Chapter 2

I always stick to just cardio. “Umm…”

He looks me up and down. “We can start slow.”

“I never do weights. But okay. I saw my family last night and everyone kept telling me I’m too skinny.”

He holds my eye. “You’re not too…anything. Follow me.”

He spots me on a few machines that are like nothing I’ve ever used before. He has to demonstrate them for me. It seems like I do half the weight and half the reps he does on each one. He leads me to the floor mat and asks me to hold his ankles while he does his sit ups. I grip him around his crew socks which are damp with his humid, manly sweat. I flush while he pounds out a set of 100. When he’s done, he grabs my ankles and says, “Go.”

I look at him like he’s from Mars. “Mac, I might be skinny but a lack of fat does not mean the presence of muscle.” I pat my flat but soft middle. “I don’t have an eight-pack. Or a six, a four or a two either. I barely have a zero-pack.”

He laughs, “Hey, I could be your personal trainer!”

“I’ve been running 6 miles, 5 days a week for 13 years. Why do you think I need a trainer?”

He pokes me in the belly, like I’m the Pillsbury Doughboy, making me squirm. “That’s why.”

“Point taken.” He takes hold of my ankles again and his strong grip feels good. I don’t want him to let go, so I start a set of sit-ups. Unfortunately, I collapse in defeat before I hit 25.

I buy a new Honda Civic Type R. When I was in high school my dad’s car had a manual transmission. I loved driving stick. It was a skill not many kids had and it made me feel cool. I was very not cool in high school.

I text Mac from down in the building’s parking lot. “Come check out my new wheels.”

After replying that I can’t pull off saying “wheels”, even in a text, he says he’ll be right down.

He looks from the car to me and back to the car, grinning. All he can say is, “Dude…”, but somehow, under the circumstances, that feels like an accurate, articulate response.

Mac says, “You’re totally teaching me to drive stick before the summer’s over.”

“We’ll see,” I tease. “I won’t let just anybody drive my baby.”

He plays hurt, “I’m ‘just anybody’ to you?”

I wake up in the morning on Mac’s couch. We had stayed up really late the night before talking and catching up. I guess I fell asleep. There’s a blanket covering me and a pillow under my head. How? I sit up and find my socks in a neat pile on the floor. Mac. I yawn and stretch before grabbing my socks and heading toward my room.

I run into Mac in the hall, dressed for a run. He says, “Let’s go Alexander. I let you sleep in too long already.”

“I’m your personal trainer, remember?”

“Did I actually agree to that?”

He laughs, “It was a binding nonverbal contract.” He looks down at my feet and smiles, “And you said you wouldn’t be barefoot in the apartment.”

I smile back, “Does it count if you’re the one who pulled my socks off while I was asleep?”

“I know I can’t sleep with socks on. I was just helping you out.”

He’s right. I can’t either. Not even on the coldest Chicago or Boston winter nights.

“And yes. It totally counts.” He winks at me, “One down, one to go.”

I fully expected to be sore this morning, but I’m not. Between yesterday’s weightlifting and sit-ups, things I literally never do, how is this possible? Maybe Mac is just this good. Maybe he should become a professional personal trainer.

We breeze through our run and head into the dreaded fitness center where the ominous equipment of doom awaits me. Mac remembers exactly how much weight I lifted and how many reps I did on each machine yesterday. Today he pushes me ten percent harder on both counts. I’m completely spent and drenched in sweat when he reminds me that we haven’t done our sit-ups yet. I make it to 40 today and collapse on my back on the mat. Mac sits next to me.

“Remind me, why am I doing this?” I ask.

He lightly slaps my tummy and I grunt. “You said you have no packs.”

I prop myself up on my elbows in time to see Mac lift his shirt and wipe his brow. Since he’s sitting, I can’t tell if his is a six or an eight, but he definitely is not pack-less. I could make working out my full-time job and I’d never look like he does. I avert my gaze, hoping to not get caught ogling his sculpted physique.

