Page 3 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)
SAMUEL
L ook at me walking from the bedroom to the kitchen without limping. I immediately consult Google to see whether this means I’m recovered or not. The results are inconclusive.
By the time I’ve reached the end of a third Reddit thread on the topic, I’ve had to move some of my weight off my right leg—not because it hurts so much as it’s weak and tired of holding me up.
The defeated feeling that’s been plaguing me for weeks threatens to take over again, but it’s replaced quickly with the other thing that’s been fueling me lately.
I am so goddamn horny, I feel like I could explode. This injury is ruining my life.
Fuck my trainer and fuck my hamstring. Also, fuck Mitchell for acting like sparring is a fight to the goddamn death.
It’d be one thing if I tore my muscle in a cage match with money and glory on the line, but on a Tuesday?
At the training gym? Come on. Like there’s not enough about me that’s anti-climactic.
I tore a muscle, and I don’t even have a good story to go with it.
However, it does seem like it’s getting better, which means my story isn’t over yet. I’m young, and believe me—I’ve still got plenty of fight left. And testosterone apparently, because Jesus . I’ve been awake an hour, and this is my third boner.
I rub at it while I’m searching the fridge, looking for something I can consume with one hand because I don’t think I can ignore this hard-on like I ignored the last one.
I jerked off before I even got out of bed.
I didn’t give in to the one I popped in the shower, which was probably a mistake, but it happened like ten minutes after the first. Now, half an hour later, I’m ready to go again.
I grab a pre-made protein shake and a paper towel before moving to the couch.
I elevate my injured leg, crack open the shake, and drink half of it while I’m liberating my erection from my sweats.
My dad’s gonna be here soon, and I’ll need to take the lotion off the coffee table and back to my bedroom, but for now, I’m glad it’s here.
I lift the bottle, squirt some directly onto my dick and start stroking.
“ Unh . Fuck,” I groan, dropping my head back and closing my eyes.
My brain scrolls through its standard spank bank, settling on a fantasy rather than a memory.
It’s nothing that wild. Just a position I haven’t tried before.
Reverse cowgirl. Ass cheeks bouncing as I slam my hips up and up, watching my dick disappear and reappear as I take over the ride with banging thrusts.
I’m coming in minutes, barely catching my load with the paper towel.
I tuck my dick away quickly, afraid that if I look at it too much or too much air hits it, it’ll surge back to life.
This has been an issue since the pain in my leg started to recede.
I’ve never been this hard-up in my life.
I blame the lack of an outlet. I’ve done nothing for weeks but convalesce and think about things I don’t or can’t have.
I finish my shake and check the time. My dad should be here any second. While I’m scrolling my phone, trying to stay on the safer side of Reddit, I get a text from my buddy Evan .
I haven’t made many friends since moving to San Francisco, but I know Evan from high school.
We weren’t very close then, but he was on the wrestling team with me, and we hung out some at tournaments.
He was a senior, though, and I was a freshman.
I didn’t know he was in San Francisco until a few months ago.
He’s got this huge Great Dane I couldn’t resist walking up to and petting when I saw it at the park one day last spring. It was a cool coincidence, and we’ve been consistently hanging out since.
Evan’s a nice guy with a tough job in tech and a questionable relationship with his boss, so our conversations are always interesting.
The text is asking if I want him to bring me dinner tonight because his roommate made way too much food.
I text him back that my dad’s in town, but I’ll let him know.
My dad may or may not want to spend his time in San Francisco with me.
He knows a lot of people who live here—mostly his clients, and he’s almost always working—or something.
He and I have what I’d call a strained relationship. At best.
I keep my leg elevated until he arrives. If there’s one person I don’t want seeing me limp, it’s him. Not that I think he’ll make fun of me—he’s not an asshole—at least not where I’m concerned, but he’s not exactly great at hiding the judgment in his eyes.
I’m the black sheep of the family. My older brothers are high-achieving twins who live in Chicago where they both went to college, so I don’t see them much. We’re not close since they’re mostly close with each other. I’m five years younger, so they never paid much attention to me.
That probably explains a lot about me as a person.
