Page 8 of Gym Bros
“Well,Ido,” my dad says. “And I know you think your clock is ticking, but you’re twenty years old. You’ve got time to rehab this injury properly and be back to training and fighting in prime form. If that’s what you really want.”
Admittedly, I’m a person with a head full of steam, racing ahead, always trying to get to the next big thing. But it’s nice to hear him say he cares about my goals. My dad isn’t the least affectionate man, but he can be distant. His concept of time is slightly warped—like this idea that he showed up because my situation was “dire.” Two weeks probably felt like a day to him. He just had “a few things to take care of first.”
“I’m not gonna do anything crazy,” I tell him.
He arches a brow. A talent I inherited from him, too.
“How do I know my limits if I don’t push myself a little?” I ask.
“A little?”
Since I don’t want him to think I’m some reckless fuck up, I attempt to put some of the things I’ve been tossing around in my head about retraining into words. “Look,” I say. “My trainer is all about cardio and the fight. It’s not exactly a balanced approach.” That word again, but I swear to God, it’s all I think about whenI’m not trying to figure out a way to get off. I’ve done my research. I’ve had all the time in the world. “I’ve always had tight hamstrings, and I don’t spend enough time with flexibility training. That was a mistake.”
The brow stays arched. He’s listening.
“So, that’s something I’m planning to work into my routine.”
“Like…yoga maybe?”
“Sure—yeah. Yoga.” That doesn’t sound like a total waste of time. Evan goes to yoga, and he’s ripped. He even suggested coming to a class with him before I got injured, but I felt like I didn’t have time.
“I might know someone who could help you with that.”
I frown, not liking the sound of this. “Who?”
Not that I’m not serious about spending more time stretching, but I wasn’t trying to say I needed help. I’ve got this. I can watch a YouTube video. I don’t need to meet some cute yoga teacher my dad may or may not have?—
I halt the thought before it can fully form and try to analyze the look on my father’s face. It’s innocent, but something’s going on in his head. I can tell by the way his gaze narrows in that calculating way I’ve only ever seen when he’s studying photos of his clients.
“Hear me out. You could be doing me a favor if you’re willing to work with me on this.”
I’m wary, but I’m listening.
“I have a client in the area who’s been turning down work left and right.”
I close my eyes and try to take a deep breath.
“He’s been teaching yoga and Pilates at a gym in Lower Haight—which—whatever—he likes it, and I guess it’s fulfilling some need he has to be useful, but I thought he was taking the summer off to fill the well, and now it’s nearly October, and he’s still not sure he wants to come back to work.”
“He?” I ask. “It’s a guy?”
“Yeah. I represent men, too. Nearly half my clients.”
I let out a breath. A man I can deal with. I won’t have to be wondering and worrying about howwellhe knows my dad. “Is he like—a big deal or something?”
“In terms of my income, no—it’s not that I can’t live without him, but he’sgood. Heshouldbe modeling. You mentioned balance. He’s off balance, too.”
It’s not unlike my dad to take a personal interest in his clients. He’s been bringing them around my entire life, but something about the way he’s talking about this particular client makes it sound like he’s got genuine concern for his well-being.
“Is he depressed or something?”
Dad frowns, like he’s considering this for the first time. “Maybe. Maybe…”
“So, what? You want me to take a few of his classes? Tell him he should what? Be a model?”
“No—yeah—no…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Sounds stupid doesn’t it?”
What’s with him?
