Page 68 of Gym With Benefits

David grabbed an empty plastic bowl from the table and vanished into the kitchen. I followed him instantly, the swinging door cutting off the noise from the television.

“Are you insane?” I hissed, cornering him near the refrigerator. “You went behind my back and sprung a whole man-cave convention on me without a single text message? I’m still wearing my work clothes, David. I literally smell like an unventilated museum basement.”

David remained entirely nonchalant, pulling a fresh six-pack of IPAs from the bottom shelf. “You smell fine, Jess. Stop being dramatic. I was curious, alright? I wanted to get to know the guys who are currently occupying your weekends. Since you've been holding them hostage like a secret state project, I took the initiative.”

“This isn't your initiative to take,” I reminded him, my voice a tense whisper.

David dismissed the protest with a wave of his hand, thrusting a platter of hot chicken wings into my palms while he gathered the condensation-chilled bottles under his arms. He paused at the swinging door, giving me a sharp, knowing look. “Look, youcan either go sulk in your room like a teenager, or you can go out there and have fun with the men who can't stop staring at the door waiting for you to walk through it. Your choice.”

The platter of chicken wings landed on the coffee table right as the stadium horn blared from the speakers, signaling the start of the second quarter.

David immediately commandeered the floor space by the ottoman, legs crossed, a fresh IPA held like a microphone. “Alright, so explain to me why the guy in the green shirt just ran across the line without the ball. Is that a penalty or is he just confused?”

“He's running a baseline screen, David,” Hunter said, his deep laugh rumbling through the room as he reached for a wing. “He's trying to get his shooter open on the perimeter.”

“Right, a screen. Obviously,” David muttered, nodding with an intense, fabricated seriousness that fooled absolutely nobody. “I knew that. Just testing you.”

Brock snorted, leaning his bulk over the back of the sofa to pinch a pretzel from the bowl. “Sure you did, princess. Next time just say you like the shorts.”

The casual camaraderie between Brock and Hunter filled the living room, a comfortable, well-worn rhythm established through decades of shared locker rooms and bad college decisions. Hunter threw a sofa cushion at Brock's face without looking, his eyes glued to a fast break. Brock caught it out of the air with a lazy flick of his wrist, chuckling.

The tension in my shoulders, carried home from ten hours under the archive lamps, began to bleed away. A cold bottle of cider found its way into my hand, courtesy of Hunter, who gave my wrist a quick, warm squeeze as he passed it over.

On screen, the Heat's point guard drove the lane, pulling two defenders with him before kicking the ball out to the corner.

“They need to stop forcing the paint on the pick-and-roll,” the comment slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it. “The Celtics drop coverage is clogging the lane every time. They need to reset at the top of the key and exploit the mismatch on the switch.”

The living room went quiet for a beat. Brock froze with a wing halfway to his mouth. Hunter turned his head, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face, while Dane’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise.

“Well, damn,” Brock murmured, a low spark of appreciation dancing in his blue eyes. “Our girl knows her basketball.”

“My dad had season tickets to the Wizards during the high school years,” I explained, a flush of heat creeping up my cheeks under their collective scrutiny. “You pick up a few things when you're forced to watch eighty-two games a year.”

“Remind me never to bet against you during March Madness,” Hunter laughed, his shoulder brushing mine as he leaned back.

David waved a celery stick to regain control of the floor. “Okay, basketball analysis aside, we have bigger issues to discuss. I need dating advice. I've been talking to this guy from the West End gym for three weeks and the conversation is as dry as a rice cake. How do I seal the deal?”

The three men shifted, their distinct personalities immediately coloring their responses as the game ticked down in the background.

“You're overthinking it,” Brock said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Stop text-messaging him a thousand questions. Send a time, a place, and tell him to showup. Confidence is the only thing that works. If he's interested, he'll be there. If not, next.”

“Spoken like a true caveman,” Hunter countered, shaking his head. “Don't listen to him, David. You need to find a connection. Ask him about something he actually cares about, like his family or his dog. Show some real interest. Women—or guys, whatever—want to know you're actually listening, not just trying to check a box.”

David nodded, soaking in the contrasting philosophies before turning his gaze to the armchair. “Dane? You're quiet over there. What's the verdict?”

Dane took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze flicking toward me for a fraction of a second before settling on David. “Don't chase him,” he said, his voice flat, carry a distinct edge. “Let him wonder what you're doing. If you make yourself too available right away, people take advantage of it. Keep your cards close until you know exactly what he wants.”

The response carried a weight that had very little to do with David’s gym crush. The subtle friction of the arrangement hummed beneath the surface. For Brock and Hunter, sharing the couch and trading barbs felt like an extension of their usual competitive nature. They found amusement in the overlapping boundaries. Dane, however, sat on the periphery, his jaw tight as he watched Hunter’s arm rest along the back of the sofa behind my head.

The third quarter clicked away, the television noise providing a steady cover as the night deepened. The initial awkwardness of having my life collide in one room dissolved into a strange, comfortable warmth.

Moving away from the center of the sofa, I crossed the small rug and slid onto the wide leather bench of Dane’s armchair, resting my thigh against his knee.

His posture softened instantly. The rigid line of his shoulders dropped, and his dark eyes lost some of their guarded intensity as he looked down at me. He didn't say a word, but his hand moved to the small of my back, his palm warm through the cotton of my shirt, a private weight in the middle of the crowded room.

“See, that's what I'm talking about,” David pointed a finger at us, oblivious to the undercurrents. “Dane's approach sounds exhausting. I don't have the stamina for mind games.”

“It's not a game,” Dane muttered, his fingers tracing a small circle against my spine, a possessive gesture that made a delicious shiver run down my neck. “It's preservation.”