Page 3 of Training the Alpha

He glances up at the clock on the bare concrete wall. The consultation was only meant to be twenty minutes, and we’ve already slipped over half an hour. “That’s enough for today,” he says, his voice gruff. “I’ve seen what I need to see to map out a customized training plan for you, and we’ll fine-tune it over the first few sessions.”

“So you’ll be training me?” I say, picking up my duffel bag and slinging the strap over one shoulder. The gym around us is still thudding with the sound of heavy bags and low-level chatter.

“If that’s not a problem,” he says, and I don’t know if I’m imagining the hint of trepidation in his voice.

“Not at all,” I smile coyly. “Just figured the head trainer might have bigger fish to fry. But I guess it’s my lucky day.”

“I can never pass up a challenge,” he says, and for the first time, I think I see a flash of humor in his dark eyes, the brusque mask lifting for a fraction of a second.

“Is that what I am?” I goad. “A challenge?”

“You seem like the type that takes a lot of work,” he shrugs, eyes dancing. Anddamn, keeping my hands off of him is going to be the real challenge. “You’re a principal at the Royal Conservatory, after all.”

We discuss our schedules, coming up with a plan that works around my classes and rehearsals, and Marcus’ other clients: Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays at 7 pm.

When we bid our goodbyes, Marcus watches me walk towards the glass doors, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture back to rigid. As I step out into the crisp afternoon air, I don’t have to look back to feel his gaze following me down the street and out of sight.

Marcus

The gym is getting busier by the month, which is great for my bank balance—and my ego—but terrible for my time management. Who knew admin and accounts could be such a fucking time suck? These days, they seem to take up more of my time than actually training my fighters.

“We could think about hiring someone to do that, you know,” Max, my business partner and co-owner of The Foundry, says when I swear at my computer for the fourth time in as many minutes. He’s perched on the edge of his desk on the other side of the room, casually sipping on a protein shake.

I grunt noncommittally. “We don’t need another salary on the payroll. We’ve built this place from the ground up. I can handle a few spreadsheets.”

“If you say so, buddy.” Max chuckles, unbothered by my sour mood. He’s probably used to it by now. “Just something to think about. It’d free you up to spend more time with clients who actually need you. Y’know, the bit of this job that you actually like.”

He’s not entirely wrong, but I’ve never been good at giving up control—partly because whatever Max calls it, the gym isn’t just a job to me. It’s my life. I look back down at the screen, but the numbers are blurring into one. My mind keeps drifting to my schedule for this evening.

Alex.

I’ve been training him for two weeks. I don’t usually work evenings, but when he said evenings work better with his current schedule, I agreed without even giving it a second thought. Jed, our late-night trainer, offered to take him on for some sessions, but I didn’t even entertain the idea.

I’ve been telling myself it’s because he’s a unique client, which is certainly true. It’s been a long time since I was challenged like this as a trainer—the night after our initial consultation, I stayed up until 3 am reading up on the mechanics of a dancer’s physiology, coming up with an in-depth training plan to hone his fast-twitch muscle fibers and improve the rotational power through his core. So, yeah, I’m invested in him professionally.

That doesn’t explain why, for the last two weeks, I’ve been counting down the minutes to every one of our sessions. Why, as soon as he leaves, all I can think about is when he’ll be back again. Trying to figure that out makes my stomach churn, so I’ve been leaving it well enough alone.

“Alright, I’m out,” Max chimes. “I’m meeting Kyle at Duke’s. Come meet us for a drink after your session, if your dancer hasn’t worn you out. Who knows, tonight might be the night you finally meet an omega and put an end to your lifetime of singledom.”

I raise an unimpressed eyebrow at Max, because cruising for omegas sounds like my idea of torture right now. In fact, aside from roughly 24 hours every six months when I’m deep in the peak of my rut, cruising for omegas sounds like torture pretty much all the time. “These spreadsheets are all the company I need. But thanks for the offer.”

“Whomp whomp,” he throws his shake in the trash, and I give him a curt wave as he leaves. “You know where to find us if you change your mind.”

I’m already on the gym floor, wiping down equipment just for a reason to look busy, when Alex arrives, perfectly on time. I smell him before I see him; the sharp, clean scent of cedar and mint cuts through the gym’s atmosphere and makes a beeline straight for my nose.

When I turn, Alex is already dropping his bag on the wooden bench near our usual spot, wearing a loose charcoal tank that completely exposes his insanely defined obliques, with another pair of his trademark leggings. The sculpted muscle of his thighs shifts hypnotically as he takes a few steps towards me, before I meet him halfway.

After he came for his induction, I wondered if he’d take note of the vibe of the gym and come back in a loose tank and sweats like everyone else.

Needless to say, he didn’t. Iif anything, he doubled down on the skin-tight clothes, even venturing into crop tops and the occasional pair of leg warmers—and I surprised even myself by how quietly pleased I was when he showed up for our first official session looking like he’d just stepped out of a barre class. I suppose he probably had.

“Alex.”

“Marcus,” he smirks. I don’t know if he’s capable of conversing without that damned expression on his face at all times, his eyes taking on a feline slant and his cheekbones sharp, like he’s in possession of some salacious secret no one else is in on. “I’ve spent the last three hours lifting a ninety-pound omega prima ballerina over my head on repeat, so tell me you’re not going to torture my arms any more today.”

I walk around him, picking up a pair of practice pads. “Ninety pounds? Sounds like short work for an alpha of your physical prowess.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” he says, leaning one hip against a pull-up rig and letting his temple fall against it lazily, thestance emphasising the long, lean curve of his neck. I avert my gaze and focus on wrapping my hands. “But after the 87th time, your shoulders start to twinge a little. Nothing I can’t handle, of course.”