St. Patrick’s Day
Sweat poured from Mark’s body. He was drenched, but he refused to stop.
“One more set,” Rob said, poised behind the bench press.
Since Mark’s global meltdown in January, he and Rob had made amends, and Rob was doing his best to be down with Mark’s plan to give fate time to work through the red tape of bringing Karma back to him.
Mark lay back on the bench and gripped the bar.
Rob stood ready to spot him through his last grueling set. “How many?”
“Eight.”
“Got it.”
After taking a series of deep breaths to oxygenate his muscles, Mark pushed the weighted bar off the rack and balanced it above his chest.
Inhaling on the way down and exhaling on the way back up, he worked through the first four reps without much distress. But on number five, his fatigued muscles protested. By rep seven, he was straining. This may have been his lightest set of eight, but after five hardcore sets, the eighth rep wasn’t coming easily.
Holding the bar over his body, Mark took several rapid, deep breaths as Rob moved in and placed his hands under the bar.
“You’ve got this, Mark.” Rob was using his personal training voice. The one edged with grit and determination. “Come on. One more. Don’t you puss out.”
His arms burned. His shoulders and chest screamed. But he was doing this for her. In the beginning, his brutal workouts had been about trying to forget Karma. About pushing her from his thoughts. But now the grab-him-by-the-balls beatings he gave himself five times a week had morphed into an almost meditative practice where his determination to be with her again overtook everything else. Instead of using this time to clear his head, he used it to visualize the two of them together. One way or another, he was going to make that happen.
Taking one final breath, he lowered the bar then growled, straining as he pushed it back up. Rob began to help.
“No!” Mark would see this through by himself. He would complete this set without needing Rob to save him.
Slowly, he ground out the last rep and dropped the bar back on the rack.
“Good job.” Rob blew out an exhale as if he’d been the one pounding it out instead of Mark.
“Fuck.” Mark swung himself upright and rested, legs on either side of the bench, elbows on his knees.
His hair had grown out and hung over his face as he stared down at the floor. Droplets of perspiration trickled down his neck and back.
I will get her back. Damn it, I will.
After allowing him to rest another thirty seconds, Rob tossed him a towel and his water bottle. “Break over. Let’s hit the pads.”
This was what made Rob the most popular personal trainer at the gym, even if he only worked there part time. The guy was ruthless. He built a program and made his clients stick to it. Which was why Mark had told Rob to build him the most insane program he could. He needed the challenge, not only for his body but also for his mind. And it was working. The gym sessions were so intense that it was no wonder they felt more like meditation than a workout. With the shit Rob threw at him, Mark definitely had to get down with the idea of mind over matter. Otherwise, matter would kick his ass.
“How much weight have you lost?” Rob said as they made their way to the boxing area.
Mark killed his second bottle of water and screwed the cap back on before chucking the empty container in his bag. “Since January?” Mark thought a couple seconds. “About ten pounds, I think.”
“You look it. Shit, but you’ve leaned out.”
“Thanks to you and this killer workout you’ve got me doing.”
A couple of gym bunnies on their way to the stair climbers smiled at him and Rob and giggled as they passed. A year ago, Mark would have given them a second look. Maybe even a third. But not now. Karma consumed one hundred percent of his interest. There wasn’t room for anyone else. In fact, the last time he’d had sex was with Karma last September. Talk about a drought. But at least this was self-imposed. There had been plenty of opportunities to wet his wick. He just couldn’t stomach the thought of doing so with anyone other than her.
Rob helped him tape up his hands. It was time for punching practice. As Mark flexed and fisted his fingers, Rob grabbed his pads, strapped them to his hands, then raised them out to the sides.
Mark was no boxer, but playing one in the gym sure helped cut his body fat percentage. And it gave him another outlet to both vent his frustration and build his fortitude. The universe was taking way too long to get its act together and show him the door that would lead Karma back into his arms. As the weeks passed, he grew more and more determined to take matters into his own hands.
He cross-jabbed and his fists popped against the leather pads. The exertion felt good. Again, he crossed then jabbed, then jabbed again. Pop-pop-POP!
“Good.” Rob clapped the pads together then held them up again as he stepped to the side.
Mark followed, keeping his eyes on the targets.
He never should have left. He should have turned around on the way back to Chicago.
Rob circled him, moving the pads, turning one so it faced the floor and holding the other out to the side.
Mark hooked then sent an uppercut into the downward-facing pad.
Downward-facing. That made him think of yoga, which made him think of her again. Did she still do yoga?
Maybe he should take up yoga. Maybe that would help clear his mind even more.
Rob sidestepped and backed up. Mark stayed with him.
He envisioned the red leather pads on Rob’s hands as representations of fate.
POP! He laid into the right pad with a fierce jab. Take that, fate. Maybe that will get you off your ass and pick up the pace.
It had been seven months, for God’s sake. How long did it take to create a goddamn sign?
One thing Mark knew for sure, he was on his last legs of waiting around.
One way or another, he was getting back his precious Karma, even if he had to do it himself and ditch his promise to the universe.
Come hell or high water, she would be his again.