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Page 12 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)

SAMUEL

C alyx doesn’t smile at me or anything overt like that when I show up at the gym, but he does look sort of relieved. Hopeful. Or maybe I’m reading into it. I told him I’d give this another chance, but I didn’t know until about fifteen minutes ago whether I would actually show up tonight.

He seriously upset me the last time I was here.

I wasn’t lying when I said I cried afterward because he made me feel stupid.

Not like I sobbed myself to sleep, but a few tears of frustration were definitely shed.

I spent the next two days getting to know Beauty and watching ESPN.

I don’t know what the hell my mom was freaking out about, though.

She texted three times and never seemed particularly worried.

I nod at Calyx. He nods back.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say quietly, letting him lead the way.

While I don’t trust the dude at all anymore, I can’t help but check him out while I’m walking behind him.

I’ve been checking a lot more guys out lately ever since Evan popped my bisexual cherry, but none of them compare to Calyx.

He’s wearing basically the same thing as last time.

Slim-cut gray joggers and Adidas slides.

Tonight, though, instead of a t-shirt, he’s wearing a white tank with over-sized armholes.

The kind that reveals chest and abs in certain positions.

Holding back his hair is a kind of headband or doo rag or something. Blue paisley.

He opens the door to the studio and lets me walk in first as usual. I glance at him as I pass, overly compelled by his face. This full view of it is truly something. He’s just so fucking pretty. I don’t know why that’s so shocking to me, but it keeps surprising me anyway.

“It’s good to see you,” he says unprompted.

“Thanks. Good to be back,” I lie.

“Fresh start, right?” he asks.

“Sure.”

He bites his lip and blinks a few times. “I appreciate it.”

My stomach tenses up because now the situation feels awkward, like he thinks I’m gonna be judging him the whole time. He’s not entirely wrong, but I’m determined to stick this out, whether he’s an asshole about it or not. “So, what’s the plan?” I ask.

“Sun Salutations.”

“Is that the kind of thing we should be doing in the dark?” I ask.

He frowns.

“I’m kidding.” Jeez.

Something kind of like a smile flicks at the corners of his mouth, and a sort of laugh comes out. “If you get good at it tonight, you’re welcome to try it at the appropriate time.”

“Cool.”

We walk to the mats, and he kicks off his slides. I do the same. His feet draw my attention again. They’re so smooth and golden—well cared for with perfect nails and symmetrical toes .

“This is called an asana,” he’s saying, “which is basically a series of movements or a flow. There’s a ton of variations, but we’ll just walk through the basics. Parts of it will definitely challenge your hamstrings, but I have some modifications if you need them. It’s basically a warm-up.”

“Yeah, all right. You wanna show me?”

His eyes widen. “Oh, you want me to—? Sure. Yeah. Good idea. Um…”

The way he’s nervous is making me nervous. It’s doing nothing to make me trust the process. Maybe this was a bad idea, but since I’m already here, I sit on the mat and watch him. He talks through the whole thing like he’s teaching a class, mostly keeping his eyes on himself in the mirror.

I recognize a few of the poses. Plank. That awful cobra thing.

Downward dog, because everyone knows that one, though I haven’t attempted it yet.

The series is quick and graceful, and before I know it, he’s standing up straight again with his hands at his sides, a flush of pink in his cheeks. “That’s it?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“I expected it to be more involved.”

“Like I said, lots of variations, but that’s the foundation. Wanna try?”

“Sure.” I stand, already feeling the tightness in my legs despite how much walking I’ve been doing with Beauty.

We face the mirror, side by side. “Believe it or not,” he says, “this is actually a pose. It’s called mountain pose.”

“Just standing here?”

“Standing straight. May I?” He gestures at my shoulders.

I nod. He moves behind me and presses his hands on them. The tension in me fights the touch, wanting to shrug out of it like I would if I were sparring, but I know that’s not the point here .

“Breathe in, and exhale, dropping your shoulders. Just let your arms hang.”

I do as he says. He puts his hands on the side of my head next and tilts it back slightly.

“Imagine a string here.” He touches just above the crown of my head. “Pulling you up while your feet ground themselves in the floor. It won’t feel natural, but it should feel stable and powerful.”

“Like a mountain?” I ask.

“You got it.”

He’s right. It doesn’t feel natural. I want to drop into a fighting stance and find my balance there instead

His hands return to my shoulders. “Drop them,” he says again.

I inhale sharply, again, feeling zapped by his touch and wanting away from it, or wanting more, or—different. “That’s as dropped as they get.”

