chapter two
SQUAT RACK THIEF has graced Excalibur Fitness with his cocksure presence for the third day in a row. I’ve officially designated him my gym nemesis.
I’ve been here for less than half an hour and I’m already fantasizing about “accidentally” spritzing him with a bottle of chemical disinfectant.
It all started with an unfortunate encounter at the entrance. He silently held the door open for me and another patron, as if he’d suddenly transformed into some chivalrous gentleman. I frowned at him, cautiously following while trying not to admire his finely muscled ass for longer than a hot second.
Turns out, my skepticism of his chivalry was well-founded. Apparently, he’s limited to one act of kindness per day (or so I thought), because not fifteen minutes later, he cut in front of me at the water fountain, where he proceeded to take his sweet time filling his monstrosity of a water bottle. To the brim.
After unapologetically stealing my place in line, he rushed off to the bench press like a vaguely sexier version of Superman to assist Patty, an elderly gym regular who never misses an opportunity to complain to everyone in her general vicinity about the gym’s various failings (the “frigid” temperature, the “thug” music, and the lack of “ambience”). When Squat Rack Thief flashed her a semi-authentic, angelic smile after saving her from being crushed flat by the barbell, I had to steady myself. Does this man suffer from split personality disorder?
I shift my focus from his egotistical yet highly confusing self to Mel, my new in-person client. We’re swapping Instagram horror stories during a quick break after a biceps and triceps circuit.
“There was this guy who DM’d me dick pics every day for months after I posted a bikini picture.” She twists her mouth, gagging at the memory as she shows me the photo on her phone.
I lean in, feigning curiosity, pretending I haven’t already creeped her entire account back to 2012. The shot is perfectly framed. She’s smize-ing into the distance, lush barrel-curled hair draped over one shoulder, legs dangling in what appears to be some posh, exclusive rooftop pool for beautiful people only. She’s rocking a vibrant Barbie-pink bikini.
Mel is one of a handful of fashion, beauty, and lifestyle Instagram influencers who isn’t a size zero. All her photos are perfectly curated against the backdrop of her all-white, ultramodern apartment, featuring fresh florals, pastel accents, and weekly high tea brunches. She had been reticent about joining the gym for years due to a high-heel-induced knee injury, but she requested a muscle-building plan after discovering we both lived in Boston.
We hit it off right away. We’re both twenty-seven. We’re both Chinese, although she’s adopted and I’m half Irish. We’re both staunch proponents of the body-positivity movement. And we also share an unapologetic obsession with reality television, particularly anything related to Real Housewives.
“Okay, damn. You’re serving some serious looks here. Not that it’s an invitation for dick pics.” I pause, eyeing the bonkers number of Likes on the photo.
She wipes a single drop of sweat from her forehead with her perfectly polished acrylic nail before continuing her story. “It was the weirdest one I’ve ever seen. It was bent. Like . . . super off-kilter to the side. Like a hook.”
“A hook?” I clarify through a startled yelp.
“Like an umbrella hook, Crystal. No exaggeration. Do you think penises can break?”
I’m about to tell her I haven’t the faintest idea, followed by a rant about how dick pics are never attractive, hook-shaped or otherwise, when Squat Rack Thief parks himself on the bench beside us.
His mouth is curled upward in amusement, which is shocking, because I was unaware those channeling the spirit of Darth Vader were capable of joy. I wonder how much of our penis conversation he’s heard.
After Paper Towel Gate yesterday, I vowed not to stress over this punch-worthy, smug stranger. But it’s more challenging than expected when he’s sitting so close, filling my nose with his enthralling, freshly laundered scent, drawing my attention to how marvelous he looks in his maroon hoodie and ball cap.
I wonder if Squat Rack Thief is the type to send unsolicited dick pics. Once that completely unfounded thought registers, I will it away to the desolate, dust-caked corners of my mind. Why am I thinking about his penis?
You know what they say about large feet . . .
As he takes a long swig from his water bottle, our eyes lock in mutual loathing. It feels more like a challenge, lingering before I blink it away. Crystal, be zen. Channel your inner peace.
I refocus on Mel, who gives him a curious once-over.
