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Page 4 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)

“No, but you can grab whatever you want. I had a grocery delivery yesterday.”

“I’m fine.”

I return to the couch, propping my leg on the cushion I’ve been keeping on the coffee table.

I quickly tuck the bottle of lotion between the cushion and the arm of the couch.

My dad sits in one of the chairs as he studies what feels like every inch of the living area.

I get a forced smile. “What do you think the doctor’s gonna say? ”

“I’m hoping he’ll say I can get back to training.”

“You don’t need some kind of physical therapy first?”

I shrug. “I figure if I take it slow…”

“Do you know how to take anything slow?” he asks, and it’s supposed to be a joke .

“The leg’s kind of a limiting factor,” I say flatly.

“I’ve seen you work through an injury before,” he reminds me.

I bite back an exhausted sigh. “I get that this one’s more serious.”

“I just don’t want you hopping back up on a treadmill and pushing through.”

“Yeah, but like—” I close my mouth, aware that what I’m about to say will get me lectured.

“You’ll do what the doctor says, won’t you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“What if you disagree?”

I stare at my father, who can clearly read my mind. “Look, they don’t always get it, okay?”

His lips press together. “Get what?”

“What it takes,” I say.

“Hm.”

He doesn’t get it either. “I mean what I’m capable of. Or like—what the human body is capable of.”

“A doctor doesn’t understand what the human body is capable of?” he asks.

Okay, I get it. I didn’t go to Northwestern like my brothers, but I’m not stupid.

He goes on. “It’s my understanding that you’re attempting to make a career out of this.”

I glare at him.

Unfazed, he says, “So, it stands to reason, you’d want to do everything possible to make sure your recovery from this injury—a serious one, mind you—is as thorough and complete as possible.”

“Right, but?—”

He holds up a finger, silencing me because he’s not finished yet. “Therefore, an expert’s opinion would hold significant weight.”

I pounce on the one word. “But that’s it, though—it’s one guy’s opinion . One dude who only met me a month ago.”

“Samuel.”

I wince. I hate it when he calls me that. I hate my name in general. I’d prefer it if he called me by the name I gave myself when I moved up here—my fighter name. Everyone at the gym does. Even Evan calls me Saber now, but there’s virtually no hope my father ever will.

“I’m just saying. He doesn’t know me. Doesn’t care about me or my goals.”

“Well, I do,” my dad says. “And I know you think your clock is ticking, but you’re twenty years old. You’ve got time to rehab this injury properly and be back to training and fighting in prime form. If that’s what you really want.”

Admittedly, I’m a person with a head full of steam, racing ahead, always trying to get to the next big thing.

But it’s nice to hear him say he cares about my goals.

My dad isn’t the least affectionate man, but he can be distant.

His concept of time is slightly warped—like this idea that he showed up because my situation was “dire.” Two weeks probably felt like a day to him.

He just had “a few things to take care of first.”

“I’m not gonna do anything crazy,” I tell him.

He arches a brow. A talent I inherited from him, too.

“How do I know my limits if I don’t push myself a little?” I ask.

“A little?”

Since I don’t want him to think I’m some reckless fuck up, I attempt to put some of the things I’ve been tossing around in my head about retraining into words.

“Look,” I say. “My trainer is all about cardio and the fight. It’s not exactly a balanced approach.

” That word again, but I swear to God, it’s all I think about when I’m not trying to figure out a way to get off.

I’ve done my research. I’ve had all the time in the world.

“I’ve always had tight hamstrings, and I don’t spend enough time with flexibility training. That was a mistake.”

The brow stays arched. He’s listening.

“So, that’s something I’m planning to work into my routine.”

“Like…yoga maybe?”

“Sure—yeah. Yoga.” That doesn’t sound like a total waste of time. Evan goes to yoga, and he’s ripped. He even suggested coming to a class with him before I got injured, but I felt like I didn’t have time.

“I might know someone who could help you with that.”

I frown, not liking the sound of this. “Who?”

Not that I’m not serious about spending more time stretching, but I wasn’t trying to say I needed help. I’ve got this. I can watch a YouTube video. I don’t need to meet some cute yoga teacher my dad may or may not have?—

I halt the thought before it can fully form and try to analyze the look on my father’s face. It’s innocent, but something’s going on in his head. I can tell by the way his gaze narrows in that calculating way I’ve only ever seen when he’s studying photos of his clients.