He grabs my wrists and pulls my arms down, shoulders going with them. The stretch in my traps is satisfying and assertive. “Nope. They go lower,” he tells me.

I can’t help a small laugh. In the mirror, I get a glimpse of Calyx’s small, satisfied smile.

He returns to stand on his mat. “Next we inhale, lifting our arms overhead.”

I copy what he’s doing.

“And exhale folding forward, but don’t do that yet.” He grabs for one of the rectangular blocks that were here both other times but we never touched. He sets it on its end in front of me on my mat. Then he positions one on his.

“So, when you fold forward, that’s obviously a big hamstring stretch. If you can’t reach the block, that’s totally fine. You can just touch your knees. Whatever initiates the stretch but doesn’t hurt. ”

He shows me both options. Honestly I have no idea which one I’m going to be capable of, if either.

“I’m trusting you to know your limits,” he says.

To that, I actually laugh.

He sighs. “Just don’t hurt yourself, okay?”

“Believe me, I don’t intend to.”

“I mean, I’ve never torn a hamstring before, but to me this stretch feels good. So maybe pay attention to both legs. If it feels good on the left, your right should tolerate it even if it doesn’t feel as good.”

“Yeah, okay. I get what you’re saying.”

“Wanna try?”

“Yep.”

We breathe in and lift our arms again. He folds forward, his hands landing on the block and I…try. My hands stop about six inches shy of the block, and I’m not sure what’s holding me back. I don’t even feel my hamstrings engage. It’s my back that won’t do the folding thing.

“Why am I so fucking stiff?” I grumble.

“My guess is it’s hard to fold an eight pack in half.”

I put my hands on my knees and turn to look at him. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“No, just a theory.”

“How do you know I have an eight-pack?”

“Pure assumption on my part,” he says.

“Does that mean I’ll never be able to do this?” I ask.

“Have you ever been able to touch your toes?”

“When I was a kid. In Kung Fu.”

“How long did you do that for?”

“Six years?” I say. “Something like that. I never got my black belt or anything.”

“You tell me, then, do you feel like your abs are in the way?”

I laugh. “No. I feel like my back won’t bend. ”

“But your legs are okay?”

“Totally fine.”

“Do you have a chiropractor?” he asks.

“No.”

“Want help?”

“Sure.”

Calyx sits on my mat and takes my hands off my knees. Holding onto them, he applies some traction, pulling me a few inches further down. I feel the backs of my legs engage. “There,” I tell him.

“Good?” he asks.

I look up, and he’s right there. Face to face with me.

Our eyes meet, and something in me gets stuck again.

I swear to God, I could probably stare at him for an hour straight.

But in an effort not to make this anymore awkward than it already is, I drop my gaze to the mat. “Yeah, that helps,” I tell him.

“Let’s hold it for a few more breaths then.”

“Okay,” I say and breathe. I feel his exhaled air on the back of my head, gusting softly over my scalp. I’m hyperaware of his presence. The tenor of his voice. The pressure of his thumbs on my palms, his light, cool scent.

“Can you get yourself into plank?” he asks finally, affording me an opportunity to get my distance.

“If I bend my knees.”

“Go for it.” He lets go of my hands and moves out of the way.

I lumber my way into the plank position, and Calyx mirrors it beside me. “Now do like a half push up and hold that for a second…this is on an exhale, then inhale sliding forward into cobra.”

The way his body glides smoothly into the back bend gets my attention.

The side holes of his shirt are gaping, and I can’t help taking a peek at his nipples.

I’ve seen them on Instagram—he’s not shy about being shirtless on camera—but I have to admit the effect is different in real life. My cock reacts predictably.

I may be slightly attracted to my yoga teacher. I’m not ready to define it yet—I’ve enjoyed exactly one blow job from a man, and I didn’t reciprocate it, but Calyx does something for me.

His body is sexy—slim and lithe and graceful. His face is…well…he’s gorgeous. When he turns to see me still holding my plank, he lifts his perfect brows. “Stuck?”

“Maybe,” I mutter, wishing I could cool these sudden too hot thoughts. I shouldn’t be thinking about him that way. It feels moronic. What the hell would he want with me?

Twenty bucks says I’m not his type, although I wonder who is, which is also something I shouldn’t be thinking about when he’s trying to teach me something. I roll through the half push up into cobra and feel my tailbone screaming at me again.

“You don’t feel this in your ass?” I gasp out. “Ever?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “No. Have you ever had one of those massages where the little ladies walk on your back and smash out all the knots with their heels and toes?”

“Jesus. No.”

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