I drink my coffee, staring at the stainless steel refrigerator. My mind wants to drift to Amber, to the green dress, to the feel of her skin, but I force it away. I have work to do. I have a restaurant to run.
And right now, I need to sweat.
I head to the gym.
I start with the deadlift. The bar is cold in my hands. I load it with one hundred and thirty-five pounds to start. Not heavy, but enough to wake up the posterior chain.
I grip the bar, hands shoulder-width apart. I drive through my heels, extending my hips, pulling the weight up. The metal plates clank together, a satisfying sound.
One. Two. Three.
I increase the weight. Two hundred and five pounds.
The strain increases. My lower back tightens, my hamstrings engaging. I focus on my form. Back straight. Neck neutral. Drive up.
The rhythm of the lift clears my head. With every rep, the chaotic thoughts of the night—the fear of breaking the rule, the anxiety of sharing—organize themselves into neat rows.
I control the weight. I control the lift. I am in command here.
I move to the squat rack. Three plates on each side. Three hundred and fifteen pounds.
I duck under the bar, settling it across my traps. The pressure is immediate, heavy on my shoulders. I descend, breaking parallel, and drive up.
My legs burn. My breath comes in sharp hisses.
Squat. Stand. Squat. Stand.
I think about Amber. I think about her fear.
I add another ten pounds to each side. Three hundred and thirty-five.
It’s getting heavy.
I step under the bar. The steel digs into my skin. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, and drop.
My legs shake on the way up. Gravity fights back. I grit my teeth, forcing my body to obey. The weight tries to fold me, but I lock my knees.
This is what it is to be an Alpha. To carry the load. To hold the weight up when everything else wants to bring you down.
I thought sharing her would divide the load, make it lighter. But maybe it makes it heavier. It triples the responsibility.
I finish the set, racking the bar with a loud clang.
I move to the bench press next. Flat on my back, looking up at the ceiling. I load the bar. I lower it to my chest, press it up. Over and over.
My triceps burn. My chest pumps full of blood.
I finish with pull-ups. I grip the bar, hanging loose. I pull myself up, chin over the bar, then lower slowly. Ten. Twelve. Fifteen.
My lats scream. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking into the waistband of my shorts.
I drop to the floor, breathing hard. The concrete is cool under my hands.
I feel better. The physical fatigue masks the emotional turmoil. For now, the confusion is quieted by the endorphins.
I stand up, grabbing a towel to wipe down the equipment. It’s respectful to the gear, and to the space. I strip the weights, returning the plates to the rack. Then I head back home to shower.
I turn the water as hot as I can stand it. Steam fills the room instantly.
