Page 6 of Gym Bros
Evan’s a nice guy with a tough job in tech and a questionable relationship with his boss, so our conversations are always interesting. The text is asking if I want him to bring me dinner tonight because his roommate made way too much food. I text him back that my dad’s in town, but I’ll let him know. My dad may or may not want to spend his time in San Francisco with me. He knows a lot of people who live here—mostly his clients, and he’s almost always working—or something. He and I have what I’d call a strained relationship. At best.
I keep my leg elevated until he arrives. If there’s one person I don’t want seeing me limp, it’s him. Not that I think he’ll make fun of me—he’s not an asshole—at least not where I’m concerned, but he’s not exactly great at hiding the judgment in his eyes.
I’m the black sheep of the family. My older brothers are high-achieving twins who live in Chicago where they both went to college, so I don’t see them much. We’re not close since they’re mostly close with each other. I’m five years younger, so they never paid much attention to me.
That probably explains a lot about me as a person. To say I like to stand out would be putting it mildly. Ineedit. Being side-lined for the last four weeks has been a nightmare. I want to claw off my skin I’m so fucking bored. And surprise, surprise, almost everyone seems to have forgotten I exist.
Nothing like a torn hamstring to make you re-evaluate how you live. This month has been rough. It hit me during the second week lying around here with my leg propped up that I don’t matter to very many people. I called my mom crying, and she came up to stay with me for a few days.
I haven’t lived on my own all that long. I went straight from my parents’ house in LA to this apartment so I could train at NorCal KO with one of the best coaches on the west coast. I was this close to getting my first amateur level fight when this bullshit happened. It’s not a career ending injury, but it’s no joke either.
Balance is the word I keep hearing from the trainers, the doctors—from my damn mom. Balance is apparently everything. I need to balance my quad strength with my hamstring strength. I need to balance my stance. I need to become a more balanced fighter. Beyond that, according to my mother, I also need to find a balance between training and “socializing” or whatever. Prioritizing training over everything else was all well and good until I got injured, looked up, and realized I’ve got no life outside the gym.
And yes, it is for lack of trying.
My dad shows up on time, and I walk to the door without issue. It’s got me looking forward to the appointment I have with the sports medicine doctor Monday. I’m hoping he’ll clear me to get back to training now that the pain is significantly decreased. I need something to do, or I might pull my own dick off.
Dad looks good—he always does, though. I’m lucky I inherited his height and his jawline. I’m slightly taller at 6’4, but I outweigh him by fifty pounds of muscle. Or itwasmuscle up until a month ago. Today, I feel gross, although I did shower, shave, and put on clean clothes. I never look as nice as he does in his black, brushed cotton slacks and henley.
He used to be a model when he was in his twenties. I’m notsure he knows how to wear anything other than black in his regular life. Or maybe he just knows how good he looks in it and doesn’t mind people looking.
“You don’t look so terrible,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “Your mom made it sound dire.”
“That was weeks ago,” I mumble into his shoulder before easing myself away.
“It wasn’t that long,” he says, giving my arm a rub and a pat.
Itwasthat long, and I know he’s not in town just to see me. He has clients here, too. He travels a lot—always has—but still, if it wasdire, I’d like to think he would have shown up sooner. Maybe he’s just got something—or someone—better to do.
I shake off the old thought. It’s not fair, and he’s been more than generous with me, even when I haven’t extended him the same courtesy.
“The place looks…good.”
I cleaned up the best I could, but I’m a twenty-year old man who’s been injured for a month surviving on TV and takeout. Dad’s assessing eyes move from the kitchen to the windows with the view of the bay.
“I need one of those little robot vacuums,” I tell him, embarrassed by how dirty the floors are.
“We had one for a while. Your mom said it wasn’t worth the trouble. I can have a housekeeper come by once a week if you want.”
“Sure,” I say. He pays for the apartment. He might as well pay to keep it clean.
I don’t want to sound spoiled. It’s more like I’m indulged, and I take full advantage of it. After our big blow up when I was sixteen where I accused him of screwing around on my mom—because what the fuck else was he doing being gone more than half the year with his location turned off more often than not—he got real accommodating real fast.
He managed to talk me off the ledge by making me realize I had no actual proof and assuring me he would never do anything to risk his marriage, but like I said—he’s been amazingly patient with me ever since. Still, I could chalk that up to him wanting to have a relationship with me, and it doesn’t hurt that I’m being bankrolled. We all have our price, I guess.
When I told him and my mom that I wanted to pursue a career in MMA instead of college, they agreed to support me for four years—same as they paid for my brothers to get their degrees. This apartment he found for me is far from a shit hole. It’s in Pacific Heights, I can see the Golden Gate Bridge from my bedroom, and I’m right down the street from my gym. He’s holding up his end of the bargain. I just need to get back to training so I can prove I was worth the investment.
“How’s the leg?” he asks.
“Better. I think. I see the doctor tomorrow.”
“Wanna sit?”
“Yeah,” I say.
He gestures toward the kitchen. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, but you can grab whatever you want. I had a grocery delivery yesterday.”
