Affliction

“You work out here? I’ve never seen you here,” I accuse, thinking this is one of his setups.

“Been working out here for the last three years, Holly,” he informs me as he walks to the locker room. Well, shit, how did I miss that? I follow behind hesitantly, not looking forward to working out in front of him. After our two di

I go about my business, storing my belongings in a locker and pull my hair up in a small ponytail. I started using the gym two weeks ago when Dr. Elliot suggested it would help with the anxiety. I had never stepped into one before. I’ve always been one of those people who could eat what I want and never pay the price. When she prescribed it one session, I never thought I would enjoy it as much as I do. I never knew actively going to the gym would help clear my mind and help center me for the day.

I warm up on the rowing machine, not interested in a treadmill or other machines I see the bimbos working out on while they make sure their makeup is perfect. I enjoy the continuous rhythm I can create with each row. I get lost in it. Each stroke pulls me deeper into a place that relaxes me. After twenty minutes of warming up, I move over to the free weights and try not to seek out Sy.

When I first joined, Andy, the gym's trainer, set me up with a begi

“You’ve got some good form there,” Sy’s voice stirs from above me. I tilt back and find him standing at the head of the bench.

“Uh, thanks.” Sitting up, I place my weights down beside me. I look at him reflected in the large mirror in front of me. He stands, arms crossed over his chest. He looks sexy even if the sweat from his own workout shines under the overhead lights. Jesus, the man sweaty and tattooed is too much.

“Are you okay?” I question, unsure of what his problem is.

“Do you always wear this?” he swirls his finger at me, looking angry. Great, cranky Sy is back.

“Yeah, why?” I look down at my gym outfit, black yoga pants and grey gym top. It’s far from revealing, but the way Sy’s acting, you would expect to see me wearing what the bimbos over on the treadmills are wearing.

“It’s a little slutty, don’t you think?” he accuses. I’m so shocked at his words I turn to face him.

“Enlighten me how wearing this outfit, where you can barely see any skin at all, is slutty?” I stand, not comfortable having him looming over me.

“It’s so fucking tight, Holly. Every fucker in here can picture your fine ass naked,” he growls, looking over at some of the men standing around us. They don’t seem too interested in checking me out, more focused on themselves and correcting their form.

“Sy, you’ve lost it. I can’t even respond to that.” I turn back around and ignore him. I pick up my weights and begin my next set, pretending he isn’t standing over me like a formidable force.

“Go away,” I finally breathe when I get through my last set and sit back up.

“No,” he simply replies, still watching me.

“Whatever,” I mutter, walking past him to move onto the next machine. Setting up the seat, I catch him eyeing off the poor guy at the machine next to mine.

“You know you don’t own the gym. You can’t just try and scare everyone away,” I inform him, placing the rod in the thirty-pound weight slot. Leaning forward, I hold on to the bar and pull back.

“You need to keep your back straighter,” he states, stepping forward and placing his palm on the small of my back. “And keep your chin up,” he keeps instructing like I need his help. I follow the instructions nonetheless, pressing my chest further out and keeping my chin up.

“Fuck me, don’t stick your tits out like that,” he growls, stepping in closer.

“Sy,” I complain, letting go of the bar and looking up at him. “You’re disturbing me,” I snap.

“Yeah, well, you’re disturbing me with your fucking sexy outfit and now pushing your tits out,” he says, frustrated. I try to not let his words affect me—we’ve been there and done that—but hearing he is still affected by me, moves something in me. Something I should not be worrying about right now.

“If I’m disturbing you, Sy, then leave,” I suggest, starting up my second set. If he can’t handle me working out, then he needs to go. I keep my form solid, ignoring his grunts and growls throughout it. When I finish, I stand, stretching out my chest, ready to move on to the next machine.

“Jesus,” he mumbles behind me. Then taking my hand and towel, he pulls me off to the side room.

“What are you doing? I’m not done,” I say, begi

“Suit up,” he bosses, throwing the gloves at me.

“I’m not boxing with you,” I scoff unimpressed. I came here for a workout, not a fight.

“Trust me, it will help both of us. You get to punch me and no fucker will be checking out that tight ass of yours,” he says, putting his fingers in the pads.

“Sy, no one was checking out my ass,” I argue, but it only falls on deaf ears.

“You get to hit me,” he repeats and I give up fighting.

“Fine,” I huff, making it sound like a hassle when it’s the best thing I’ll probably do today. I strap my hands into the padded gloves and get ready to unleash my anger on him.

“Have you ever boxed before?” he asks, moving over to the middle of the room.

“No, never,” I confirm, following behind him.

“Plant your feet into the ground and use your upper body with each strike.” He demonstrates the fluid movement. His body gracefully moves from side to side with each hard jab and punch. “Got it?” he asks, coming to stand in front of me.

“Yeah, I think so.” I nod and position myself.

“Okay, come at me for fifty jabs,” he insists and I nearly fall over.

“Fifty?” I gasp.

“Fifty is nothing. Quit your bitching and let's do this,” he says, pumping me up.

I ignore him and adjust my stance before starting. With the first hit of glove to pad, I feel a rush of excitement.

“Harder,” he commands. So I do just that, each strike intensifying with more power than the last. My abdomen starts to ache slightly. The power behind each hit is probably not helping the situation, but I can’t stop the need to keep going.

“That’s it, girl. Keep those feet planted,” he continues to instruct. My body takes over; the rush of hitting something hard and fast is like no other, and before I know it he calls, “Fifty.”

My arms drop to my sides, heavy from their actions. The familiar burn in my muscles set in.

“Shit, Holly. You’ve got a good arm on you,” he compliments, shaking out his hands.

“Thanks,” I grin, feeling lighter than I have in a long time.

“Let's do a combination this time,” he suggests, banging the pads together. “Left, right, left. You got it?” He demonstrates, and after the first go, I pick it up easily.

“Left, right, left,” he continues to instruct as we build the momentum. My body feels alive with each jab, each hook, and each co