Priya looked up the moment the door chimed.
"Forget something?" She asked, then immediately seemed to regret the question, as I've clearly stated not even ten minutes ago that I'd be back.
"Nope. Just starting my workout now."
I walked past the counter, gave her a little nod and a smile, and tapped the little black fob against the scanner the way Lena had shown me.
The turnstile clicked and let me through with a soft, polite beep.
The locker room was at the far end of the hall, past a water station and a row of framed motivational photographs featuring women mid-deadlift looking like they were single-handedly saving humanity from gravity. I pushed open the door labeled MEN, which felt like an oddly generous label for a room serving what was probably a population of... me?
I didn't inquire how many men had actually signed up, but given the reactions I got, I wagered that it would be more fun, perhaps safer for me, to operate under the assumption that I was the only one.
I walked in.
It was empty. Of course it was empty. It would've been more surprising if it wasn't.
Rows of lockers, about thirty of them, immaculate, barely used. A bench down the middle. A shower stall in the corner with a little sign that said PLEASE BE MINDFUL OF YOUR SURROUNDINGS, which, considering my surroundings consisted of absolutely nobody, felt like a strange instruction.
I found locker seventeen, the one that matched the little tag attached to my fob, and dumped my bag inside.
Turtleneck off. Sweatpants off. I dug through the bag for the gym clothes I'd actually picked out myself before Willow could intervene with another round of aggressive safety-conscious fashion advice—a plain black t-shirt, athletic pants, and normal socks.
I caught my reflection in the mirror bolted to the locker door.
The face was doing its usual unfair thing where even standing there half-dressed in fluorescent lighting, it looked like I was prepping for a professional photo shoot.
I scrunched it up just to remind myself I had control over at least some part of this body, and the reflection scrunched its face right back, looking somehow even better doing it.
I’d have cursed the heavens for making someone so unjustly handsome before.
But hey, it was my face now.
I mentally pressed F again for OG Damien, in case he was now stuck with my less than impressive original appearance.
'Alright.' I heaved a deep breath. 'Let's do this...'
xXx
I walked into the cacophony of thumps, creaks, and clangs that was the fitness floor. I started slow. Strolled the perimeter once, getting a feel for the layout, mentally underscoring machines I recognized from a lifetime of half-hearted New Year's resolutions and machines that looked like the contraptions for glute activation.
A few heads turned. Fewer than I expected, actually—most of the women here were locked into their own routines, headphones in, in the zone, no attention to spare for an unworthy intruder. Well, some still caught me from the corner of their eyes and openly stared, but nothing too egregious or inappropriate.
A smattering of murmurs rippled across the gym as more and more people noticed me, unescorted, unlike before, walking about on my own two feet and no supervision or accompanying guardian nearby, just a quiet and calm guy trying to do the workout thing, the most dangerous thing he'd ever do, or not, who knows.
Disbelief. Suspicion.
A glint of a few ideas in a few eyes. A group of women walking not even five steps in front of me. They whispered something into each other's ears. One turned her head to glance and the others stifled a small laugh, exchanging secret glances, and went back to minding their own businesses.
I connected my headphones to my smartphone, and let the music flow as I approached the equipment I wanted.
I figured the smart move was to start with something I actually had a baseline for. Cardio first. Five minutes on a treadmill at a pace that wouldn't embarrass me, just to feel out the body's stamina. It held up fine. Whatever Damien's lungs had been doing for nineteen years of avoiding effort, they weren't complaining now.
A quick warm-up to get the blood moving.
Then some stretching to get the muscles ready for business.
Weights were next, and that was where things got more honest.
I found an empty bench press station and loaded the bar with a weight that felt, by eye, like a reasonable starting point. Adequate for someone with skinny limbs and zero training history. I lay down, curled my fingers around the bar, and lifted, bringing the thing above my chest.
The bar wobbled on its way up, but my arms didn't immediately give out or detach, which seemed like a reasonable metric of success. My arms shook on the way down, but the bar hit my chest and the weight felt bearable, albeit heavier than what my actual body-weight felt comfortable with.
Slowly. Up. Down. Up. Down.
Until it became harder to press back up.
I did six reps, felt the burn settle into my shoulders by the fourth, and racked it with the small, private satisfaction of a man who had not, in fact, humiliated himself on his first real attempt. My arms were burning and screaming in quiet pain and it felt good.
"Okay." I muttered, sitting up, rolling my shoulders. "Not bad."
Not bad was, of course, the highest possible praise one could give oneself in a room full of physically fit, objectively attractive women.
I took a swig of water from my canteen and moved to the leg press next, dialed in a weight that looked moderate on the little chart bolted to the machine, and pushed.
It moved. Slower than I wanted. My thighs burned almost immediately.
I did five reps, feeling a fire bloom in my hips that told me I was closer to damaging my pelvis than having a leg day, and racked it, exhaled, and rolled to my feet.
A dumbbell rack stood somewhere off to my left, looking lonely and beautiful.
I grabbed a pair and worked through a light set, shoulder presses, before deciding it was time to push a little. Grabbed the next pair up, started a set of bicep curls, and made it through four reps before my form started to slip, my elbows flaring out, the weight seemingly doubling with every passing second.
I felt eyes on me as I wrestled with the dumbbells, my muscles shaking, but considered pushing through out of pure stubbornness.
"You might want to drop down a pair before you try that again."
I looked up.
A woman stood a few feet away, mid-twenties maybe, dark ponytail, gym clothes that were too tight to be regulation and too short to be subtle.
