Page 2 of Big and Brawny
"Compound movements, mostly. Deadlifts, squats, bench press, overhead press. Some accessory work." I'm warming to the subject now, my nervousness fading as we talk about something I'm passionate about. "I started with a body-positive trainer who taught me that strength training isn't about changing my body—it's about appreciating what it can do."
"That's..." He pauses, seeming to search for the right words. "That's exactly the right approach."
The approval in his voice makes something warm spread through my chest.
"So," I say hopefully, "is that a yes? To letting me use your gym sometimes?"
Orson looks toward the doorway where I can see the edge of what appears to be a serious power rack.
"Let me show you what we're talking about first," he says finally. "Then you can decide if it's what you need."
two
Orson
IleadBrontetowardmy home gym, trying not to notice the way her purple workout clothes hug her curves or how her enthusiasm about lifting makes her practically glow. I've been watching her from a distance for months. Sometimes catching glimpses of her when she's out for her morning runs, noting the confidence in the way she carries herself—but this is the first real conversation we've ever had.
She's not what I expected. More knowledgeable about training, more passionate about fitness, and definitely more beautiful up close than I'd allowed myself to notice.
The gym takes up what used to be the detached garage after I converted it and connected it to the main house. It's my pride and joy—a full power rack, Olympic plates, adjustable benches, and enough equipment to train every muscle group effectively. I've spent three years building it piece by piece, creating the perfect training environment.
"Holy shit," Bronte breathes, then immediately claps a hand over her mouth. "Sorry.”
"Don't apologize. That's exactly the reaction I was hoping for."
She walks into the space like she's entering a cathedral, her eyes wide as she takes in the equipment. "This is incredible. Is that a competition-grade power rack?"
"Yeah. Got it used from a gym that was upgrading." I can't keep the pride out of my voice. "The plates are all calibrated, and the barbell is a proper Olympic bar."
"This is better than most commercial gyms." She runs her hand along the barbell with genuine appreciation.
The fact that she knows the difference between a cheap barbell and quality equipment tells me more about her training background than I'd expected. Most people wouldn't recognize the setup I've invested in.
"I compete sometimes," I admit. "Powerlifting. Local meets, nothing too serious."
"Nothing too serious?" She turns to look at me with clear admiration. "What are your numbers?"
I tell her my personal records, watching her eyes widen as she does the mental math.
"Jesus, Orson. Those are elite numbers."
"Not elite. Just dedicated."
She looks around the gym again, then back at me. "And you'd really let me train here? I promise I'd be respectful of your equipment and your space."
The hopeful note in her voice does something to my chest. The truth is, I've been training alone for years, and the thought of having a training partner—especially one who clearly understands and respects the iron, and is cute and curvy and sweet. It’s more appealing than I want to admit.
"What does your program look like?" I ask.
She pulls out her phone and shows me her training log, and I'm impressed despite myself. Her programming is intelligent, her progression logical, and her form notes suggest she takes the technical aspects seriously.
"This is solid work," I say, handing back her phone. "Who wrote your program?"
"Wayne, my trainer at the gym. But I've been learning to write my own variations." She bites her lower lip, a gesture I try not to find as appealing as I do. "I know it's not as advanced as what you're probably doing..."
"It doesn't need to be advanced. It needs to be appropriate for your goals and experience level. This is perfect."
The relief on her face is unmistakable. "So that's a yes? You'd let me train here?"
