through the cardio floor, the weights section, the stretching area, the private studios, and the juice bar, narrating the features of each with the well-practiced flow of a verbal script that had been memorized and repeated a hundred times.
The floor was not empty.
It was midday, and Lena had said midday was quieter, and she was right in the sense that quieter was a relative term. There were perhaps thirty women on the cardio floor when we walked through. Treadmills, ellipticals, rowing machines. The usual mechanical ruckus of a gym.
We walked in.
The thumping of the machines slowed perceptibly.
Not all at once, nothing as obvious as that.
It was more that the volume dropped in a rippling wave. A head turned, then another. A woman on a rowing machine caught her oar wrong and lurched forward before catching herself.
Someone on a treadmill reached for the handrail.
Lena maintained her commentary without missing a beat, giving a pleasant greeting or nod or two in acknowledgement, but continuing onward.
Willow walked slightly too close to my left shoulder.
I looked straight ahead, because looking at the room would have made it a thing, and making it a thing was the fastest route to everyone deciding it was a thing.
"The weights floor is just through here." Lena said, pushing open a set of double doors.
The weights floor was larger, with more space between equipment.
A woman doing lat pulldowns caught a glimpse of me in the mirror in front of her, held the bar slightly too long on the way back up, and the whole stack clattered down with a noise that echoed off the ceiling.
She spent the next several seconds examining the machine as though looking for a mechanical fault.
"Great space." I said to Lena.
"Thank you." Lena nodded with a small smile. "We just replaced the cable systems last spring."
Willow was doing her forced composure walk, trying to appear completely unbothered by her surroundings.
She was extremely bothered by her surroundings.
"The free weights are along the far wall." Lena continued, gesturing. "Dumbbells in ascending order from left to right. Barbells and plates are on the rack system in the back. If you haven't worked with free weights before, we strongly recommend starting with one of our trainers."
"I'll keep that in mind." I said.
We passed a woman doing dumbbell curls who, upon becoming aware of my proximity, attempted to rack her weight and miscalculated the distance by about six inches.
The dumbbell hit the rubber floor with a dense, resonant thud.
"Sorry..." She apologized, to no one in particular.
"No worries." I replied with a nod of acknowledgement, because I was within earshot and it seemed rude not to.
She stared at me for a second and a half before remembering she was a person in a gym and had come here for a reason.
Lena decided to simply not acknowledge anything happening in her peripheral vision, though she did gauge my reactions on many occasions.
"And through here is the stretching area." She gestured. "Which connects to the studios on the far end."
We followed her through.
Willow caught my arm as we walked, not grabbing it, just a light touch at the elbow. I let her keep it there. It was probably helping her more than it was inconveniencing me, and on balance, she'd been remarkably restrained today.
"Everything alright, Mom?" I asked, my tone conversational.
"Everything's fine, dear." She replied, her own tone equally conversational. "Just... making sure you don't get lost."
It was a transparent excuse, but I let it pass.
The stretching area was an open space with yoga mats, foam rollers, and a wall of stability balls.
Three women were mid-squat when we entered. All of them, with varying degrees of subtlety, straightened up and looked.
One, who had been holding a particularly deep pose, wobbled and had to take a step to catch her balance.
"It's very important to stretch before a workout." Lena said, to the room at large. "Helps prevent injury and improves flexibility."
One of the women, a brunette with a long, athletic build, looked at me.
Then at my mother, whose hand was still on my arm.
Then at Lena.
Then back at me.
It took her a good ten seconds of deliberation before she finally found a suitable, polite, non-aggressive opening to what must have been a million conflicting thoughts.
"A man...?!"
She said out loud, as if she was seeing a unicorn at the supermarket checkout. Not in a threatening way, but in a what-the-fuck-is-happening-right-now sort of way.
And, well, it was fair given the circumstances. For a male to step foot in here, was akin to bringing a child into a construction site.
"He's with us." Lena's smile didn't waver, though it did stiffen up. "Potential new member."
"He's... with us." The brunette repeated, to herself, as if that was the most interesting thing she'd heard.
Willow's grip on my arm tightened by a fraction. I could feel the tension in her fingers.