"Oh. Hello." I lowered the weights a few inches before giving up and setting them back on the rack.
She'd clearly been watching for at least the last set, and clearly debating internally whether saying anything was a good idea, because her posture had that particular hesitation to it—half a step forward, half a step back, unsure of her welcome, and likely unconvinced that approaching the sole male in the gym for guidance was worth the risk.
"Sorry." She added quickly, sheepishly. "I just—umh, your elbows were doing a thing. The bad kind of thing." She vaguely gestured, cringing a little to add to the disarmament.
"The bad kind..." I repeated, glancing at the dumbbells. "What do you mean?"
"Kind of like—like—" She thought for a moment. "Like a chicken flapping its wings."
My lips twitched, but I kept it under control.
"Is that so?"
"Ugh." She must've realized that saying 'flapping its wings' to a man whose entire life was probably a carefully constructed edifice of social caution was maybe not the best choice. "I'm sorry. I should've just minded my business. You probably don't need advice from a stranger."
"No, you're right, actually. My form's been a mess all morning." I laughed as well. "Honestly, I wouldn't say no to a spotter. If you're not busy."
I mentally apologized to my mother, but if I wanted to actually get some proper training done, a little unsolicited advice was an acceptable price.
The woman's eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Why not? I'm a beginner. And I'd appreciate the expertise from an expert."
"Yeah. I mean... yes. I can do that."
"I'm Damien."
I smiled brightly.
"I know." She said it before she could stop herself, then winced slightly. "Sorry. Everyone kind of knows. It's not—I'm not being weird, I just—"
I blinked. "How do you know?"
Did she overhear my name earlier at the counter?
She seemed to hesitate before explaining. "Your name kind of came out earlier, one of the girls must've recognized you and, well, word traveled." She looked a little uncomfortable with that bit of information. "Not a stalker, I swear."
"I'll take your word for it." I said with a small smile, picking the dumbbells back up, lighter ones this time, the smart choice rather than the stubborn one. "And you are?"
"Oh. Oh, right. Sorry. I'm Kendra. I work here."
"A trainer."
"Among other things. I also clean the machines and tell people not to drop the weights."
"A woman of many talents, then."
She laughed. A real one this time. "Something like that. Come on, show me your form, Mr. Flap."
A nickname. She looked nervous at my reaction to this sudden informality. She was a little too forward, probably—kind of reminded me of Valeria. Maybe there was this subcategory of women that, when dealing with an unexpected male, would find themselves in a loop of nervousness and trying to compensate by being a bit too friendly or out-of-line.
And there was no reason to be offended by it.
I merely smiled. "Alright, Ken, but don't blame me if you're not impressed." I teased back.
This seemed to genuinely surprise her, and her eyes widened for a second before she burst out laughing again. A little nervously, a little eagerly. I realized I liked her laugh. It had that jittery lilt, the kind of laughter you’d have after a minor car accident that you managed to walk away from completely unscathed.
"Alright. Show me."
There was an involuntary blush on her face that she tried to laugh off.
“I’ll show ya.”
The next twenty minutes were, I admitted, actually helpful.
Kendra, it turned out, was a decent trainer. She had a good eye and a straightforward way of explaining things that made sense.
"Okay, so you want to keep your elbows pinned to your sides." She demonstrated, using her own arm. "Tuck them in, like this. See? No chicken wings."
"No chicken wings." I repeated, mirroring her movement.
"Exactly. Now, slow on the way down. Control the negative. Don't just let gravity do the work."
She watched me knock out a clean set of eight.
"See?" She said. "That's it. Perfect."
"Perfect's a strong word." I said, setting the dumbbells down. "But better, definitely."
"We'll take better. You're stronger than you look, too."
"Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"Both." She grinned, eyes narrowed. Totally unashamed, this woman. "You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over. But there's some fight in there."
I was surprised by how quickly she warmed up to me, immediately after the initial awkwardness. While it was clear she still tried to gauge her boundaries and my reactions to her being somewhat... familiar, she took my casual demeanor as a green light to be less stiff around me. It was... interesting.
"There might be some fight left in me, after all." I said, taking a swig of water. "What about you, Ken? How long have you been working out?"
"Years." She shrugged, as if it was nothing. "Started in high school. My mom was worried I'd get bullied."
"And then what, it turned out that you were actually the bully?"
Her shoulders shook with laughter. "Nah, not the type. More like 'girl who could carry the projector by herself'."
Oh right, we had that at school too. There was a kind of pride in being chosen to do tasks that required strength, even if the task itself was menial. In this world, I supposed it was practically a badge of honor for a woman to be physically capable.
"Your mom must be proud."
"She is. Or was. She passed away a few years ago."
"Oh." My smile faltered. Ouch. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't be." She said, her tone light but her gaze distant. "It was a long time ago. What about your mom? She must be... I don't know." She scratched her head, as if trying to picture the mother of someone like me in this world. "Protective?"
"You could say that." I gave a wry smile. "She was about to have a heart attack when I signed up."
"I can imagine." Kendra said sympathetically. "It's... it's different for men. I get it."
"That's what I don't get." I threw that out there, casually. "Why is it different for men?"
She paused. "I'm not sure I understand the question."
I opened my mouth, thought twice about it, then decided that having this kind of conversation here and now, with a complete stranger was perhaps not a great idea.
"Nothing, nevermind." I laughed it off. "Ken, let me see how much you can lift. I've always been curious about how strong a woman could be."
Her eyes shone brightly.