Page 16 of Gym Bros
“Saber.” He gives me a firm but not crushing shake.
“About that,” I say. “I could have sworn you have an actual name.”
“What’syouractual name?”
Okay,Saber it is.
“Nice to meet you,” I say instead of pressing it.
“I brought my note. I’m cleared for light workouts. Whatever that means.” He takes a crumpled up paper from his gym shorts and hands it over.
I give the form a cursory glance. “Perfect. We’ll be in the small studio.”
He nods politely. “Lead the way.”
As I walk, he starts talking. “So, what kind of modeling do you do?”
“Depends on the client. Mostly runway. Editorial.”
“Dad called you special and rare.”
“That was nice of him.”Did he mention he likes to fuck me too?
“Anyway, I see what he means.”
“I have a personality, too, believe it or not.” I don’t know why I say that, or why it sort of snaps from my mouth at this complete stranger, but I keep walking, opening the glass door to the smallest classroom. I had a chance to set it up earlier withtwo mats, straps, and blocks. Soft spa music is playing. The reflection of the two of us entering in the wall of mirrors is a study in opposites.
He’s at least six inches taller than I am—maybe more. His dark olive-skinned tan is in stark contrast with my beachy glow. His body is rock hard, defined muscle everywhere, and I look like a blur next to him. My hair is blonde and wavy. His is dark and barely there. We’re like beauty and the beast.
“I assume you want to skip the breathing and meditation part and get straight to the stretching,” I say.
“Why would you assume that?”
I shrug, sitting down on my mat and crossing my legs in sukasana. “Can you sit like this?” I ask, ignoring the question.
He drops his gym bag unceremoniously and sighs. “I can try.”
Favoring his right leg as he kneels on the mat, he attempts to get both legs under him. Eventually, he manages. It’s a hamstring contraction, so I figured he’d be able to do it. It’s the extensions I need to be careful with. “If you want to know everything, this is easy sitting position—sukasana. It’s the first place we breathe.”
“What do I do with my hands?” he asks, just before I’m about to tell him exactly what to do with his hands. Crazy of me to assume he’d want to rush this, I know.
Instead of speaking, I demonstrate, spreading one hand over my abs and the other just above it, beneath my ribs. I wait for him to do the same. He sits a little straighter. “Picture a string from your tailbone to the crown of your head, pulling you taut.
His spine straightens more, and I’m satisfied. “As you breathe in, you should feel the hand on your abdomen rise.”
“What about my other hand? Is that for when I breathe out?”
“It’s the second hand to rise with the breath.”
“Oh, okay, got it.” He breathes deeply. “How many times do I do it for?”
“Until you relax,” I say. “Slow down, it’s not a race.”
He narrows his gaze.
I scowl. “Close your eyes,” I tell him.
His mouth twists, but he shuts his eyes, and I take the opportunity to roll mine. There’s a big part of me that wants to make him spend the hour doing only this. Listening to spa music, sitting up straight and feeling his abdomen rise and fall. I’m not ruling it out.