The women, all wearing tight-fitting sportswear that left very little to the imagination, were now all staring, not quite openly, but very, very obviously.
Some continued with their yoga sequences, stretching like cats, their backs arching gracefully.
I didn't know if there was some provocative and blatant sexual display happening to catch my attention—yet, here we are, ladies and gents.
To these ladies, bending and stretching and displaying their exquisite forms, this was their bread and butter; not something to be ashamed or shy about. I didn't read their minds to determine that, merely observed from what my senses told me.
They were showing off. A peacock display, or should I say peahens.
I've seen a larger display of nudity from women in this world, online and offline, than the men. Not that I wanted to see men naked, but it was an interesting observation.
As for my mother? She didn't speak. But I sensed her cold displeasure all the same.
I decided not to look further or listen to the voices in my head telling me to move on. That was the smart play. Part of me wished to stare more at those sensual bodies of the attractive peahens as they put on this show, but I still had that 'don't stare too much or there would be consequences' principle at the back of my skull.
So, I smiled as politely as I could and never let my eyes stray. Not that it would mean anything, but at least no one could complain.
"Enjoy your time." I offered as we passed through the stretching area.
The one woman closest to me offered me a wide, perfect, absolutely radiant smile. She unconsciously took a step forward, as if in an attempt to approach me.
However, another woman grabbed onto her shoulders and gently stopped her.
Lena wrapped up the tour in record time after that.
Back through the changing rooms. Up the escalator. Past the juice bar with its tasteful hanging leaves and upbeat electronica soundtrack. We were back at the main desk within five minutes.
Willow had said very little for the past ten minutes, which in my limited but intensive experience of her was either a sign that she was processing something or had resigned herself to an outcome she couldn't change. Both were valid. I'd take either.
"Then, if you're satisfied with the facilities, that concludes the tour."
"Great. What does an annual membership cost?"
Willow hadn't let go of my arm, but she'd relaxed somewhat once we'd exited the stretching area, perhaps reasoning that her role as my chaperone was over for the day.
"Well... for a male member, it's—"
"The same price as for everyone else." I said with a flat, uncompromising tone.
Lena hesitated.
"Please."
I insisted.
Lena cleared her throat, pushed up the bridge of her reading glasses, and spoke the magical number out loud. "One thousand a year, the enrollment fee is included."
I nodded, briefly glancing at my mother. I had to somewhat defer to the matriarch, even if I'd already made my decision.
"Damien... are you sure?"
Lena and Pryia looked at me as well, almost as if they were silently asking the same question as well.
"I'd like to, Mom. Would you support me?"
Her pale silver eyes stared deep into my soul, and she exhaled. It was an obvious yes, of course, it'd come sooner or later, her son would become a mature independent man at some point. But if I had her support, it would make things so much easier on the both of us.
"Fine..."
Willow took out her credit card. I briefly felt bad for the cost, but had to remind myself that I came from a good and well-off family. The neighborhood itself had that typical rich folks laugh.
"Fantastic." I could see the surprise and relief in Lena's face and, strangely, in Priya's. Her hands, once white, regained color and resumed their regular rhythm, inputting some data in the computer.
"Wonderful. Here is the digital key to access the facilities, please kindly check the expiration date and contact us when the card is no longer functional." Lena handed me a little black fob attached to a neck cord. "On behalf of FitForm, we appreciate your cooperation with the membership protocols, and we're happy to have you join us."
"Glad to be here."
I smiled brightly as I looked at the card with the familiar F logo of the FitForm.
My mother, who had just made the payment on my behalf, remained expressionless. It was clear that she wasn't too happy about paying one thousand USD a year for her only son to be surrounded by 'fit, gorgeous women', though if I had to choose the appropriate adjective for my new trainer buddies, 'sensational' would be a better term.
I wasn't at the gym for eye candy, though.
I was going to commit to my resolution and spend some sweat and muscles to improve my body. I've never cared about aesthetics, the ability to achieve and maintain a great physique wasn't something I could easily do with all the overtime I was subjected to before my death.
"When will you be starting?"
