The Gentleman Has Left The Building - Plot & Excerpts
It drips on my grey foam exercise mat as I push out another hard breath. I will master the push-up. I will make it my bitch. It's not like Hans, the instructor from hell, is giving me a lot of choice about the matter. From my spot near the back of the studio, I can see him demonstrating the push-up by balancing on one tanned, ripped forearm. Damp blond hair sticks to his fine cheekbones, and a purple ClimaCool t-shirt gapes just a little to reveal his pecs. Dubstep pounds in my ears. Each drop of sweat that falls on my mat is proof of my dizzying effort, and Hans has promised me results. Whenever we reach the last five minutes of his Combat Blitz class and I'm struggling through the conditioning work, I comfort myself with his honesty: Work for what you want. Earn the body, and it will come. God, I'm working. My obliques would scream if they were able, and my abs wouldn't be far behind. I'll ache for days. If only Hans didn't bat for the other team, hmm? The only guy who never lies to me, and he's gay.
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