Modern Gladiator by S.A. Stovall

Author:S.A. Stovall [Stovall, S.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gay romance
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2019-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14: Better Workout

Keon Lynch

I LIFT my weights, counting the reps in my head. A light burn courses through my shoulder and biceps—I’ve become accustomed to the sensation and even revel in it. If I push myself, I’ll reach new heights. I stop after eight reps and switch arms. The key to fast muscle growth is to avoid static routine. Today I’ll do eight reps before switching, but tomorrow I’ll do eleven, and the next day I’ll do seven. If I did the same number each time, my body would fall into a slump, building only enough stamina and muscle to do the exact number I always lift.

Corbin sits next to my machine, reading on his tablet. He pokes the screen, scrolling at a decent clip, silent and sitting with a straight posture. People give him odd looks. While they wear grungy sweats and tank tops, Corbin felt it necessary to come dressed in slacks, a button-up shirt, tie, and vest. His shiny black shoes are the cleanest thing here.

“Interesting,” he says, never taking his eyes off the tablet screen. “In MMA fighting matches, it is no longer a foul to grab the opponent by the clavicle.”

“What’s the clavicle?” I ask.

“The collarbone.”

Hm. That is interesting. I always thought that move was illegal. It’s a nice little handhold on the body, should I grapple a guy in the right position.

“It’s a foul to claw or pinch, however,” Corbin continues. “Which is odd, considering they allow punching people. I mean, would you rather be pinched or punched? I think the answer is obvious.”

“They don’t allow the use of pinpoint pain,” I say as I finish my eight reps with my left arm. I switch back to my right and continue. “You can’t twist skin either.”

My sweat pools together and runs down my body in rivulets. I don’t care. I’ll take a shower after this and clear it away later. But I do hate when it gets down to my wrists and palms. A slick grip could result in me dropping the weight. I’ve had one fall on my toe before—worse than anything in the octagon.

I grab my towel to wipe some of the sweat away, but Corbin jumps up and startles me.

“Wait,” he says. “Use this.”

He rummages through his backpack and pulls out a clean towel—white and pristine, compared to my ratty red towel. I take his and wipe off. Once done, I toss it on the workout machine next to me. Corbin grabs the towel and then folds it into a small square. He places it near my feet.

“This is a shared space,” he says. “You should have more respect for your fellow gym members.”

I cock half a smile and then motion to a guy on the treadmill. Corbin glances over just as he snorts and spits a wad of phlegm onto the floor. The resulting splat had more volume than any I heard before. Must’ve been extra soggy.

Corbin shudders. “Dreadful.”

“I thought I was being halfway decent,” I say.

A large guy lumbers over to my weight-lifting station, and I stop my reps to get a good look at him.

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