Lena inquired.
"Right about now, I'm feeling really enthusiastic." I responded truthfully. "Mom?"
"... now is alright." She agreed, after a slight pause.
"I'll accompany you outside then." I adjusted my bag, and turned to the receptionists. "Thank you for your patience."
"Anytime. We hope you have a pleasant workout, Mr. Winters."
It was only when we left the building that I noticed I was still holding the Considerate Coverage catalog. I almost threw it away. Then a better idea occurred to me.
"Mom, why don't you take a look at this? See if there's anything that suits your tastes." I offered her the catalog with a straight face.
Willow took it with her delicate fingers. She looked at the cover—a fully clothed male model in a baggy turtleneck, sweatpants, with a serious expression on his face. "Would you consider wearing something like this, dear? For your safety..."
"Maybe." I replied vaguely; I wanted to give the woman some sense of control. A ticking bomb she could manage. "If it's not too hot."
I let her mull over the catalog as we walked for a minute or so, out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. That would be where we parted ways for an hour or so until I headed back home as well.
We stood there for a minute, both of us not knowing what to do, and that's when it hit me.
"Are you going to pick me up?"
"I can, if you'd like." She responded almost immediately, and with genuine willingness as well.
"I'll just text you when I'm done."
"I'll be waiting."
Willow stared at me for the longest moment. I was gradually easing the burden on her shoulders.
She hesitated to leave, though. Her eyes were slightly moist, and she had this maternal, protective aura around her.
"Do you need me to stay, Damien? I can stay. I can wait for you in the lounge." She said, a little too eagerly. "Read a book or something."
"No, it's fine, Mom. You'll just distract me."
"I won't. I promise. I can just—"
"Mom." I gave her a little smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Go home. I'll be okay. I promise."
Willow's shoulders sagged just a little. That was it. The moment where a mother realizes her child is an individual, and is about to step out of her sight, unattended, in a world that is far from gentle.
"Alright." She finally relented. "One hour. Text me. Don't talk to strangers. And if anyone bothers you, you call me. Or the police. Or both."
"I will."
And with that, she turned, about to walk away.
"Mom?" I called out.
She turned back to me.
I hesitated as well, not to say something, but to actually do something. I exhaled, took an unexpected step forward, and wrapped my arms around her in a hug.
It was an impulsive move. And maybe a little manipulative. But the hug I gave her was sincere.
I didn't know what her relationship was like with Damien, or if she was even a hugger, but she seemed to stiffen at first. Her hands hovered for a second before gently resting on my back.
It was an awkward, slightly clumsy hug. But it was also a hug.
"Thank you."
No Chicken Wings
Priya looked up the moment the door chimed.
"Forget something?" She asked, then immediately seemed to regret the question, as I've clearly stated not even ten minutes ago that I'd be back.
"Nope. Just starting my workout now."
I walked past the counter, gave her a little nod and a smile, and tapped the little black fob against the scanner the way Lena had shown me.
The turnstile clicked and let me through with a soft, polite beep.
The locker room was at the far end of the hall, past a water station and a row of framed motivational photographs featuring women mid-deadlift looking like they were single-handedly saving humanity from gravity. I pushed open the door labeled MEN, which felt like an oddly generous label for a room serving what was probably a population of... me?
I didn't inquire how many men had actually signed up, but given the reactions I got, I wagered that it would be more fun, perhaps safer for me, to work under the assumption that I was the only one.
I walked in.
It was empty. Of course it was empty. It would've been more surprising if it wasn't.
Rows of lockers, about thirty of them, immaculate, barely used. A bench down the middle. A shower stall in the corner with a little sign that said PLEASE BE MINDFUL OF YOUR SURROUNDINGS, which, considering my surroundings consisted of absolutely nobody, felt like a strange instruction.
I found locker seventeen, the one that matched the little tag attached to my fob, and dumped my bag inside.
Turtleneck off. Sweatpants off. I dug through the bag for the gym clothes I'd actually picked out myself before Willow could intervene with another round of aggressive safety-conscious fashion advice—a plain black t-shirt, athletic pants, and normal socks.
