Page 5 of Big and Brawny
I roll my eyes, but as I turn back to my work, I can't help but smile. Wednesday can't come fast enough.
four
Orson
ByFridaymorning,trainingwith Bronte has become the highlight of my week. She's everything I could want in a training partner—focused, dedicated, and knowledgeable enough to hold real conversations about programming and technique. More than that, she brings an energy to my gym that I didn't realize had been missing.
Wednesday's breakfast at May's had stretched into a two-hour conversation that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with getting to know each other. I learned that Bronte moved to Whitepine after a bad breakup, that she's a talented graphic designer who splits her time between the bakery and freelance clients, and that her laugh is the most addictive sound I've ever heard.
Watching her lift is becoming a problem, though. Not because her form is bad—quite the opposite. She moves with a confidence and power that's incredibly attractive, and thesounds she makes during heavy sets are doing things to my concentration that have nothing to do with fitness.
"Spot me on the bench?" she asks, settling under the barbell loaded with what I know is a personal record attempt for her.
"Of course." I position myself behind the bar, close enough to assist if needed but trying not to notice how the position gives me a perfect view of her determined expression.
"This is either going to be really good or really embarrassing," she says, settling her grip on the bar.
"You've got this. The weight moved easy on your warm-ups."
She takes a deep breath, unracks the weight, and descends with perfect control. For a moment at the bottom, I think she might struggle, but then she drives through her heels and powers the weight back up with authority.
"Yes!" she shouts, racking the weight with a huge grin. "Did you see that? That was smooth!"
Her excitement is infectious, and I find myself grinning back. "Told you you had it. That was a beautiful lift."
She sits up on the bench, face flushed with exertion and triumph, and I have to take a step back because she's never looked more beautiful than she does right now—glowing with accomplishment and completely in her element.
"Personal record," she says, pulling out her phone to log the lift. "God, I love this feeling. Like I could conquer the world."
"That's what good lifting does. Makes you feel invincible."
"Is that why you got into powerlifting? For the feeling?"
I consider the question while stripping plates from her bar. "Partly. But also because it's honest. The weight doesn't care about your job or your relationships or what kind of day you're having. It just is what it is, and either you're strong enough to move it or you're not."
"Sounds like there's a story there."
There is a story, but it's not one I usually share. Something about the way Bronte is looking at me—interested but not pushy—makes me want to tell her anyway.
"I wasn't always this big," I say finally. "Grew up as the skinny kid who got picked on. Started lifting in high school as a way to level the playing field." I pause, loading another plate with more force than necessary. "Had an older brother who was everything I wasn't—athletic, popular, confident. When he died in a motorcycle accident my senior year, I guess I threw myself into training as a way to deal with losing him. Wanted to build something that couldn't be taken away."
Her expression softens with understanding. "I'm sorry about your brother," she says quietly. "That must have been devastating."
"It was. But the training... It helped. Gave me something to focus on when everything else felt out of control." I meet her eyes. "What about you? What got you into lifting?"
"Actually, it was kind of the opposite reason. I spent my whole life feeling like I didn't have control over my body—like I was destined to be the 'big girl' and should just accept it." She sits up straighter on the bench. "Then I found this trainer who specialized in body-positive fitness. He showed me that I could be strong and powerful exactly as I am. That I didn't have to get smaller to be worthy of taking up space."
Her voice holds a quiet conviction that makes my chest tight. I've seen too many people—women especially—punish themselves in the gym, trying to shrink or change or fix what they think is wrong with them.
"Strong is definitely better than small," I say firmly.
"Tell that to the guys who used to suggest I'd be 'really pretty if I just lost some weight.'"
The casual way she mentions it makes me want to find those guys and introduce them to some of the heavier plates in my gym.
"Their loss," I say, meaning every word.
Something in my tone makes her look up sharply, and for a moment our eyes meet across the gym. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