To say I like to stand out would be putting it mildly.
I need it. Being side-lined for the last four weeks has been a nightmare.
I want to claw off my skin I’m so fucking bored.
And surprise, surprise, almost everyone seems to have forgotten I exist .
Nothing like a torn hamstring to make you re-evaluate how you live. This month has been rough. It hit me during the second week lying around here with my leg propped up that I don’t matter to very many people. I called my mom crying, and she came up to stay with me for a few days.
I haven’t lived on my own all that long.
I went straight from my parents’ house in LA to this apartment so I could train at NorCal KO with one of the best coaches on the west coast. I was this close to getting my first amateur level fight when this bullshit happened.
It’s not a career ending injury, but it’s no joke either.
Balance is the word I keep hearing from the trainers, the doctors—from my damn mom.
Balance is apparently everything. I need to balance my quad strength with my hamstring strength.
I need to balance my stance. I need to become a more balanced fighter.
Beyond that, according to my mother, I also need to find a balance between training and “socializing” or whatever.
Prioritizing training over everything else was all well and good until I got injured, looked up, and realized I’ve got no life outside the gym.
And yes, it is for lack of trying.
My dad shows up on time, and I walk to the door without issue.
It’s got me looking forward to the appointment I have with the sports medicine doctor Monday.
I’m hoping he’ll clear me to get back to training now that the pain is significantly decreased.
I need something to do, or I might pull my own dick off.
Dad looks good—he always does, though. I’m lucky I inherited his height and his jawline.
I’m slightly taller at 6’4, but I outweigh him by fifty pounds of muscle.
Or it was muscle up until a month ago. Today, I feel gross, although I did shower, shave, and put on clean clothes.
I never look as nice as he does in his black, brushed cotton slacks and henley.
He used to be a model when he was in his twenties. I’m not sure he knows how to wear anything other than black in his regular life. Or maybe he just knows how good he looks in it and doesn’t mind people looking.
“You don’t look so terrible,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “Your mom made it sound dire.”
“That was weeks ago,” I mumble into his shoulder before easing myself away.
“It wasn’t that long,” he says, giving my arm a rub and a pat.
It was that long, and I know he’s not in town just to see me. He has clients here, too. He travels a lot—always has—but still, if it was dire , I’d like to think he would have shown up sooner. Maybe he’s just got something— or someone —better to do.
I shake off the old thought. It’s not fair, and he’s been more than generous with me, even when I haven’t extended him the same courtesy.
“The place looks…good.”
I cleaned up the best I could, but I’m a twenty-year old man who’s been injured for a month surviving on TV and takeout. Dad’s assessing eyes move from the kitchen to the windows with the view of the bay.
“I need one of those little robot vacuums,” I tell him, embarrassed by how dirty the floors are.
“We had one for a while. Your mom said it wasn’t worth the trouble. I can have a housekeeper come by once a week if you want.”
“Sure,” I say. He pays for the apartment. He might as well pay to keep it clean.
I don’t want to sound spoiled. It’s more like I’m indulged, and I take full advantage of it.
After our big blow up when I was sixteen where I accused him of screwing around on my mom—because what the fuck else was he doing being gone more than half the year with his location turned off more often than not—he got real accommodating real fast .
He managed to talk me off the ledge by making me realize I had no actual proof and assuring me he would never do anything to risk his marriage, but like I said—he’s been amazingly patient with me ever since.
Still, I could chalk that up to him wanting to have a relationship with me, and it doesn’t hurt that I’m being bankrolled. We all have our price, I guess.
When I told him and my mom that I wanted to pursue a career in MMA instead of college, they agreed to support me for four years—same as they paid for my brothers to get their degrees.
This apartment he found for me is far from a shit hole.
It’s in Pacific Heights, I can see the Golden Gate Bridge from my bedroom, and I’m right down the street from my gym.
He’s holding up his end of the bargain. I just need to get back to training so I can prove I was worth the investment.
“How’s the leg?” he asks.
“Better. I think. I see the doctor tomorrow.”
“Wanna sit?”
“Yeah,” I say.
He gestures toward the kitchen. “Can I get you anything?”