“Hear me out. You could be doing me a favor if you’re willing to work with me on this.”

I’m wary, but I’m listening.

“I have a client in the area who’s been turning down work left and right.”

I close my eyes and try to take a deep breath.

“He’s been teaching yoga and Pilates at a gym in Lower Haight—which—whatever—he likes it, and I guess it’s fulfilling some need he has to be useful, but I thought he was taking the summer off to fill the well, and now it’s nearly October, and he’s still not sure he wants to come back to work. ”

“He?” I ask. “It’s a guy?”

“Yeah. I represent men, too. Nearly half my clients.”

I let out a breath. A man I can deal with. I won’t have to be wondering and worrying about how well he knows my dad. “Is he like—a big deal or something?”

“In terms of my income, no—it’s not that I can’t live without him, but he’s good . He should be modeling. You mentioned balance. He’s off balance, too.”

It’s not unlike my dad to take a personal interest in his clients. He’s been bringing them around my entire life, but something about the way he’s talking about this particular client makes it sound like he’s got genuine concern for his well-being.

“Is he depressed or something?”

Dad frowns, like he’s considering this for the first time. “Maybe. Maybe…”

“So, what? You want me to take a few of his classes? Tell him he should what? Be a model?”

“No—yeah—no…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Sounds stupid doesn’t it?”

What’s with him?

“Maybe you could help each other out,” he says. “He’s not much older than you.”

“Help each other out how?” I ask.

“He helps you rehab, and you help him—I don’t know—feel more like he can do both? Shit, I don’t know. It was just a thought. I guess it doesn’t make sense.”

“How long’s he been your client?” I ask.

“Five years. The thing is he’s got something special. A look that’s rare. I want him to be successful, but I think we burned him out last year with too much work.”

“You sound close,” I say.

He shoots me a warning look. “He’s a friend .”

“Yeah, okay. ”

“Samuel.”

“What?” I ask.

“I’m trying to do you a fucking favor.”

I shrug. My dad’s not gay. Surely I would have noticed that by now. I need to get the fuck over myself. Let these old resentments go. So he wasn’t around much while I was growing up. Poor fucking me. He works hard, and I’m not above accepting a helping hand.

“Yeah,” I say. “If he’ll work with me, I don’t mind.

I’m not sure I can convince him to go back to modeling or whatever, but I don’t mind working one-on-one.

” I prefer it actually. It’s what I’m used to.

Also, Dad’s got me super curious about this dude.

What does he consider rare and special, I wonder?

He’s shaking his head, though. “No. It’s a dumb idea. The two of you couldn’t be more different. What I really need to do is talk him into seeing a therapist. That sounds pretty high-handed, huh?”

I can’t tell if he’s talking to himself or me. “Well,” I say carefully. “Either way. I’d do it. Let him help me with my balance or whatever.”

Dad shrugs. “Sure. I’ll give you his number.”

“And…is there anything else I can do?” I ask because it seems like there’s a lot he’s not saying.

“No,” he says brusquely. “This is about you. I want to help, and I happen to know someone in the area who likes doing that kind of thing.”

“I can’t guarantee he’ll talk to me.” I say.

Dad looks resigned. “He’ll either come around, or he won’t. But in terms of your leg and getting better—maybe he can help.”

“Well…I could use him.”

He forces another smile. “All right.” He checks his watch then gives me a once-over as he shifts in his seat. “You up for lunch? ”

There’s a note of reluctance in his voice that has me shaking my head. “You seem busy,” I say, without bothering to hide the note of bitterness in mine.

He pretends to ignore it, but I catch the twitch of his jaw. “I have a few clients to meet with, but they can wait.”

“No,” I tell him. “It’s fine.” I wouldn’t feel right hogging his time, especially if I felt like I was wasting it.

He smiles weakly at me. “I’m glad to see you’re doing better.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He runs his hands down his slacks and rises, indicating he doesn’t expect me to get up, but I do anyway to walk him out. Looks like I’ll be having Evan bring me dinner after all.

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