Page 1 of Big and Brawny
one
Bronte
The"CLOSEDFORRENOVATIONS"sign on Whitepine Fitness might as well read "GOODBYE BRONTE'S SANITY" for all the devastation it causes to my carefully planned morning routine. I stand there in my workout clothes—bright purple leggings and a matching sports bra that took me three years to feel confident wearing—staring at the sign like it might change if I glare hard enough.
Six months.They're closing for six months to "completely redesign the space and upgrade all equipment." Which is fantastic news for future gym-goers and terrible news for me, since I've finally found my groove with strength training and body-positive fitness after years of hating my curvy body.
"This is just perfect," I mutter, adjusting my gym bag on my shoulder. I've been working with a trainer here for the past year, finally building the confidence to lift heavy and take up space in what used to feel like an intimidating environment. The thoughtof starting over somewhere else, or worse, taking a six-month break and losing all my progress, makes my stomach churn.
I'm still standing there in denial when my phone buzzes with a text from my trainer, Wayne:Sorry about the short notice. I know this sucks for your routine. Have you considered a home gym setup?
I snort out loud. My small cottage rental barely has room for my essential furniture, let alone a power rack and Olympic weights. But Wayne's next text makes me pause:BTW, I heard through the grapevine that someone in your neighborhood has an incredible home gym. Might be worth asking around.
Someone in my neighborhood? I've lived in the same small cluster of cottages on the edge of town for two years, and I'm pretty sure I know all my neighbors. There's old Mr. Johnson with his vintage truck collection, the young couple with twin toddlers, and the quiet guy in the blue house at the end of the lane who I've maybe seen five times total.
Actually, now that I think about it, the quiet guy is built like he could probably bench press a small car. Tall and broad with the kind of shoulders that strain against even loose-fitting shirts. I've caught glimpses of him working in his yard. He’s always polite with a brief wave, always carrying himself with a kind of careful control that suggests serious strength training.
Could he be the mysterious home gym owner?
There's only one way to find out.
Thirty minutes later, I'm standing outside the blue house with a box of still-warm cinnamon rolls and what feels like a ridiculousrequest. But I've learned that the worst thing people can do is say no, and I'll never know if I don't ask.
I knock twice, then wait, suddenly nervous about disturbing someone I've barely spoken to beyond neighborhood waves.
The door opens to reveal exactly who I expected—the quiet, built neighbor I've been secretly admiring from afar. Up close, he's even more impressive, with dark hair that's slightly messed up like he's been running his hands through it, and warm brown eyes that widen slightly when he sees me standing there.
"Oh," he says, his voice deep and low. "Hi, Bronte."
He knows my name. That's surprising.
"Hi, Orson." I hold up the plate of cinnamon rolls like a peace offering. "I hope I'm not bothering you. I just, uh, I have kind of a weird question, and I brought bribes."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Cinnamon roll bribes are always welcome. Come in."
His house is a revelation. While my cottage is cozy but cramped, his is spacious and well-organized. The furniture is clearly custom-made, probably by hand, and everything has a place. But what really catches my attention is the open doorway at the far end of the living room, through which I can see what looks like serious gym equipment.
"Wow," I breathe, trying not to be too obvious about craning my neck to see more. "Your place is incredible."
"Thanks. I converted the detached garage when I moved in, connected it to the main house." He gestures toward his kitchen. "Coffee? I was just making a pot."
"That would be great, actually."
As he moves around his kitchen, I find myself studying him more openly than I've ever dared. He's wearing jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that does little to disguise the power in his frame. And I’m starting to hope he works out in grey sweatpants. A girl knows.
"So," he says, handing me a mug of coffee that smells amazing, "what's thisweirdquestion?"
"Right. Okay, this is going to sound presumptuous, but I heard through the grapevine that someone in the neighborhood might have a home gym, and..." I take a breath, feeling heat creep up my neck. "The gym where I train just closed for six months, and I'm kind of desperate. I was wondering if maybe, possibly, you might let me work out with you sometimes? I'd pay you, obviously, and I promise I'm not a complete beginner who'll need constant supervision."
Orson's expression is neutral as he processes my request, and I feel my confidence start to crumble.
"I mean, if that's too weird or if you prefer working out alone, I totally understand."
"You lift?" he interrupts, genuine surprise in his voice.
"Three times a week for the past year. Nothing too impressive, but my squat form doesn't make trainers cry anymore."
"What kind of training were you doing?"