I caught my reflection in the mirror bolted to the locker door.
This unfair face of mine, even as I stood there half-dressed in fluorescent lighting, it looked like I was prepping for a professional photo shoot.
I scrunched it up just to remind myself I had control over at least some part of this body, and the reflection scrunched its face right back, looking somehow even better doing it.
I'd have cursed the heavens for making someone so unjustly handsome before.
But hey, it was my face now.
I mentally pressed F again for OG Damien, in case he was now stuck with my less than impressive original appearance.
'Alright.' I heaved a deep breath. 'Let's do this...'
xXx
I walked into the cacophony of thumps, creaks, and clangs that was the fitness floor. I started slow. Strolled the perimeter once, getting a feel for the layout, mentally underscoring machines I recognized from a lifetime of half-hearted New Year's resolutions and machines that looked like the contraptions for glute activation.
A few heads turned. Fewer than I expected, actually—most of the women here were locked into their own routines, headphones in, in the zone, no attention to spare for an unworthy intruder. Well, some still caught me from the corner of their eyes and openly stared, but nothing too egregious or inappropriate.
A smattering of murmurs rippled across the gym as more and more people noticed me, unescorted, unlike before, walking about on my own two feet and no supervision or accompanying guardian nearby, just a quiet and calm guy trying to do the workout thing, the most dangerous thing he'd ever do, or not, who knows.
Disbelief. Suspicion.
A glint of a few ideas in a few eyes. A group of women walking not even five steps in front of me. They whispered something into each other's ears. One turned her head to glance and the others stifled a small laugh, exchanging secret glances, and went back to minding their own businesses.
I connected my headphones to my smartphone, and let the music flow as I approached the equipment I wanted.
I figured the smart move was to start with something I actually had a baseline for. Cardio first. Five minutes on a treadmill at a pace that wouldn't embarrass me, just to feel out the body's stamina. It held up fine. Whatever Damien's lungs had been doing for nineteen years of avoiding effort, they weren't complaining now.
A quick warm-up to get the blood moving.
Then some stretching to get the muscles ready for business.
Weights were next, and that was where things got more honest.
I found an empty bench press station and loaded the bar with a weight that felt, by eye, like a reasonable starting point. Adequate for someone with skinny limbs and zero training history. I lay down, curled my fingers around the bar, and lifted, bringing the thing above my chest.
The bar wobbled on its way up, but my arms didn't immediately give out or detach, which seemed like a good metric of success. My arms shook on the way down, but the bar hit my chest and the weight felt bearable, albeit heavier than what my actual body-weight felt comfortable with.
Slowly. Up. Down. Up. Down.
Until it became harder to press back up.
I did six reps, felt the burn settle into my shoulders by the fourth, and racked it with the small, private satisfaction of a man who had not, in fact, humiliated himself on his first real attempt. My arms were burning and screaming in quiet pain and it felt good.
"Okay." I muttered, sitting up, rolling my shoulders. "Not bad."
Not bad was, of course, the highest possible praise one could give oneself in a room full of physically fit, objectively attractive women.
I took a swig of water from my canteen and moved to the leg press next, dialed in a weight that looked moderate on the little chart bolted to the machine, and pushed.
It moved. Slower than I wanted. My thighs burned almost immediately.
I did five reps, feeling a fire bloom in my hips that told me I was closer to damaging my pelvis than having a leg day, and racked it, exhaled, and rolled to my feet.
A dumbbell rack stood somewhere off to my left, looking lonely and beautiful.
I grabbed a pair and worked through a light set, shoulder presses, before deciding it was time to push a little. Grabbed the next pair up, started a set of bicep curls, and made it through four reps before my form started to slip, my elbows flaring out, the weight seemingly doubling with every passing second.
I felt eyes on me as I wrestled with the dumbbells, my muscles shaking, but considered pushing through out of pure stubbornness.
"You might want to drop down a pair before you try that again."
I looked up.
A woman stood a few feet away, mid-twenties maybe, dark ponytail, gym clothes that were too tight to be regulation and too short to be subtle.
"Oh. Hello." I lowered the weights a few inches before giving up and setting them back on the rack.
