Chapter 5: Gym Tension
The silence in the truck on the way back from the lake was a physical thing, dense and humming. We’d dried off with rough towels, the sun baking our shoulders, but the cold from the water seemed to have seeped into my bones. Chris drove, one arm out the window, his profile unreadable. I stared at the passing pines, his question echoing in the empty spaces between my thoughts.The box is only soundproof if you let it be.
Back at the cabin, the stillness felt oppressive. The shock of the lake had worn off, leaving behind a jittery, restless energy. I needed to move, to push my body until my mind went blank.Chris seemed to feel it too. He tossed his damp towel over the back of a chair and stretched, the muscles in his back rippling. “I’m gonna climb the walls in here,” he said.“You wanna hit that gym? The one we passed in town?”
“Yes.” The answer was out before I’d even fully processed it.The gym was familiar territory. It was where we’d always met, where the rules were clear.Lift.Spot. Grunt through the burn.A place where I knew how to exist next to him.
The gym was a no-frills box, the air thick with the smell of rubber and old sweat. The familiar clang of weights was a comfort. We claimed a rack in the corner, and for a while, it worked.The routine took over. I loaded the bar for bench press, laid back on the pad, and pushed.The weight was heavy, a deliberate choice.I wanted the strain.
Chris stood over me, his hands poised.“I got you.”
I lowered the bar, my chest tightening. On the fifth rep, my arms began to tremble.“Now,” I grunted.
His hands were there, not on the bar, but under it, his fingers brushing against my ribs, his thumbs pressing into the soft part of my lower waist to guide the weight up. It was a spotter’s touch, but it lingered a half-second too long, his grip firm and warm through my thin tank top.The bar racked with a clang.
“Good lift,” he said, his voice close to my ear.I sat up, my skin burning where he’d touched me. “Your turn.”
He lay down, and I took my position at his head. He lifted the weight effortlessly, his form perfect, the defined planes of his chest and shoulders contracting with a smooth, powerful rhythm. On his last set, he went heavier, forcing out reps until his arms began to quiver.I leaned in, my hands finding his waist, mirroring his position. The heat of his skin was startling. I could feel the flex of his obliques beneath my palms as I helped guide the bar home. He sat up, sweat tracing a path down the hollow of his throat, and looked at me.“Thanks.”
We moved to the free weights. He stood in front of the mirror, doing alternating curls. I watched the reflection—the play of sinew in his biceps, the way his back muscles shifted with each curl, a fine sheen of sweat making his skin glow under the fluorescent lights.My own arms felt heavy, useless. I picked up a heavier dumbbell, trying to match his pace, to drown out the static in my head with a burn I understood.
Afterwards, loose and drained, we unrolled mats in a corner for stretching. The hard work was done.This was supposed to be the easy part.
I lay on my back, one leg extended, the other bent. The goal was to pull the bent knee across my body, a deep glute and hamstring stretch.I got my leg halfway, the muscle tight and protesting.
“You’re all locked up,” Chris observed.He knelt beside me on the mat. “Here.”
Before I could protest, his hand was on my bent knee, the other firmly on the outside of my thigh.He applied gentle pressure, pushing my leg across my body. The stretch intensified, a sharp, clean pull through my hip and hamstring.
“Breathe into it,” he said, his voice low.I tried.But all my focus was on his hands.The weight of them. The heat.He increased the pressure incrementally, his lean body leaning over mine. My eyes were fixed on the ceiling tiles, but my peripheral vision was filled with him—the line of his jaw, the sweat-damp hair at his temple.He switched to my other leg. This time, as his hand settled on my inner thigh, his thumb just brushing the inseam of my shorts, I felt it.A jolt, completely involuntary, that traveled straight to my groin. I sucked in a breath.He kept pushing the stretch, his grip firm. The tension in the muscle was nothing compared to the tension coiling in my gut. I was hyper-aware of every point of contact, of his breathing, of my own pounding heart. The unwanted, traitorous response of my body was immediate and obvious, a hard swell against the fabric of my shorts.The stretch held. His hands didn’t move.My eyes slid from the ceiling to his face. He wasn’t looking at my face.His gaze was lowered, fixed on where his hands held my leg. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes.Those green eyes, sharp and knowing, met mine.He saw it. Of course he saw it.The fluorescent lights were unforgiving.He didn’t smile. He didn’t smirk. He just held my gaze, his expression unreadable, his hands still firmly on my leg.The silence between us was louder than any clang of weights. It was the sound of a box cracking open.
After what felt like an eternity, he released the pressure and sat back on his heels. He wiped his hands on his thighs, his movements casual, as if nothing had happened.“That should help,” he said, his tone neutral.
I swung my legs down and sat up quickly, turning away to hide my embarrassment, my confusion, my raging erection. I busied myself with rolling up my mat, my hands clumsy.
“I’m gonna hit the shower,” I mumbled, not looking at him.“Yeah,” he said. I heard him stand, the mat rustling. “Meet you at the truck.”
I walked to the locker room, the feeling of his hands imprinted on my skin, the image of his knowing eyes burned into my mind. The cold shower did nothing. The water pounded down, but it couldn’t wash away the truth, now hideously physical and exposed. It couldn’t unbreak the silence.