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“If you were standing in a courtyard and had to challenge a friend to a test of strength, what would you propose?”
Billy shrugs. “I don’t know, I’d probably bet him I could do more push-ups than him. Is that what you’re suggesting?”
The impossible woman nods. “We can make it push-ups, squats, crunches… whatever my opponent chooses.” She directs the sweetest, faux-innocent smile at me.
And now all heads turn my way.
“What do you say, Gabriel?”
“That this isn’t an episode of Game of Thrones.”
“Are you saying you reject the challenge?”
I stare at Blake; she’s looking at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Was this her grand plan to publicly destroy me? Put me in a position to either admit defeat or make a spectacle of myself, which she must’ve guessed is the last thing I’d want. Well, sorry, but she was mistaken. I won’t back down. Still, I try one last move to get away. “Billy, I don’t think me and the lady are evenly matched.”
Blake replies before Billy can, “But that’s the beauty of natural body-weight training. Everyone is evenly matched by definition.”
Billy turns to me. “I think she got you there, buddy.”
Despite not wanting to, I nod and stand up.
“Ooooh,” Westwood hollers to the crowd, standing as well. “It seems the Billy is about to have its first trial by combat.”
In a matter of seconds, the armchairs and coffee table are removed from the stage, leaving only the three of us.
“What should we make it, then?” Billy asks Blake.
She gestures to me. “I’ll let my opponent decide since I’m the one who challenged him.”
I look at her body, for the first time clinically as opposed to appreciatively. Of course, she’s toned… but how strong is she? She could out-squat me, probably also out-crunch me. But… I take in her lean arms and say, “Push-ups.”
Instead of being disappointed, Blake smirks and winks at me.
I shrug off my jacket so that I’m only wearing jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt. Blake does the same with her fleece, revealing a neon-yellow training tank top that tells me once again this challenge wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision but a well-planned ambush.
Westwood is now acting like a showman presenting a wrestling match, riling the crowd and upping the ante.
No one is cheering louder than Thomas. I glare at him and my brother blows me a kiss, shouting, “Defend the family honor, oh brother of mine.”
Billy assesses that both Blake and I are ready to go and announces, “Rules are simple. The contestants are going to do push-ups as we count; the first who stops loses.” He gestures at us to get into position. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Blake and I drop to the floor in plank pose, and the crowd begins to chant, “One…”
By seventy, I’m a sweaty mess. I dare a side peek at Blake, who looks as fresh as a rose.
By ninety, my arms begin to burn and tremble.
By a hundred, Billy calls, “It seems all we’re proving is that both training methods work great.”
“How about we make it more interesting,” Blake shouts.
Since the audience has stopped counting, I take a second to “rest” in plank.
Billy crouches next to her, and asks, “What do you mean?”
“We could move on to one-arm push-ups.”
“Gabriel, do you agree?”