She'd clearly been watching for at least the last set, and clearly debating internally whether saying anything was a good idea, because her posture had that particular hesitation to it—half a step forward, half a step back, unsure of her welcome, and likely unconvinced that approaching the sole male in the gym for guidance was worth the risk.
"Sorry." She added quickly, sheepishly. "I just—umh, your elbows were doing a thing. The bad kind of thing." She vaguely gestured, cringing a little to add to the disarmament.
"The bad kind..." I repeated, glancing at the dumbbells. "What do you mean?"
"Kind of like—like—" She thought for a moment. "Like a chicken flapping its wings."
My lips twitched, but I kept it under control.
"Is that so?"
"Ugh." She must've realized that saying 'flapping its wings' to a man whose entire life was probably a carefully constructed edifice of social caution was maybe not the best choice. "I'm sorry. I should've just minded my business. You probably don't need advice from a stranger."
"No, you're right, actually. My form's been a mess all morning." I laughed as well. "Honestly, I wouldn't say no to a spotter. If you're not busy."
I mentally apologized to my mother, but if I wanted to actually get some proper training done, a little unsolicited advice was an acceptable price.
The woman's eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Why not? I'm a beginner. And I'd appreciate the expertise from an expert."
"Yeah! I mean... yes. I can do that."
"I'm Damien."
I smiled brightly.
"I know." She said it before she could stop herself, then winced slightly. "Sorry. Everyone kind of knows. It's not—I'm not being weird, I just—"
I blinked. "How do you know?"
Did she overhear my name earlier at the counter?
She seemed to hesitate before explaining. "Your name kind of came out earlier, one of the girls must've recognized you and, well, word traveled." She looked a little uncomfortable with that bit of information. "Not a stalker, I swear."
"I'll take your word for it." I said with a small smile, picking the dumbbells back up, lighter ones this time, the smart choice rather than the stubborn one. "And you are?"
"Oh. Oh, right. Sorry. I'm Kendra. I work here."
"A trainer."
"Among other things. I also clean the machines and tell people not to drop the weights."
"A woman of many talents, then."
She laughed. A real one this time. "Something like that. Come on, show me your form, Mr. Flap."
A nickname. She looked nervous at my reaction to this sudden informality. She was a little too forward, probably—kind of reminded me of Valeria. Maybe there was this subcategory of women that, when dealing with an unexpected male, would find themselves in a loop of nervousness and trying to compensate by being a bit too friendly or out-of-line.
And there was no reason to be offended by it.
I merely smiled. "Alright, Ken, but don't blame me if you're not impressed." I teased back.
This seemed to genuinely surprise her, and her eyes widened for a second before she burst out laughing again. A little nervously, a little eagerly. I realized I liked her laugh. It had that jittery lilt, the kind of laughter you'd have after a minor car accident that you managed to walk away from completely unscathed.
"Alright. Show me."
There was an involuntary blush on her face that she tried to laugh off.
"I'll show ya."
The next twenty minutes were, I admitted, actually helpful.
Kendra, it turned out, was a decent trainer. She had a good eye and a straightforward way of explaining things that made sense.
"Okay, so you want to keep your elbows pinned to your sides." She demonstrated, using her own arm. "Tuck them in, like this. See? No chicken wings."
"No chicken wings." I repeated, mirroring her movement.
"Exactly. Now, slow on the way down. Control the negative. Don't just let gravity do the work."
She watched me knock out a clean set of eight.
"See?" She said. "That's it. Perfect."
"Perfect's a strong word." I said, setting the dumbbells down. "But better, definitely."
"We'll take better. You're stronger than you look, too."
"Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"Both." She grinned, eyes narrowed. Totally unashamed, this woman. "You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over. But there's some fight in there."
I was surprised by how quickly she warmed up to me, immediately after the initial awkwardness. While it was clear she still tried to gauge her boundaries and my reactions to her being somewhat... familiar, she took my casual demeanor as a green light to be less stiff around me. It was... interesting.
"There might be some fight left in me, after all." I said, taking a swig of water. "What about you, Ken? How long have you been working out?"
