Page 1 of Giovanni
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GIOVANNI
The throb of the bass beats with my heart as I power through another set. I’m in my zone. Lifting the cool barbells is a breeze today, like I’m in sync with the universe or something. I’m chasing something bigger than just muscle—my dreams. Each lift is a step closer to the Mr. Olympia stage, where the gods of iron battle. I glance at Marco, my training partner, mirroring my movements on the bench press.
“All about consistency, brother,” I shout over the music. Marco flashes a grin and hoists the barbell up with a grunt.
“Pure beast mode, Gio,” he pants, the bar hitting the rack with a satisfying clang that resonates through the gym crowded with all the new members conquering their New Year’s resolution of getting in shape. He mops the sweat off his forehead.
I start moving to the beat, dancing between sets. The gym’s my playground, and the mirrors are my cheering crowd. I throw in a flex here and there, watching the light dance across my biceps. It’s not vanity—it’s artistry. Analyzing the various muscle groups to see which need further development and which are ontrack thus far. This is what the crowd will see when I step on that Mr. Olympia stage and what will set me apart.
“Easy on the showboating,” Marco chides, the lower half of his face hidden in the towel, still catching his sweat.
“Not showboating,” I quip back, arms flexing into a perfect double biceps pose. “Studying my progress. Seeing it from different angles is important, especially since I’m still working through my posing routine. If I miss something, it costs me points, and I must be perfect on stage, or else the guy next to me will be.”
I wink at him, twisting my hat backward as my curls jut out the sides. Curls for the girls is what my mamma always used to say. Not sure if that’s ever been true, especially with my hair too long and looking a little ragged. An Italian Ronald McDonald, according to Seb. With his straight blonde hair, he gives me grief over my chocolate curls, even more grief about my thick ‘stauche. He hates it. What does he know?
I’m not telling him, but I’m thinking about cutting my hair. This African American dude comes in with lines on the side of his head. His curls are tighter than mine, but the sides are trimmed close with designs on the edges.
It would be pretty cool if I did something like that, but I have yet to talk to the guy to see where he goes to get that done. I doubt my dad’s barber, where I’ve gone my whole life, would know how to do it.
“Showboating, studying, it’s all the same thing with the number of women that stare at you in this pace.”
He chuckles before laying back and killing another set. His good nature keeps him from being jealous of anything about me besides my height. His definition is more pronounced as his frame is thinner and shorter in stature. He competes in the lightweight category and wins most of the local shows. I asked if he’d ever compete with me at Mr. Olympia, but he mumbledsome nonsense about enjoying being a big fish in a small pond—unwilling to become a tiny fish in a world pond.
I don’t take him seriously as I finish dancing and flexing to the song. I examine my arms and chest muscles as I do different poses. I have my problem areas, specific muscle groups that are taking longer to grow than I’d like, but what’s life if you’re not having fun doing it?
I return to the bench, balancing the barbells on my thighs before easing backward. Today is about reps, not heavy weights. If the reverse were the case, I’d spot Marco and vice versa. I’m easily pumping out another set when Jenna enters my line of sight. The cold air conditioning does nothing to cool my heated skin.
I glance down at my cock to make sure it doesn’t pop up like it does every time she’s around. I’ve been crushing on her for months, thinking we were getting closer until last month when she slid that big ring on her finger, and I found out she was married or getting married, whichever. I didn’t hear much of what she said, too focused on the ring and the crushing disappointment that killed my growing love for her.
“Happy New Year, Gio,” she calls out, her voice slicing through the music and the clatter of weights. “Hey, Marco.”
“Happy New Year, Jenna.” My voice is steady despite the adrenaline from my workout. I pound out an extra set, trying to look calm while my heart does its best impression of a jackhammer.
“Wow, you’ve really got some gains since the last time I saw you.”
I don’t allow my face to crack with emotion, but my stomach is doing flips at her compliment. If she only knew how much I like her, she’d probably never talk to me again.
“No days off.”
I finish my set, lean forward, and dump the weights on the ground. The pump flowing through my biceps is insane, causing her to reach out to touch them. This is why I thought she was single. All the flirting and touching sends me mixed signals.
“I haven’t seen you around.”
I hate myself for asking. I also hate myself for looking for her whenever I set foot in here. A guilty smile and pink flush cover her skin, making her look adorable.
“It’s been busy between the holidays and our engagement photos in Cancun.”
My heart drops into my stomach. Marco glares at me from behind her, shooting me a warning look, which I ignore. He knows how I feel about her, having busted me getting a woodie when I spotted her working out. An awkward pause lingers, and I adjust the Velcro straps on my wrists.
“Any resolutions for 2024?” she asks, following me as I rack the dumbbells for others to use.
“To stand on the Mr. Olympia stage,” I say without hesitation. This gym is where my dreams will come true. “To show them what I’m made of.”
Jenna’s eyes hold mine, and there’s a flicker of something like admiration—or is it challenge?
“Wow! That would be something. I believe you can do it.”
