Page 33 of Muscle Cub

Austin scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t really have a lot of time, but… You’re probably right. Now that I think about it, I could’ve gone bigger with my flyer. Where did you see it?”

“On the door of the gym, where you showed it to me.” I scrambled to think of where else I might have seen the damn thing. “I think I spotted one on a bulletin board at check-in, although I didn’t know what it was at the time.”

He raised a finger. “Exactly! Because that bulletin board is ten feet from the counter. I told Jim nobody was gonna see it unless they specifically walked over there. It needs to be bigger. Like, life-size. I’m gonna put one on the motherfucking bathhouse wall right when you come out of the steam room as you’re walking into the showers. How expensive do you think it’d be to have one of those foam-core cut-outs made?”

“Um…” I didn’t know if I was meant to endorse this or fully enable it. Hopefully it had been a rhetorical question.

Austin pointed at my facial expression and grinned. “I’m fucking with you again. Listen, I know these guys are on vacation. They came here to drink and fuck. I get it. As for the staff, I mean, some of them would work out with me during the week or between holidays, but they’re the ones who’re already into it anyway. It’s not like that’s going to turn into a career.”

I imagined if he taught in the right location, he’d have people lined up around the block just to watch him teach. “I’m sure you’ve already considered this, but what about being a trainer at one of the gyms in town?”

“Yeah. That’s definitely a possibility. I’ve already been putting myself out there as a substitute. You kinda have to sub for a while to get your foot in the door.”

“Of course.”

Austin shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Next time I pick up a class in town”—his voice was soft, almost shy for him—“you promise you’ll come?”

I gaped. After all the banter and teasing with bits of confession tossed out like breadcrumbs, the direct question surprised me. I was also taken off guard by how quickly I wanted to say yes to him without processing what he’d asked.

Nobody had said the sparring was over, though, and I hadn’t entirely surrendered to his charms. Yet. I wanted him to know that. “I might swing by,” I said.

Austin drew in a sharp breath, and his mouth opened in an O of surprise. “Burn.”

I grinned, pleased with myself.

“Speaking of which.” Austin inclined his head. “Savage magic. Incoming.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

He pointed with his chin at an approaching figure, a silhouette against the fire. “Jim Savage’s bonfire spell. Get into it.”

“Hey, boys,” Jim called out. “Y’all enjoying yourselves?” We murmured that we were, and he put his hand on my shoulder. “Paul, honey, let me ask you something.”

“Sure.”

“Do you consider yourself a spiritual person?” Jim didn’t wait for me to answer; he barreled on as if I’d said yes. “We have a ritual we like to do around here on Saturdays. It’s all about letting go of negative energy. Of course, Austin has heard all this before, but I’m not sure I trust him to explain it to you right.”

Austin huffed.

“Honey, you gloss right over the heavy shit,” Jim said to him. “Sometimes you’ve got to ponder more. You know what I mean, Paul.” It wasn’t a question. He’d simply declared that I understood and agreed with him.

I wished I’d had longer to ponder whether or not Jim was employing this charismatic style of speaking intentionally or if he was truly intuitive. But he continued. “Now what you wanna do is think about something you need to release. Some kind of stress, something you’ve been worrying about, something that’s been holding you back.” Jim leaned into my personal space. “A story that no longer serves you.”

I raised my eyebrows. I was a little dubious to be honest, but Jim took my expression as encouraging.

“People tell us things about ourselves. They put labels on us. Sometimes they don’t even realize they’re doing it. But these projections are hurtful. They diminish our view of ourselves. We hear them, we take them in, we forget where they originally even came from, and we continue to tell ourselves these stories as if they’re true, when a lot of them simply are not. Are you with me?”

I nodded. Was this man a therapist or some kind of psychic?

“So we’re gonna call those stories out. Those labels. We’re gonna name them, throw them in the fire, and send them back where they came from.” Jim handed both Austin and me scraps of paper along with tiny pencils. “Namaste.” He bowed. “My spirit sees your spirt.” He walked away.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I simply returned the bow and said, “Thank you.”

I expected Austin to make a joke or say something to try to break the profound hush Jim had left in his wake, but he was already scribbling away, frowning in concentration. When he finished, he blew out a breath and started folding and refolding the paper into an impossibly tiny square.

“What did you write?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you that!” He twisted his body away from me, clutching the paper in a fist against his chest like I’d asked to copy the answers off his pop quiz. “It’s private.”