Mac says, “Today we’re adding the pull-up bar to your routine.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“It’s a great workout for your biceps.”

I look at my right arm, “I don’t have biceps.”

We walk over to the pull-up bar and Mac begins an effortless set. He has to be at least twenty in when I ask him, “Why is everything an ‘up’? We lift the weights, we do sit-ups and pull-ups. Doesn’t it seem like ‘downs’ would be so much easier? Dropping weights sounds painless and simple. And I’d so much rather sit down than sit up.”

Mac, who had been seriously focused on his set, releases the bar and drops to the floor laughing. “You’re such a dick.”

“What did I do?” I ask, all innocent and naïve.

“I hadn’t even hit twenty-five yet and you made me laugh.”

The 25ish pounds Mac has on me is all muscle. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not some grotesque, musclebound freak. He’s just a very good-looking guy in really good shape. As a runner I’ve always been healthy. I have good legs, a strong heart, skinny arms, a narrow chest and nonexistent abs. I look up at the pull-up bar and wonder just how embarrassing this is going to be.

The first pull-up is almost easy. The second is a struggle. By the third, I’m swinging and flailing around like a fish out of water. Mac, behind me, puts his hands just above my hips, steadying me. He takes on a little of my weight and guides me through a set of 10. Somehow his strong hands ended up under the hem of my shirt, on my skin. His grip tickles.

“Great workout today,” he says with no hint of sarcasm.

I eye him suspiciously, still catching my breath. “Seriously?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Yeah, why?”

“The struggle was real.”

He laughs, “Do you have plans for Sunday?”

“Score!” he fist-bumps me. “Keep it free. All day and night.”

Tonight, we’re having with dinner an old high school classmate — Jonah. Jonah was a decent guy in high school; nothing like the most of our other classmates. Since he was cute and not an asshole, I had a secret crush on him through the 12th grade. He was on the basketball team. Mac, naturally good at every sport known to man, played neighborhood pick-up games, but refused to be on the school team because of the assholes it was comprised of (save for Jonah). I am not athletically inclined in general, but I can shoot the ball. I can’t explain it. I can’t dribble, I have no footwork, I can’t protect the ball on offense, I can’t guard anybody on defense, but damn I can shoot all day long. Again, I can’t explain it.

On the way there, Mac reminds me to not be surprised that Jonah has a kid. He had gotten his girlfriend pregnant right after high school.

We’re in my car and I explain stick shift. Mac watches me work the clutch and the gears and says he’s ready. He wants to drive us home later. As I drive, Mac places his left hand on top of my right hand as I shift. He’s a little bigger than me and his hand envelopes mine. The warmth of his touches causes me to flush and I feel small beads of sweat prick at the back of my neck.

“I’m getting used to the feel,” Mac explains.

“You do realize that you’ll be using your right hand?”

“Right.” He removes his left hand, puts it on my right shoulder and places his right hand on mine. He has to lean in to reach and I can feel his cool, minty breath on my right ear. A batch of goosebumps flashes on my right thigh and arm.

I say, “This will be better.” I slip my hand out from underneath so his hand is directly on the stick shift. With my hand on top, I guide him through the gears. I can feel his veins against my palm. As we work the gears up and down, our fingers lace together. Mac watches my footwork as I orchestrate the trio of pedals. I hope he can’t tell that his proximity is causing a bit of a swelling in my pants.

We get to Jonah’s house and park in the long, narrow driveway. Mac and I climb out of the car and a sandy haired boy who looks to be about 9 appears from the back yard. He looks just like miniature version of the Jonah I remember. He’s carrying a basketball. Of course he is. The kid dribbles towards us and stops a few feet away. He looks up to me and asks, “Are you Alex?”

He balances the ball between his hip and left arm and sticks his right hand out to me. “I’m Joe, nice to meet you.”

Joe is a well-mannered and adorable young man. I shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you too Joe.”

Joe takes two steps to his left and says, “So you must be Mac,” offering him the same hand.

Mac shakes it too, “Indeed I am.”