"Years." She shrugged, as if it was nothing. "Started in high school. My mom was worried I'd get bullied."
"And then what, it turned out that you were actually the bully?"
Her shoulders shook with laughter. "Nah, not the type. More like 'girl who could carry the projector by herself'."
Oh right, we had that at school too. There was a kind of pride in being chosen to do tasks that required strength, even if the task itself was menial. In this world, I supposed it was practically a badge of honor for a woman to be physically capable.
"Your mom must be proud."
"She is. Or was. She passed away a few years ago."
"Oh." My smile faltered. Ouch. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't be." She said, her tone light but her gaze distant. "It was a long time ago. What about your mom? She must be... I don't know." She scratched her head, as if trying to picture the mother of someone like me in this world. "Protective?"
"You could say that." I gave a wry smile. "She was about to have a heart attack when I signed up."
"I can imagine." Kendra said sympathetically. "It's... it's different for men. I get it."
"That's what I don't get." I threw that out there, casually. "Why is it different for men?"
She paused. "I'm not sure I understand the question."
I opened my mouth, thought twice about it, then decided that having this kind of conversation here and now, with a complete stranger was perhaps not a great idea.
"Nothing, nevermind." I laughed it off. "Ken, let me see how much you can lift. I've always been curious about how strong a woman could be."
Her eyes shone brightly.
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We Don't Deal with Dem Ting
Kendra wasn't shy at all when it came to flexing her muscles, and flex she did, bench pressing way more than what my brain considered sane, or what I could've been capable of in my previous world without at least a solid year of consistent practice. She was probably the equivalent of a tier two athlete—fit enough to train or exercise professionally.
And I was left quite speechless as I found myself wondering, where did all that strength come from? You'd expect a jacked dude, a man of size and built with plenty of testosterone, maybe with a cool beard and an attitude, to pull off the superhuman strength.
Not a sweet-looking brunette woman. And while she had a visible outline of firm and muscles underneath the workout shirt that was practically pasted onto her sweaty body, well, she looked soft as well when she was in a relaxed state.
Her upper arms were toned but not muscular or ripped, while her figure overall had that long and graceful frame that was an objective contrast with the standard body type men would associate with athleticism.
It was... confusing.
I felt like she was breaking several laws of physics. Or perhaps this world had entirely different laws. Or maybe I just had to rethink my preconceived notions entirely.
My jaw might have dropped.
"We can increase the weight, this isn't my max."
"I... see." I had to clear my throat, feeling a weird knot in my stomach. I was not, by any standard, a weakling in my previous life. I had done my fair share of physical work, but it had been... different. I'd never been to a gym. The heaviest I'd lifted was probably a bag of soil. Not gravel, soil. "You're... strong."
Okay, this could be a little problem, if she ever decided to throw hands with me.
Fuck.
"Gym lady powers, remember." Kendra wiped the sweat off her forehead with a towel and winked. "Come on, let's add another twenty on both sides."
She lay back down on the bench as I absent-mindedly picked up the dumbbells and loaded them onto the bar.
Gym Lady Powers. What the actual fuck.
How much was she about to lift right now? I gave the numbers a cursory, dumbfounded calculation.
That had to be around 100 kg of total weight, and it looked like she'd probably break that record soon, too.
I still stood stiffly behind the rack, speechlessly wondering how that even worked, watching as the beautiful brunette put both her arms under the weight, straightened them, breathed deeply once, twice, pressed her foot firmly on the floor and heaved the whole weight upward until it locked into place.
She lowered the bar to her chest.
My brain clicked into emergency mode as I realized I was just standing there gawking while she hoisted what looked like a small car. The bar wobbled slightly on the way up. Not having any other experience with proper lifting, naturally, that sent alarm bells ringing through my head.
Without thinking, I moved to spot her, hands hovering just under the bar.
"Whoa—"
Kendra's eyes shot open, wide and startled, and I suddenly realized the angle I'd taken—directly above her head, bent over, essentially putting my crotch at eye level. She was looking up at me, face flushed from exertion, and then her expression shifted from strain to panic.