“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat to defuse the tension, “we’re doing sled pushes next.”
She grimaces. The last time I assigned sled pushes, she dry-heaved and sweat off her eyelash extensions.
I cheer her along one length of the aisle as she huffs, puffs, and mutters curse words with each labored stride. I wait for her to begin the second length back, but she hesitates.
“Looks like I don’t have to finish my rounds after all.” She gestures joyously toward Squat Rack Thief, who is casually lunging with dumbbells directly in the middle of the pathway. Mel’s pathway. Who does this guy think he is?
My mouth is open wide, like an infomercial mom who’s astonished the detergent removed the stubborn tomato sauce stain on her white blouse. “Sorry. One minute,” I mumble.
Arms crossed, I storm toward him, blocking his attempt to lunge around me. “Did you not see us just now? We were here.” I manically gesture to Mel, who is observing with keen interest, resting on the sled.
Without a word, he continues around me, as if I’m a mere blip, a pothole in the road to avoid. I’m on the brink of calling him a pompous prick, but I bite my tongue and walk away, for the sake of maintaining the illusion of professionalism in front of my client.
“What’s his deal?” Mel asks as I begrudgingly turn the sled horizontally, toward a less ideal aisle.
“He’s just been pissing me off.” I flash him the stink eye, though he doesn’t notice. He’s mid-lunge, smug face red from exertion, definitely not lamenting the weight of his transgressions against me like a decent human.
Mel lifts her perfectly shaped brows. “He checked you out earlier. Like full-on head to toe, while we were talking about dicks.”
“He was probably plotting to assassinate me.”
“Or he was undressing you with his eyes.”
Had someone suggested this to me years ago, I would have immediately expressed my doubt. But now, after years of working on myself and my confidence, I don’t doubt it.
Despite always being into sports, I never had the body of an athlete. I inherited Mom’s genes. Big frame, muscular, with thick thighs, boobs, and no shortage of booty—the opposite of my older sister and Dad’s side of the family, all of whom are slim and petite. For me, a low body fat percentage isn’t in the cards genetically. Accepting that fact and getting to this place has taken some time. I now focus exclusively on de-stigmatizing and demystifying the gym for people who may not have felt they belonged. I prioritize the goal of confidence. Not calorie deficits, and definitely not the number on the scale.
“Mel, just three more laps,” I instruct like a hard-ass, changing the subject entirely. “Finish strong before girls’ night.”
Tonight’s glorious plan to re-watch a rom-com on Netflix with my sister, Tara, is just what I need after all this gym and Instagram drama.
Squat Rack Thief lingers in my peripheral vision as I follow Mel down the aisle. He rests against a machine, catching his breath. When I turn to meet his gaze, he flashes me a shit-eating grin.
• • •
I FULLY INTENDED to be a mature adult. I really did.
But after mulling over the aisle thievery in the five minutes since Mel left the gym, all I could picture was Squat Rack Thief’s smart-ass expression. The same one he’d worn as he cut in front of me at the water fountain, and when he brandished the paper towel in my face.
I’ve been a pushover a lot of my life. Back in grade school, I let the other kids get first pick of my own Barbies (I ended up with Ken doll ninety-five percent of the time). I was relegated to the least favorite Spice Girl (Posh Spice) for themed birthday parties. I always let the procrastinators copy my homework two seconds before class in high school. And worse, I lacked the agency to speak up or demand otherwise.
When I discovered the gym and the fitness community in college, I vowed that would change. Here in the gym, I’m not a doormat. I’m strong and capable. I refuse to let people walk all over me, especially this infuriating, far-too-sexy stranger.
So when Squat Rack Thief forgets his phone on the mat when he moves on to the bench press, I feel little moral obligation to return it immediately. There’s a high chance I’ll stew into the late hours, besieged with guilt and regret over this. But then I remind myself: He was asking for it. It was only a matter of time before I snapped. He deserves to sweat a little.
I imagine myself running off with his phone into the sunset in a baller getaway car, laughing manically as I floor the gas. But then I remember I’m not a petty criminal. I have morals. Which is exactly why I temporarily stash his phone among the shelf overflowing with jump ropes, random accessories, and cable attachments, purely to ensure it’s safe from being crushed under someone’s running shoe.
