Chapter 2: El gimnasio y las pesas
The gym smelled like effort—that particular cocktail of stale sweat, rubber mats, and the metallic tang of iron that had been gripped and released a thousand times before. Condensation crawled down the mirrors in thin rivulets, distorting the reflections of the few bodies still working through their sets at this hour. The place was nearly empty, which was exactly how I liked it.
I was on my third set of bench presses, the bar pressing down against my palms with a familiar, grounding weight. One hundred and eighty-five pounds. Not my max, but enough to make my muscles scream in that satisfying way that meant I was doing something right. My spotter had bailed early, claiming a date, and I'd been fine with that. Alone was better. Alone meant no small talk, no distractions, no one asking me what I was training for.
The bar came down to my chest. Paused. Went back up.
I let out a controlled breath and racked it, sitting up to grab my water bottle. That's when I saw her.
Marta was standing by the door, holding a bottle of water like she'd just happened to wander in by accident. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing a sports top that looked like it had been designed specifically to leave nothing to the imagination. It was some kind of neon coral color, with a zipper at the front that was undone just enough to show the shadow of cleavage beneath. Her leggings were black, high-waisted, and they hugged every curve of her hips and thighs like they'd been sewn on.
She spotted me and smiled.
"Oh, hey," she said, her voice carrying across the empty gym. "I was just looking for the water fountain."
I pointed to the corner. "Over there."
"Perfect." She walked past me, and the air moved with her, carrying a trace of perfume that didn't belong in a gym. Something floral. Something sweet. She filled her bottle and then turned around, leaning against the wall, taking a sip like she had nowhere else to be.
"You look busy," she said.
"I'm in the middle of a workout."
"I can see that." Her eyes traveled down my body, slow and deliberate, and I felt the weight of her gaze like a physical thing. "You look different when you're lifting. More... intense."
"I'm not intense."
"Mmm." She pushed off the wall and wandered over to the bench press, running her fingers along the metal frame. "Can I watch?"
I grabbed the bar again, not answering. The weight felt heavier now, knowing she was there. I racked it and started another set, counting the reps in my head. One. Two. Three. The bar came down to my chest, and I pushed it back up, my arms shaking slightly from the effort.
Four. Five.
I caught Marta in the mirror. She'd sat down on a nearby machine, a leg extension thing, and she was stretching. Her arms went over her head, fingers interlaced, and the motion made her sports top ride up, exposing a strip of skin above her waist. Then she leaned forward, reaching for her toes, and I got an unobstructed view of the way the black leggings dipped and curved over her ass.
I looked away. Back at the ceiling. Anywhere else.
"Those are heavy, right?" she asked, nodding at the bar.
"Not really."
"Martín, I've seen you do these before. You always use the big weights." She stood up and walked over, stopping at the head of the bench. "Can I try?"
I finished my set and racked the bar, sitting up. "You've never lifted before."
"That's why you're going to teach me."
It wasn't a question. She was already walking around to the front of the bench, examining it like it was some exotic artifact. She sat down, her hands gripping the bar with zero confidence.
"Like this?" she asked, her fingers wrapping around the knurled steel.
"Lower your elbows. Tuck them in."
She adjusted, and the motion made her chest push forward, the neckline of her sports top gaping just enough for me to see the swell of her breasts, smooth and round, held in place by the fabric. I forced my eyes to stay on her hands.
"Okay," I said, stepping closer. "Now push. Keep your wrists straight."
She pushed. The bar wobbled. It was empty, just the bare steel, but she struggled with it like it weighed a hundred pounds.
"Too heavy," she laughed, letting it drop back into the rack. "I don't know how you do this."
"You build up to it."
"Show me again. With the real weight."
I didn't have a spotter, but I'd been lifting alone for a while. I re-racked the bar with a few more plates, lay down, and started my set. The burn was immediate, my muscles straining against the metal, and I could feel her eyes on me the whole time.
Three reps in, I felt pressure against my chest.
Marta had sat down on the bench, facing away from me, her back pressed against my torso. She was at the head of the bench, leaning backward, her weight settling against my chest as I lifted.
"What are you—"
"I'm spotting you," she said, matter-of-fact. "Isn't that what spotters do?"
"You're sitting on me."
"I'm ensuring your safety. It's a very important job."
The bar was still in my hands, hovering above my chest. Marta's body was warm against mine, and I could feel the curve of her spine pressing into my sternum. Her ponytail brushed against my cheek, carrying that floral scent again, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized I'd stopped lifting.
"I can't do my reps with you on top of me."
"Sure you can. Just pretend I'm a blanket."
"A blanket that talks."
She laughed, and the motion made her body shift against mine. I could feel her shoulder blades moving beneath the fabric of her top, the outline of her bra strap pressing into her skin.
I pushed the bar up. One rep. Two. My arms were burning now, but not from the weight. Every time I lifted, my chest expanded, pressing against her back, and every time I lowered, she pressed back. There was no way she wasn't doing it on purpose.
"See?" she said. "You're doing great."
The bar racked with a clang that echoed through the empty gym. Marta turned around, still seated on the bench, so that she was facing me. Her knees brushed against my thighs. Her face was inches from mine.
"You know," she said, reaching up to adjust her sports top, her fingers tugging at the fabric around her chest, "I think this bra is fitting weird today. It's like, one side is sitting lower than the other."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't.
She looked down at her chest, then back at me. "Can you check? Just make sure it's—"
"Martín!"
The voice came from across the gym. A guy I vaguely recognized from my calc class, waving at me from near the treadmills. I didn't know his name. Right then, I wished I'd never known him at all.
"Hey, uh," I said, standing up so fast I nearly knocked Marta off the bench. "I gotta go."
She blinked up at me, a disappointed little pout forming on her lips. "You haven't even finished your workout."
"Gotta."
I grabbed my bag and my water bottle and headed for the door, not looking back. I could feel her watching me the whole way, and as I pushed through the exit, I heard her call out:
"Same time tomorrow, Martín? I'll be here!"
I didn't answer. I just kept walking, the fluorescent lights of the gym dropping behind me like a bad dream I couldn't quite shake.
But the thing is, I already knew I'd be back tomorrow. And the day after that. Because for some reason that I wasn't ready to put into words, I didn't want her to stop watching. I just couldn't let her know.