"Back up!" She gasped out, struggling with the weight. "Get back—"
I scrambled backward as she managed to rerack the bar with a clang that echoed through the gym.
She sat up, breathing hard. Wouldn't even look at me properly.
"Sorry." I said, feeling horribly awkward and confused. "I thought you needed a spot."
"No." She said, still breathing heavily. "No, I had it. Just... give me some space."
Her hands were shaking slightly, gripping the edge of the bench. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground.
For a brief moment, some of the other women looked our way. Most went back to their own workout, but a few stared with a frown or open curiosity at what might have just occurred.
"Right." I nodded. "Space. Got it." I stepped back another few paces for good measure.
When she finally looked at me, her expression was a mixture of a dozen different emotions, from disbelief to shame, her cheeks and ears beet red.
"You're... uh... really strong." I said, trying to break the tension with the most obvious observation possible.
A weak smile touched her lips. "Yeah, well..." She muttered, mostly to herself, then looked away again. "Nobody ever says that to me."
I didn't ask her why.
I wasn't her therapist.
A small part of my brain began filing away the event. 'Attempt to spot a woman lifting heavy weights = high probability of inducing emotional distress. Avoid.'
It could be dangerous. What if she was trying to hit a new PR and my spotting had them drop the entire damn thing on top of them? Who would they ask for help?
Certainly not a strong and independent man.
She was still staring at the floor with her hair falling down to cover most of her face.
I decided to backtrack and give her even more space. "Thanks for the tips, by the way. I think I'm good for today." I reached for my water canteen, only to realize it was empty.
"You... you can have mine." She offered, still not quite looking at me.
I stared at the hand squeezing and deforming the plastic bottle.
She was aiming, shoving it, in my direction like a gun. Not that it was threatening or anything, but her avoidance of any eye contact and the stiffness of her movements made the offer feel like a bit of a landmine.
Especially considering the scenario that had just played out.
I had no idea what the fuck that was about. Was she embarrassed because I saw her struggling? Was it because I'd tried to spot her? Was it because I'd stood over her head and she'd seen something she shouldn't have?
"It's alright. I'll grab one from the cooler." I smiled, hoping it was a safe expression. "Thanks for your help, I learned a lot."
"Yeah..." She looked up, but only for a moment, before she quickly glanced away. "I'm glad I could... uh..."
I waited.
She didn't finish the sentence.
I gave a half-hearted shrug. "See you around, I guess?"
"Mh-hmm."
"Thank you again, Ken. You've been super helpful."
She smiled, not that I could see it properly with her facing away from me.
I walked away, feeling like I'd somehow done another social faux pas.
The back of my neck prickled as I made my way towards the front counter.
Whatever I'd done, it was clear that it had thrown her off balance. And that was a shame, because she'd been fun to talk to, and I'd have appreciated having a regular, no-strings-attached training buddy.
Oh well.
xXx
Willow must've been waiting by the phone, because the moment I texted her a vague 'Heading out now', I got an instant response.
'Coming to get you.'
And there must've been a misinterpretation there, because her 'coming' meant running to the gym in less than five minutes to pick me up. I even wondered whether she had driven here instead of walking as we'd done earlier.
"You're already here?"
You wouldn't have been able to tell, with that face. Clear skin. No sign that she'd been running. But her breathing was just a tad bit quicker than usual, the flush on her cheeks a tad bit brighter. Perhaps not running, but definitely speed-walking or something.
"I was already on the way when you texted."
Her bright silver eyes scanned me from head to toe, as if I'd been out in the streets, begging for money.
"Right..." I decided to accept that as the truth.
"Let's go, Damien." Willow would've definitely grabbed me by my hand or wrist if I hadn't moved away at the last second. I didn't feel comfortable getting dragged around like some puppy or child; in fact, I didn't feel comfortable having someone pick me up in the first place.
"..."
There was a slight silence as we both walked side by side. She had offered to carry my stuff, with me gently refuting.
"... how was it?" Willow finally asked after a minute or so of quiet strolling. I could almost sense that begrudging hope that I'd somehow quit on the first day; or better yet, that she had convinced me that my masculinity and gender didn't have a thing to do with weightlifting.