Pleased with my good deed, I fasten my own phone onto my tripod and begin to film my latest lower abdominal routine, which involves sitting twists, flutter kicks, and enough leg raises to put Jillian Michaels out of commission.
I’m halfway through the workout when a large figure appears over me.
It’s him.
He kneels on the mat, lips tight, vibrant green eyes firing laser beams at me. From this angle, I have a close-up view of the thick swoop of his eyelashes. They’re unfairly long and lush for the male species.
He’s so close, his fresh laundry scent mixed with testosterone overrides my senses. The smell of sweat usually isn’t appealing, but on him, it’s marginally addicting. I refrain from purposely inhaling it like a drug addict.
“What did you do with my phone?” he asks calmly as my legs drop to the mat. He’s ruined my video. Again.
A doe-eyed, beauty-pageant-worthy expression overcomes me. I even toss in an innocent, slow blink for dramatic effect. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shift onto my knees to face him, ready for a confrontation.
He doesn’t fall for my theatrics. “I know you took it. I left it here five minutes ago.”
“People tend to steal things in this gym. Like squat racks, for instance. How do you know it wasn’t some other random who stole it?”
“Because.” His eyes roam my face, hunting for any sign of weakness, like a take-no-shit homicide detective. “You’re smiling. You’re breathing hard. And you’re avoiding eye contact.”
No matter how justified, deceit has never been a strength of mine, even if I didn’t actually steal it. To keep my hands occupied, I reach back to tighten my messy bun. “Look, Nancy Drew, I’m trying to film an ab tutorial here. Do you mind?”
I’m about to cave and point him toward the shelf where his phone is stashed, but I’m momentarily distracted by his gaze flickering toward my phone, which is still recording. With one smooth movement, he plucks it from the tripod and drops it into the pocket of his shorts.
I lurch forward, but it’s too late. My phone’s gone, deep into the faraway depths of his nether regions. “Hey! What the hell?”
His lips curl into a satisfied smile. “I’m not giving it back until you tell me what you did with my phone.”
I don’t let his mesmerizing smile knock me off course. This is war. I won’t be compromised. “I need my phone.”
“So do I,” he says smoothly.
“What, for Tinder?” I’m being a complete and total hypocrite right now. In fact, Tinder Joe is on the treadmill again as we speak.
He scoffs. “No, actually. For important stuff.”
“Well I use mine for important stuff too. I’m a fitstagrammer.” I have no idea what possessed me to reveal my profession. He could use this against me. Or worse, mock me. I expect him to snort in derision or look me up and down, unable to comprehend how someone like me is qualified to give fitness advice.
But he doesn’t. His gaze is unwavering. “I need my phone for work too.”
I’m tempted to ask him what he does. I imagine it’s something physical. Perhaps he’s a lumberjack. Or a Captain America stunt double. Or maybe a pouty underwear model plastered in black and white on a billboard in Times Square. But then again, he isn’t pretty enough to be a model. Maybe he’s some sort of semipro hockey player, given his wavy hair flow.
Based on my not-so-subtle observation (or glaring), I’ve deduced he may not be one of those fist-bumping frat bros in a neon bro-tank. I’d place him a bit older, maybe late twenties, early thirties.
“Do you really need it for work?” I challenge him, taking his irritated expression as a personal life achievement.
He nods curtly.
“Is it life or death?”
Surprisingly, he actually says “Yes” with little effort. Now I’m dying to know what he does. But I’ll never ask.
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Stop stealing things from me. Workout machines, floor space, my place in line at the water fountain.” I wave a vague hand around the gym.
He scoffs. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might need the equipment or the space too? This isn’t your gym.” We hold mutual stares for a couple breaths before he finally relents. “Okay, I’ll give your phone back. If you give me mine. At the same time.”
I nod, standing to unearth his device from the shelf a couple feet away. “For the record, I was going to give it back before you left.”
His eyes widen upon seeing his phone. I suppose he’s just thankful I haven’t flushed it down the toilet, which, to be fair, crossed my mind.
