Page 13 of Grizz

Daisy

TheVipersfacilitysitsin the heart of midtown Manhattan, all glass and steel and aggressive architecture.Sleek edges and asymmetrical angles define the building, a design meant to project power.I pull up to the main entrance in an Uber, clutching a coffee that’s already gone cold.

Above the entrance hangs the iconic Vipers logo, sculpted from polished chrome.

The security guard at the front desk barely glances up when I flash my temporary credentials.

“Hello,” I say.“I’m here to see Grizz McAvoy.”

“You sure, miss?”

I smile and nod.“Positive.I’m supposed to meet him in one of the conference rooms.I was told it was reserved for an hour for me and him.”

“He’s in the gym,” says the guard, his attention now firmly back on his crossword.

“Gym?”

“Fourth floor.Follow the signs,” he says, pointing toward the hallways to his left.

I take the elevator up, watching the floor numbers tick by while my stomach does the same thing it used to do before walking into a hostile interview.The difference is this time I’m not here to expose anyone.I’m here to save them from themselves.

The hallway on the fourth floor stretches endlessly in both directions, lined with motivational posters featuring players I don’t recognize and quotes about winning and perseverance.

I follow the signs, my heels clicking against the floor with each step.

The gym doors are glass, and I see him before I even push through.Grizz is alone in a space that feels like it could house multiple large aircraft.The facility is pristine with rows of gleaming squat racks, mirrors that stretch floor to ceiling, and enough square footage to make a Manhattan real estate agent weep.Langley clearly spared no expense.Really, this is a temple to peak performance.

Grizz is at the middle squat rack, the bar loaded with heavy plates on each side.His back is to me, shoulders straining under a compression shirt that’s seen better days.Even from here, I can see the methodical precision in his movements.Down, pause, up.Each rep controlled.The muscles in his shoulders ripple beneath his sweat-soaked shirt, every fiber of strength clearly defined, powerful, and distractingly evident.Sweat beads along his neck, trailing down to disappear into the dark fabric stretched taut across his back.His powerful thighs flex beneath athletic shorts with each deep squat and despite my best efforts, my pulse quickens.

I push through the doors.He doesn’t acknowledge me immediately, finishing his set with a grunt that reverberates through the cavernous space.When he finally racks the bar, the clang of metal on metal splits the silence and he spots me in the mirror’s reflection.

“Wasn’t sure you’d show up,” he says, still not turning around.

“I always do.You’ll learn that about me.”

He grabs a towel from a nearby bench and wipes his face, finally turning in my direction.Up close, in this space, he looks even bigger than I remembered.More solid.A presence who commands attention without asking for it.He must be six foot three, maybe four.Far taller than I am at five six in my highest heels.

“I’ve got to get a workout in before the team leaves for our road trip this afternoon,” he says.“So, if you want to talk, we need to do it now.”

I adjust my bag on my shoulder.“That’s fine.”

He points to a large plaque mounted on the far wall, black letters on green: “This room is for WORKERS only.Anyone not working out must leave.”

I look at the sign, then back at him.The challenge is implicitly written all over his face, not just explicitly on the wall.

“Sorry,” he says with a shrug that’s anything but apologetic.“I don’t make the rules.”

I’ve been tested by better men than him.“I’ll go change,” I say.“Where can I find some workout clothes?”

His expression shifts.Surprise, maybe.Or disappointment that I didn’t back down.

“Equipment room down the hall has extra gear.Might find gear there that fits you.”

Fat chance.

But twenty minutes later, I’m back in borrowed athletic shorts that are too long and a Vipers T-shirt that hangs off me like a tent.The equipment manager—a portly, weathered man who clearly finds this whole situation amusing—hooked me up with a pair of sneakers and a hair tie to keep my hair out of my face.I feel and look ridiculous.But I’m here.

Grizz is at the bench press now, warming up with what looks to be a moderate amount of weight—moderate for him, anyway.He glances up when I approach, his eyes rounding with surprise.“Shirt looks a little big, huh?And how’re you keeping the shorts up?”