Chapter 3: El Gimnasio y la Sudoración
The steam from the showers hung in the air, a damp, warm blanket that smelled of chlorine and cheap body spray. The locker room was empty except for the echoes of the last period—shouts from the court, the slam of a locker door down the line. Martín stood at his open locker, wiping his face with a towel. The basketball game had been brutal. His muscles hummed with a clean, physical exhaustion that, for once, had nothing to do with her.
He heard the click of the door. The soft pad of sneakers on wet tile.
He knew it was her before he turned. The air changed, tightened.
“Me he dejado la pulsera,” Marta’s voice said, a little breathless from pretend searching. “La de plata. ¿La has visto?”
He kept his back to her, shoving his gym clothes into his bag. “No.”
“Tiene que estar aquí.”
He heard her moving behind him, the rustle of a bag. Then a longer, more deliberate sound—the slow, sticky unpeeling of fabric. A zip being pulled down.
He froze, his hands on the strap of his bag.
In the long, streaked mirror bolted to the row of lockers, he saw the reflection. Marta had her back to him, but she was facing the mirror. She grabbed the hem of her damp, grey t-shirt and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid motion. She was left in just a black sports bra and a pair of tight, high-waisted leggings.
The bra was minimalist, just a thin layer of compressive fabric. It held her firmly, flattening the curves only a little, the round shapes of her breasts clearly defined against her ribcage. Her skin was flushed pink from exercise, a fine sheen of sweat still glowing along her spine.
She didn’t look at him. She examined her own reflection as if he weren’t there, turning slightly to check her profile. She ran her hands over her stomach, her hips.
Martín’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t look away from the mirror. This was different from the library. That had been a glimpse, an accident she engineered. This was a performance. A display. It was shameless.
She bent over then, reaching for the bag at her feet. The movement made the muscles in her back flex. The sports bra strained, the neckline gaping just enough to show the shadowed, inner swell of her breasts. She stayed down for a beat too long, rummaging.
When she straightened, she finally caught his eye in the mirror. She didn’t smile. Her expression was one of casual concentration. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her leggings, preparing to push them down.
“Marta,” he said, the word cracking in his throat.
“¿Qué?” She paused, looking at his reflection with wide, innocent eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Cambiándome. La clase ha terminado.” She said it like he was the crazy one. She pushed the leggings down over her hips, stepping out of them with a small wiggle. She stood there in just the bra and a pair of simple black underwear. Her legs were strong, her body compact and undeniably ripe.
She turned to face him directly now, no longer using the mirror as a buffer. She walked to the locker next to his, which wasn’t even hers, and made a show of looking on the top shelf. The movement brought her within a foot of him. The smell of her—sweat, perfume, her—was overwhelming.
“La verdad,” she said, her voice a confidential murmur. “¿Tú crees que he engordado?”
He stared at her. He couldn’t formulate a sentence. His brain had short-circuited, all blood diverted elsewhere. She looked so serious, so genuinely concerned.
“Desde el verano,” she continued, one hand coming up to cup the underside of her left breast, lifting it slightly as if weighing it. The thin fabric tightened. “Aquí, sobre todo. Noto que todo me aprieta más. Este sujetador me está haciendo marcas.”
She slid a finger under the strap at her shoulder, pulling it out and letting it snap back against her skin with a soft thwack. She did it again, watching the flesh jiggle with the impact. A small, bounce that lasted a second.
Martín’s knuckles were white on his bag strap. Every cell in his body was screaming. He hated her. He hated the theatricality of it, the blatant manipulation. And he hated, with a vicious, shameful intensity, how completely it was working. He was hard. Achingly so. And from the way her eyes flickered down for a microsecond, she knew.
“No voy a responderte a eso,” he finally managed, his voice low and rough.
“¿Por qué?” She pouted, stepping even closer. She was almost touching him. The heat from her body radiated against his arm. “Solo quiero una opinión sincera. De un amigo.”
“We’re not friends.”
The words hung in the steamy air. They were harsh. Truer than he’d meant them to be.
For the first time, her cool confidence wavered. A flash of something raw—hurt, rejection—crossed her face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a harder, more defiant glint. The vulnerability from the library, quickly buried under armor.
“Claro que no,” she said, her voice losing its playful lilt. It was flat now. “Lo siento. Se me olvida.”
She turned away from him, grabbing her own bag from a bench. She pulled out a loose t-shirt and, with her back to him, yanked it on. The moment was broken. The spell, shattered.
He stood there, feeling like an asshole. He’d won. He’d pushed her away. He should have felt relieved.
He felt empty.
She finished dressing in silence, pulled her hair into a messy bun, and slung her bag over her shoulder. She walked to the door without looking back.
Just before she pushed it open, she paused. She didn’t turn around.
“En la biblioteca,” she said, her voice barely audible over the drip of a showerhead. “Te fuiste porque querías quedarte.”
Then she was gone. The door swung shut behind her with a hollow, final sound.
Martín let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the locker. The echo of her words bounced around the tiled room, mingling with the scent of her perfume.
Te fuiste porque querías quedarte.
He had run from the library because he wanted to stay. He had just pushed her away here because he wanted to pull her closer.
The truth of it was a physical blow. He slammed his locker shut. The bang echoed, loud and solitary. He was alone with the steam, the smell of her, and the gut-deep knowledge that she was right, and that he was losing this war one surrendered battle at a time.