Page 43 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
I position myself under the bar, 175 on the bar. Not my highest, but good for 5×5 at the end of a tough workout. Gripping the bar, I decide to play a little game of roulette:
“Can I get a spot?” I call out, intentionally not addressing anyone in particular.
I hear heavy footsteps tread over to me, and when a pair of hairy-knuckled, bear paw-sized hands touches two fingers under each side of the bar—guiding rather than helping, as a good spotter should—I know it’s James without having to look beyond the hands. I’m not sure if I won or lost that game of roulette—or whether I wanted James to spot me or not.
I get through the first set without issue, but by the end of the set I know I’ve bitten off potentially more than I can chew trying to bench 175 for five sets of five at the end of the workout. I’m shaking as I rack the weight, panting hard.
James doesn’t say anything, but I feel his eyes on me.
I rest about a minute or a minute and a half, and then go to work on the second set. Again, I make it through the set, but barely. And this time, I know James is adding at least a tiny bit of pressure under the bar.
I glance up at James as I rest between sets two and three. “No helping,” I say, wiping sweat off my forehead.
His eyes crinkle with a small smirk—a look I’d almost call sassy. “One-seventy-five may have been a bit ambitious,” he says. “No shame in dropping down a notch or two.”
I narrow my eyes at him, stick out my tongue, and put my irritation at his needling into my lift. Which, I realize, was his goal all along—motivation via insult.
“You are such a guy,” I snap as I pause at the top of the press.
He follows the downward motion of the bar, and I notice for the first time how close he gets, bending over me, making sure he has the leverage to lift in case I end up failing a rep. I can feel his breath, I can smell him—his sweat, his beard oil, a faintly cloying hint of BO that should gross me out but doesn’t.
“Glad you noticed,” he mutters.
Set four is hard. The fifth and final rep requires a lot of strain, a lot of shaking. I finish the last rep and rack the bar, breathing hard.
James’s eyes are on me; I’ve sweated through my sports bra and my shirt. I rest, and then adjust my grip on the bar.
I hesitate, meeting James’s gaze. “Eyes on the bar, tiger,” I say.
He arches an eyebrow. “That’s a big ask, babe.”
“There’s nothing to even see,” I mutter, pushing the bar off the rack and preparing to lower it. “I’m wearing the tightest sports bra I own and a tank top.”
“Memory and imagination, Nova,” James says, following the bar as I start the first rep of my last set.
I push through reps two, three, and four, but I’m struggling, straining and shaking as I barely finish the fourth rep. I pause with the bar at the top of the movement, gasping and contemplating whether I can gut out a fifth or not.
James glances at me. “Going for five?”
I nod, and grit my teeth. I slowly lower the bar, and when it touches my chest, I push hard, snarling through clenched teeth, pushing my feet hard against the ground and arching my back off the bench for added leverage. I feel James putting a tiny bit of assistance on the bar, but I’m honestly not sure I’d be able to get the rep without it, so, as much as I hate being helped, I accept it. The bar is barely moving, but it is moving upward. Inch by inch, straining with every fiber, I get the bar up, and James takes it and racks it for me.
The other three guys are all watching me, impressed.
“That was a hell of a set,” Franco says.
An awkward silence, then, as I sit on the bench and try to recover my breath.
One by one, the guys check their phones and shuffle their feet.
I realize these are lame signals to one another to leave James and I alone in…
Three…
Two…
One…
“So, I, uh…” Ryder checks his phone again, even though he just did. “I have a potential client looking for a bid, so I have to go.”
“Same,” Franco says. “I have a custom armoire to finish. Needs a bit more sanding and a couple coats of stain.”
Jesse looks at Ryder and Franco, and then at James, and then at me; his grin is mischievous and shit-eating. “Not me. I ain’t got shit to do. You wanna shoot some hoops, J?”
James rolls his eyes. “Funny, Jess. Very funny.”
“For real. I ain’t got anything going on.” His grin says he’s enjoying fucking with James.
