One Shots 3.0 [boyxboy]

Sweat

'You're a sociopath, Finn Baxter.'

This accusation was levelled at me by a five-foot-three, blonde gym bunny called Alexa, who was panting and sweating with her hands on her hips and scowling exaggeratedly at me.

'I've been called worse,' I informed her. 'Give me ten more reps and I'll let you go home.'

Alexa huffed but wrapped her fingers around the five pound dumbbells again and dropped to a squat, before straightening up to a press. 'I'm paying you, you know,' she reminded me. 'I can go home whenever I want.'

'Go, then,' I challenged her, grinning, knowing she wouldn't.

'Oh, shut up,' she muttered, dropping back down again. She finished her workout and returned her equipment to the rack by the wall, casting a cursory glance around the room as she did so. There were a couple of other personal trainers working out with their clients, and a few dudebros lifting barbells in the corner. 'See you Friday?' she asked, bringing her gaze back to me.

'For sure.'

'You really are a sociopath, you know.'

'You won't be complaining when you walk down the aisle in that size two dress next month,' I reminded her, and she grinned.

'Smith had a lot of complimentary things to say about this butt you crafted last night,' she smirked at me.

'Then that's the last time I want to hear you complaining about squats,' I called after her, laughing, as she disappeared through to the changing rooms.

I love my job. I love working out. I love helping other people work out. I love coming up with exciting and fun ways to help people get fit. I love being paid for the privilege.

And it doesn't hurt that I was lucky enough to get hired by one of the best private gyms in the city. Ironworks first opened twenty-five years ago (so called because the building used to be an ironworks factory) and has since grown to a dozen locations all across Canada, but I work in the original. There's a waiting list a mile long for membership, and longer still if you want to work with me, or any of the other ten personal trainers employed by the gym. It's still family owned and we get anybody from actors to models to socialites to overworked corporate types coming in three to five times a week to get their asses handed to them by me and my coworkers.

I knew I had about an hour before my next client was due so I made my way out of the weights room and through to the front desk, hoisting myself up on it to grin down at Emma Ashton, who worked front of house while putting herself through school.

'You don't want to sit there,' she told me boredly without lifting her eyes from her computer screen, her fingers clacking on the keyboard with lightning speed.

'Why not?'

'Daddy's home,' she said ominously, and I choked, sliding down off the desk in a rush.

'Where?'

'About five minutes out.'

'Jesus, Emma,' I muttered, rolling my eyes. 'You don't have to give me a heart attack.'

Emma snorted, taking a split second break from administrative duties to glance at me before returning her attention to her computer. 'Like your heart rate ever ticks over fifty-five beats per minute,' she joked. 'What are you doing out here anyway?'

'I'm free for an hour. Thought you might want to get lunch.'

'Not today, sunshine,' she told me. 'You know he's going to want a minute-by-minute playback of everything that happened while he was gone. Your boy Felix's two' o clock cancelled though, so he might be free.'