Joe asks Mac, “Do you play basketball?”

Mac offers the trademark Mac smile and Joe can’t help but smile back. “I love basketball, Joe, but I was never on a team like your dad was.”

Joe says, “That’s okay. The team isn’t for everyone. If you like basketball, playing for fun is way better than being on a team anyway.”

I’ve known Joe for all of sixty seconds, but I really like him. Whether he’ll ever know it or not, in the years ahead, he’ll be the object of numerous secret crushes from lots of girls and probably a few boys too.

Joe, still talking to Mac, says, “My dad told me that the best shooter in his school was never on the team. Did you know that Alex is the best shooter my dad ever saw?”

Mac sighs, “It’s really not fair, Joe. Alexander isn’t a basketball player. He doesn’t practice, he doesn’t train. He is naturally good at something he has no business doing.”

Joe giggles like Mac was kidding. The thing is, Mac is very competitive and hates losing. He’s hamming it up for Joe, but he’s only partly kidding.

Joe bounces me the ball and says, “I could use some pointers on my jump shot. Can you show me Alex?”

As much as he hates it, he loves it too. Mac has a huge shit-eating grin on his face. He takes his phone out of his pocket with his left hand and puts his right hand on Joe’s shoulder, “Yes, Alexander. Please educate us.”

Mac is enjoying himself way too much. He so doesn’t deserve this right now but Joe does. I’m not going to turn down this polite, cute kid. From where we stand, the hoop is really far. Close to fifty feet. I tell Joe, “I’m doing this for you, Joe. Not him.” I gesture toward Mac but his smile only gets goofier. I bend a little to get closer to Joe’s level, “I have to tell you, Joe, I haven’t shot or even touched a basketball since before you were born.”

Joe’s eyes bulge, “No way!”

“Way!” I bounce the ball a few times. It feels good in my hands. “Just for you, I’ll give it a shot. Alright, where do want me?”

Joe starts walking closer to the hoop, but just then, Jonah appears from around the same corner that produced Joe a few minutes ago. Jonah tells his son, “Don’t let him take a single step closer than where he is right now. He can make the shot from where he stands.”

Joe actually jumps in the air, “Seriously?”

Jonah says, “For real. He knows he can do it. He’s just being modest.”

I haven’t seen Jonah since high school graduation day. He looks very much the same as he did back then, which means he looks good. He might be the same weight, but a few of the pounds — not many, but a few — have transitioned from upper-body muscle to middle-body cushioning. It suits him. He looks happy. He looks like a dad. He winks at me and says, “Come on, Alex. Shoot it!”

I can’t help but smile. I bounce the ball a couple more times and without thinking about it, I set my feet, jump and let a high-arcing, two-handed shot sail from my spot on the driveway. I hold my breath and we all follow the trajectory of the ball as it rises, peeks and falls, ultimately swishing through the hoop.

The three of them cheer and Joe’s eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head. He rushes me and gives me a leaping high-five. “Nothing but net!” he squeals.

As Joe tracks down the ball, Jonah steps over and gives me an enthusiastic handshake. “Hi Alex. You look exactly the same.” His eyes sparkle.

I always wondered why people feel the need to comment on looks when reunited after many years. What if I thought he looked bad? Would I lie? Fortunately, it’s a moot point because we all look great. I comply with the social norm and tell him, “You too.”

He scoffs and pats his softening middle, “Not quite.”

No, he’s not as skinny as his high school days, but so what. Maybe 10 years from now he’ll want to lose like 3 pounds, but right now, my former secret crush looks damn good. I say, “You don’t need me to tell you this, but you’ve got a great kid there.”

Jonah’s smile expands to beaming and he shakes Mac’s hand.

Joe reappears with the ball, “How about a little two-on-two?” He steps next to me, “I want to be on Alex’s team.”

Jonah says, “Well son, I don’t know if our guests realized they’d be roped into a basketball game when they came here tonight. I’ll tell you what. Go get washed up for dinner and we’ll talk about it a little later.”