"It was great!" I beamed.
My mother's face turned expressionless. "Did you try anything difficult or stressful...?"
"Nothing too stressful. It was my first day, after all. Took it a bit easy to get the feel, so to speak." I hummed thoughtfully. "No one really bothered me. Everyone was polite."
"Really...?" Willow frowned in suspicion. "No one approached you?"
"Well..." I tilted my head. "There was this one trainer who approached to give me some tips, that's it."
Whether there was some hidden agenda behind Kendra's behavior towards me, I couldn't discern it at the time. Even though she was nervous as hell around me. Besides, she did seem genuine in her advice and help.
A hot gym girl stops what she's doing to help you out, looks and sounds genuinely interested and like she's having fun doing so. What's there not to like? Certainly not a red flag, though I could understand Willow's mama-bear paranoia.
"What trainer?"
My mother inquired sharply.
"Some girl that works there, apparently. She was very sweet and friendly. Was more than happy to assist, no problems at all. Didn't ask for my number or anything. Respectful and nice." I couldn't say more. It'd sound suspicious to describe someone in detail that I didn't know.
"Damien." She spoke as if the next few words would be life-changing and groundbreaking. "Sweet isn't what you need from a trainer."
That was probably a reasonable point.
"..."
I decided to stay quiet.
"It's not too late, if you want to switch gym, we can, dear." Willow's eyes sparkled. "Or, if you want, we can buy everything you need for an at-home gym..."
"We've talked about this, Mom."
"Indeed, we have." She sighed, not even trying to hide the disappointment.
She dropped the topic, but clearly still didn't fully let her guard down.
...
The front door hadn't even fully closed behind us before the questions started.
"Well?!" Ivy's voice came barreling down the hallway before she did, skidding into the foyer in socked feet, nearly losing her balance on the hardwood. "How was it? Did you die? Did someone faint? Did you—"
"No one fainted." I said. "Well, not that I'm aware of."
Someone could've very well fainted somewhere within earshot and not where I could witness it, for example in the locker rooms. Who knows, maybe someone else also needed CPR and got it right there in the girl's showerroom.
She paused. A million questions seemed to crowd on her lips, each jockeying for the one to slip out, though the clear winner was a single, plaintive. "That's lame."
Iris slowly appeared as well, doing a quick scan of my body, but she did it very respectfully. "You look... sweaty. Are you okay?"
"Well, that's what happens when you exercise. And yes, I'm fine."
Ivy eyed me doubtfully. "Did anyone talk to you? Did you talk to anyone? Mom, did he talk to anyone?"
"Ivy, not now." Willow sounded resigned, slipping out of her shoes and padding across the hallway towards the bathroom.
Iris blinked, alternating her gaze between both her sister, her mother, and me.
When her eyes landed on me, she did that thing again where she'd cock her head in that shy angle, exposing that beautiful neck and pale skin. A vampire's dream prey. I always found myself a little mesmerized.
I did have a thing for beautiful necks, but I didn't think it'd be healthy to practice such thoughts on my sister, of all people.
'Let's not go down that road… we don't deal with dem ting.'
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Nneeil
Wednesday at 11:44 PM
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Despacitoleo
Experienced.
Thursday at 1:24 AM
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#182
Nneeil said:
Let's not go down that road… we don't deal with dem ting.'
plap them
also let's go buff girl
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shobi
shobi
Wohooo, people are worked up I see!
Thursday at 2:01 AM
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#183
Nneeil said:
I walked away, feeling like I'd somehow done another social faux pas.
Errr, imagine yourself (training nut) in her place, with her (a girly girl with noodle arms and still looking delectable) and you will be closer to the reason for her "abnormal" behaviour. A mix of fear (both socially and of possible bodily harm to both) and arousal, is my guess. Man, those rsm worlds are all confusing because they arent really rsm... they are
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I murmured, and then I was off, heading back to the premises.
Please consider supporting me on Patreon to get access to 6 advanced chapters of this story (and more to come) and others too. Like Quote ReplyReport Reactions:Raumz1, El Espectador, Adejier and 123 others