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The instructor was ignoring them and going on to squats now. “Pump it up!” he was urging. “Let’s get those bootys toned!” Not something you heard in a rugby training session very often. Neither was the “Whoo-hoo!” from the class that followed it. Very little “whoo-hooing” in Luke’s everyday existence.
Hayden was starting to do squats now, the bar over his shoulders. No hope for it. Luke reached out, plucked it off, and set it on the floor.
Now, the instructor did say something. What he said was, “Excuse me,” in perhaps the gayest tone ever.
The man next to Hayden said, “Butch boyfriend, honey,” and kept squatting.
Hayden said, “This is not all right. I’m working out. I read an—”
“Yeh, no,” Luke said, then added, “Come outside, and I’ll tell you why not.” You were meant to talk things over. Right. He’d do that.
Another man was edging in from the other side. “I’m not saying I could take you,” he told Luke, “but I’ll have a go. If we all piled in … Come on, you lot.” He looked around and bellowed it into the sudden silence, because the instructor had switched off the music. A little knot of men, sporting the kind of grooming that told you they were probably not the straightest arrows in the quiver, crowded around, and somebody pushed Luke in the back, or tried to. He felt it, he just didn’t move.
Kane said, “Oi.” Mildly, but he also put a hand out and was probably pushing back, and since Kane had a hand the size of a rugby ball, that would be some push.
The instructor hopped off the platform and hustled out. Calling for security, Luke guessed. This was even more stupid than the stoush amongst the fruit and veg, because this time, he was the one starting it. He also had the feeling the cops would be here soon. Again.
He ignored everybody else and told Hayden, “You’re hurting yourself.”
“I read a thing,” Hayden said.
“A thing?” Luke asked. “What thing?”
“I read a thing, too,” the man who’d objected first said. “About abusive partners.”
Kane said, “Luke? Abusive?”
“Honey,” the man told him, “take several steps back.”
“Hang on,” Kane said. “I’m sure we can—”
Luke was still ignoring him. “What thing?” he asked Hayden.
Hayden was turning red now. “It said that exercise was good for … you know. What happened. After a couple of days of recovery.”
“After what happened?” the objecting man asked. “The mind doesn’t exactly boggle, because we can all see, but—you know, sweetie,” he told Hayden, “you can say no. Yes, he looks lovely and fierce, but is he, really? If he hurts you? And the other one, too? I know they say there’s no correlation of size with, well, size, and everybody thinks they want it, but when you come down to brass tacks …”
Luke was sure he was so red by now, his head was about to burst into flames. Kane looked gobsmacked. Getting an education, Luke guessed.
“He has concussion!” Luke said, because there was no other way out of this.
“Oh, sweetie,” the objecting man said. “No. Not if he hits you in the head.”
“I did not,” Luke said through his teeth, “hit him in the head. Somebody else did.”
“The article said,” Hayden told him, “that moderate exercise after two days of rest was helpful in regaining cognitive function. It’s been almost two days, and the wedding is tomorrow! I can’t be stupid for it!”
“You’re never marrying him,” the objecting man said. “Gurl, it’s intervention time.”
“No,” Hayden said. “I’m marrying two other people. I mean, I’m not marrying them, but I’m—”
Luke said, “The article probably said that an individualized, progressive sub-symptom-threshold aerobic exercise program was helpful in regaining cognitive function and returning to play. That means a treadmill. A monitored treadmill. I’d have been happy to help you with that. All you had to do was ask.”
“I’m doing an aerobic exercise program!” Hayden said. “All right, also some strength training, but it is an individualized, progressive program, because it’s my program that I’ve worked up to. I’m not an idiot.”
“A treadmill,” Luke repeated, “or a stationary bike. This is too much. Is your head hurting?”
“Well, yes,” Hayden said, “a bit. But—”
