AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He rose, muscles complaining, and shuffled toward the closet, where he snatched a pair of workout shorts and a T-shirt. He dressed quickly, swapping his silk pajamas for moisture-wicking fabrics—or so the labels claimed. Roman hadn’t actually tested it.
As he descended the stairs to the basement, the house was quiet. Everyone must still be asleep. Or not? The gym door stood ajar, and the lights were all on. Who else was up at the ass crack of dawn? He pushed it open, fluorescent lights flickering overhead as he entered.
Caleb.
Already pounding on the treadmill in a relentless rhythm, Caleb was a blur of motion. Earbuds in, world out, he was a study of discipline Roman envied. At Roman’s arrival, Caleb glanced up, lifted his hand in a casual salute, and returned to his relentless run. Roman waved back and watched him for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the sheen of sweat on Caleb’s brow, the way his tight tank top clung to the lean contours of his torso. There was an innate gracefulness to his strides, a poetry in the pistoning of his legs. He was, for lack of a more eloquent word, truly beautiful.
Shaking off the unexpected surge of appreciation, Roman walked to the far corner of the gym, where he’d carve out his path to redemption—one painfully earned rep at a time. He hated treadmills with a passion, and besides, he was not humiliating himself in front of Caleb. Nope. He’d choose a different instrument of torture.
The rowing machine groaned under Roman’s clumsy movements. The repetitive pull and release was a metronome to his scattered thoughts. Sweat trickled down his temple, a salty testament to his efforts as he found a tempo that didn’t scream for mercy. Each stroke was a conversation between muscle and willpower, a fight between quitting and persevering. His heaving chest was a not-so-subtle reminder of years spent behind desks rather than in the gym. Jesus, how long had it been? He was fucking dying, and he wasn’t even going that fast.
Across the room, the treadmill whirred to a halt. Caleb stepped off fluidly, no stagger or stumble, just grace. The kind of grace that came from confidence, from being completely comfortable with your body because you knew its capabilities—and its limits.
Caleb wiped his face off with a towel and walked to the boxing corner, right in Roman’s vision. Well, at least he’d have something nice to look at while he continued torturing himself.
Caleb wrapped his hands with a routine that betrayed his experience, tucked in the wraps, and tested their hold. He rolled his neck and positioned himself next to the boxing bag. The thud of glove against bag echoed through the room, even over the hum of the rowing machine. Roman couldn’t look away as Caleb danced around the heavy bag in a well-practiced choreography of jabs and hooks, his footwork light and precise.
What was it Muhammad Ali had said? “Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee.” That was what it looked like as if Caleb was floating, dancing, his body moving so fluidly. The roll of Caleb’s shoulders, the tightening of his arms, the flex and twist of his core with each hit held a beauty, a raw elegance that belied the inherent violence of boxing.
Finally, the rowing machine beeped, indicating Roman had finished his twenty minutes. Thank fuck for Caleb offering some much-needed distraction, or he would have never made it that far. He was panting as it was, needing a moment to catch his breath and wipe the machine down, then himself.
When he could breathe again without sounding like a steam engine, he went over to Caleb, who was still pounding the bag with relentless precision. This time, Caleb paused, his hands stilling the bag. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. Nice form. You make it look easy.”
“Thanks.” The corner of his mouth tipped up in a half-smile. “You’re up early.”
Roman sighed. “Couldn’t sleep. But don’t let me interrupt your workout.”
“The treadmill was my workout for today. This is just for fun.”
“Boxing is fun?”
“It sure is. It also happens to be a great cardio exercise, but that’s a bonus. Other than sex, it’s the best way to release some steam.”
Other than sex. He said it so casually. “Right. I’ll take your word for it, since I’ve never done any boxing.”
“Want me to show you some moves?”
Roman waved the offer away. “Nah, you do your thing.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. Let me teach you the basics. I promise you’ll love it.”
Caleb walked to a storage locker and pulled out an extra pair of boxing gloves. They looked worn, a history of battles etched into the leather. He tossed them to Roman, who caught them with surprising agility. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was being close to Caleb, but Roman felt more alive than he had in years.
“Let’s start with your stance.” Caleb stepped close enough for Roman to catch the scent of his cologne mixed with sweat—a heady combination that sent a jolt of awareness through his veins.
Roman slid his hands into the gloves, the padding snug around his knuckles. He mirrored Caleb’s posture: feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, hands up protecting his face.
“Good.” Caleb circled him like a predator assessing its prey. “Let’s start with the jab. It’s quick, like snapping a towel.” He demonstrated, shooting his arm out with precision. “Try it in the air before we take on the bag.”
Roman mimicked the movement, the glove cutting through the air. It wasn’t perfect, but the potential was there, waiting to be refined. He threw another one. “Like this?”
“Exactly. Now the cross. More power behind this one.”