I dangle his phone at chest level, snapping it back before he has a chance to swipe it from my death grip. “On the count of three?”
He dips his chin.
One.
Two.
Three.
He swiftly reclaims his phone from my fingers while simultaneously holding mine out of reach.
Traitor. He would be the type to break the sanctity of a pact. The man has zero morals.
I growl. “Seriously? We had a deal.”
His lips curl into a closed-mouth grin. “Tell me your name.”
“I don’t reveal my true name to strangers at the gym.”
When he steps forward, closing the gap between us, my ears pound as the blood rushes to my head.
He holds my phone low, graciously permitting me a quick visual of the screen. It’s still on the record video setting, which is interrupted by a flurry of Instagram notifications. He grins like a Cheshire cat when my username pops up. “Crystal.”
When he says my name in that deep, smooth, sultry voice, my knees weaken. I nearly dissolve into the floor.
Despite being five foot eight, inches above being considered short, any frantic attempt I make at reclaiming my phone is a complete failure. With his arm outstretched, he holds it many feet out of reach.
I groan. “Okay, you know my name is Crystal. Happy? Now give it back.” I can see the screen enough to recognize that a Tinder message has just popped up.
His eyes light up as he reads it aloud. “Zayn wants to know if you’re up for Netflix and chill . . .” He pauses, squinting at the screen, as if confirming the words. “Chillaxing.”
“Do not respond!” I lunge for my phone again, but he snaps it farther back.
I’m desperate to preserve what little dignity and control I have left. It’s not like I know Zayn. He’s a random Tinder match whom I swiped right on for the sole reason that he resembled Dev Patel in his photos (swoon). But given his use of the word chillaxing, he’s probably an automatic No.
Squat Rack Thief looks like a Marvel villain on the brink of annihilating Earth and all its inhabitants. “I’m gonna ask him to define ‘Netflix and chill-axing.’ ”
It occurs to me that he revels in my desperation, like the sicko he is. In fact, it probably encourages him, gives him some sort of high. So I switch my tactic. “Go right ahead. I dare you.” My tone is unwavering. It channels confidence, even though the absolute last thing I want is a vengeful stranger sending embarrassing messages on my behalf.
Unfortunately, my challenge backfires. He types the message and triumphantly hits Send, tilting my phone to prove he sent the message.
“I assume you’re pretty familiar with the Netflix-and-chill routine?” I say.
“You think so, huh?”
“Yup.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. And I’d come up with a better pickup line than that.”
I half-scoff. “Hit me with your best shot.”
He smiles and strokes his defined jaw, pretending to be pensive. “Well, GIF wars always work. Or maybe I’d use a classic joke.”
“A classic joke? Like what?”
He leans his elbow on the machine beside us. “Okay . . . Are you ready to be wowed?”
I give him a deadpan look.
He softens his entire face, his demeanor transitioning from Squat Rack Thief to fake-charming-man-with-mesmerizing-smile before my eyes. His teeth are brilliantly white, although one is marginally crooked in the front, which makes him slightly more human. His ears also stick out a smidge, but it just adds to his faux charm. “Are you a bank loan? Because you have my interest.”
My expression is one of stone, so as to not give him an ounce of satisfaction. The joke is lame. But the way he says it so earnestly, it’s borderline adorable. The moment that thought registers, I mentally smack myself.
He goes for it again. “Are you my appendix? This feeling in my stomach makes me want to take you out.”
My abdominals ache from suppressing my laugh. This is an ab workout all on its own. “Okay, these are next-level horrible. I hope you haven’t actually used these on a real, live woman.”
He feigns offense, holding his palm to his chest. “Those were my best ones.” Taking one last glance at my screen, he dangles my phone at chest level. “Zayn responded . . . with a wink face,” he says flatly, handing my phone back.
With ninja speed, I snatch it before he changes his mind and holds it hostage forever.
“What’s your name?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I even register what I’m saying. Why do I care to know his legal name? Squat Rack Thief suits him just fine.
I hold my breath, awaiting his answer.
Amused, he opens his mouth, but no words come out. Instead, he just strides away.