Page 47 of Just for the Cameras
Graydon has been pacing through this workout like it’s a regular walk in the park. He’s shifting from one exercise to the next with ease, while I’ve been dragging my body along, begging and pleading every muscle within me to hold out until I’m in private and I can collapse in shame.
“What, uh…what are those? Twenty-fives?” I ask, trying to seem nonchalant as I engage in gym talk.
Graydon glances over at the two water bottles in my hand that I’ve been using as weights because the facilities don’t carry small enough weights for a lady like me. “They’re fifties.”
Fifties?
Dear God in heaven.
I’d be lucky to even drag that across the gym floor, let alone have one in each arm and lift them over my head.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Yeah, I’m working up to those.” Then I lift my water bottles over my head as we start the second-to-last round.
And it’s the most pathetic thing I think I’ve ever seen.
Us both sitting on angled benches, our backs pressed against the vinyl at a ninety-degree angle, me with my water bottles, bright-red face, and tongue nearly hanging out of my mouth, giving the impression that I’m seconds away from death. Him with his burly chest pushing against his threadbare, soaked T-shirt, his rock-hard arms and massive weights hoisting over his head, acting like the god of the weight room. Quite the scene.
I made sure to get this in the video because in all honesty, it’s comical and I’m never one to shy away from honest self-deprecation.
We finish up our set, and I rest the water bottles on the ground, letting my arms have a break while he rests his weights on the ground as well and leans forward on his thighs.
“So this is fun for you?”
“Some days.” He then looks over his shoulder at me and asks, “Is cleaning flamingo shit fun for you?”
“No, but it has to be done.”
He nods and turns back to focus on the floor in front of him.
Seeing that there might be a moment of peace between us, I ask, “So what does a defensive person really do? Like…what is your position in charge of?”
“I’m a defensive end,” he says, keeping his focus on his weights.
“Right. Defensive end. And what does that entail? Like, do you run after people, like someone who catches a ball?”
He glances at me again, and this time, there’s a hint of humor in his eyes. And I mean a hint.
“Do you know nothing about football?”
“Zero. And anything I might know is fromFriday Night Lights, but in real life, I think maybe I’ve watched a second of a single game ever. There’s a ball being thrown to score points, and that’s the extent of what I know.”
He slowly nods and then picks up his weights. “Last set.”
Okay…so we’re not going to talk about the game? Good to know.
I grab my water bottles, and then together, we lift the “weights” over our heads, my arms numb to the point that I’m surprised they keep moving up and down because I can’t recall telling them to do such a thing.
Exhaustion rips through me as we finish up our workout, my body thanking me for the reprieve from hell.
After the last rep, I dramatically drop the bottles to the ground and let my arms hang to my sides as he gracefully stands with said fifties and puts his weights back on the weight shelf where he got them.
Hope he doesn’t ask me to pick up my water bottles, because I don’t think I have it in me. I have depleted any and all resources I’ve stored in my body.
“Time to stretch.” He nods toward an open area with extra cushioned mats on the floor and giant rubber bands hanging next to them.
“Do you want a bonus workout that could perhaps involve picking me up and setting me on the mats?”
His razor-sharp eyes fall to mine. “No.”
