Story No.7: Squat Contests

“After I had my last official practice, I felt useless. The narp life is weird,” he confesses, perched at the edge of the bed. His stomach lays flush against the mattress, and he props himself up with his elbows.

“Congrats on finishing your last season. But I agree, the narp life is weird. I’m making a transition to gym bro or a cardio bunny.”

“You’re going to own that stair stepper. I’m excited to lift for myself again.”

I lean in, my voice brimming with enthusiasm. “Something about making my own workouts and doing them is more exciting to me because it’s what I actually want to do, instead of walking to the pool and having it be a guessing game the entire practice because the coach doesn’t write the workout on the board until we do it,” I add. I observe a quick raise of his eyebrows and a brisk nod in agreement.

“Yeah exactly,” ​​he says. “No more hand snatches and push-jerks for me.”

I tilt my head curiously, my interest piqued. “You do Olympic lifts?

“Our team lifts mainly Olympic lifts.”

“Same. That’s cool.”

“I love them but at the same time I dont want to dedicate 30 minutes each day to them,” he says, revealing a mix of love and reluctance.

He couldn’t have hit the nail on the head more accurately. Memories flood back from my days on the swim team, where we endured weightlifting sessions meticulously scheduled for a full hour. In reality, most swimmers would breeze through their routines in just half that time. Yet, despite our efficiency, we were obligated to remain the full hour because of a grueling core finisher that we collectively completed on the turf together.

“And I get to squat again,” he admits. His gaze drifts toward the white expanse of his bedroom ceiling, as though he's lost in thought about those beloved squats. There's an unmistakable passion in his voice when he mentions them, and I can't help but clear my throat. His eyes snap back to me, breaking the spell of his daydream. “Do you have any goals for lifting on your own again?"

“I want to feel strong. I am training for a 10k, so my lifts aren't every day.”

He raises an eyebrow in astonishment. “Being big and strong and running distance is wild. And you say you are a narp?” He shakes his head in amused disbelief. A playful grin dances across my lips.

“Is it crazy? So crazy.”

“What’s your max in squat?”

I ponder my response for a moment, aware that my squat max, probably hovering around my body weight with less than 40-pound plates on each side of the bar, might not impress him. I've always struggled to build muscle, despite my swimming background. I sense that he's the type who never misses a day at the gym, which makes me hesitant to reveal my modest number.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Come on, why? You’re an athletic machine.” he praises, trying to coax me into confessing. I maintain my composure, refusing to yield to flattery. “What's yours?” I counter.

“I asked you first.”

Suddenly, my mind goes blank, and I can't recall the number I had in mind. Darn it! I feign forgetfulness. "Oh, I don't know," I say, tucking my curly bangs behind my ears, a well-rehearsed act.

“Yes, you do.” He calls out on my bull. He knows I’m lying.

“I don’t remember.”

“Marissa tell me.” he implores, letting his forearms drop to the mattress with a soft thump. My laughter bubbles up once more as he urges me to reveal the magic number. He opens his mouth to press the matter further.

"Marissa."

I decided to throw a curveball. "Can you squat 125?"

He whistles in response to my quick interjection, a pitch rising in surprise. "Yes, I can."

“So you can squat me then?”

He lets out a snort. “I could squat three more of you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

He places his palms firmly against the navy comforter beside his chest. His arms extend vertically, lifting his upper body into the air. I find myself watching closely, intrigued by why he's getting up. Is he preparing to demonstrate a squat with 125 pounds? If so, I'd be truly impressed by his dedication to making his point.

My eyes begin to wander around his room, searching for clues about what he might be planning. His 30-inch screen TV catches my attention, but it's far too light to meet the 125-pound mark. Picture frames and track and field trophies in his dark wooden drawer seem promising, but they would certainly weigh well over 200 pounds together. Even his small hamper in front of the closet door is nowhere close to the target at just ten pounds. My gaze then shifts to his black cat, nestled in a catnip-induced slumber, offering an unconventional alternative. Still, I doubt his feline friend is anywhere near 125 pounds.

What I've always admired about him is his readiness to accept challenges and his knack for mastering them with flair. He's known for pulling off entertaining and candid stunts that keep me on my toes. As I sink my heels into his mattress, I silently study him, curious about his next move. Shifting slightly, I allow the waistband of my Abercrombie denim jeans to make contact with his bed frame, extending my legs in front of me.

He dangles his right leg off the bed, turning his hips toward the bedside. It's a perplexing move as if he's deliberately facing me. A wide grin spreads across his face, triggering a subtle yet noticable surge in my heart rate. "Come here," he beckons with his hands, leaning his abdomen toward the box spring. I'm taken back by his request. I wonder if my current position isn't close enough for him. Playfully, I lift a single finger without shifting an inch and poke his lower belly. "Why? What do you wa—"

In a lightning-fast move, his arms reach forward, gripping my ankles tightly. With a swift yank, it feels as though I'm a life-sized Barbie doll being manipulated. My arms swing over my head, and my head whips backward. I'm sliding off the bed frame, completely missing the pillow. My head comes to rest on nothing and my flat backside is left smack against his comforter like a pancake, leaving clear indentations from the mattress.

"Stay still," he warns, leaving me to wonder what on earth he's planning. If he's contemplating another round of tickling, I'm ready to retaliate with a pillow. Our last tickle fight, which happened just yesterday, had left me flopping around like a fish, and I'd even managed to hit my head against his wall. His panicked reaction, eyes wide and voice full of concern, had lingered in my memory as he'd repeatedly asked, "Are you okay?" Despite his explanation that he just wanted to see me smile, I couldn't help but feel a tad nervous about his tickling antics.

My thoughts are interrupted when I feel a cold hand delicately cupped beneath my legs, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "If you squirm like yesterday, this won't work," he cautions. Despite my efforts to contain my discomfort, a small chuckle escapes my lips. His left hand, now cupping my back, tenses my stomach.

I begin, my curiosity piqued by his mysterious intentions. "What won't wor—?"

Engaging his biceps, he envelopes me in his arms and rolls my shoulders into his chest. My head is now suspended almost six feet in the air, my neck dangling beside him. I can feel his warm breath, a rhythmic current that runs through his nose and out onto my side.

He swiftly takes hold of my right arm, the one closest to him, and deftly flicks it over his shoulder. Bending his knees and hinging at the hips, the sight of my shoes on the floor becomes increasingly apparent as he lowers me from a height of six feet down to a more manageable three. With a fluid motion, he locks his knees back into a standing position, exhaling a satisfied breath. "One. Easy," he declares with a hint of triumph in his voice.

I can't help it; this is too amusing. Unrestrained laughter bursts forth from my lips. Ordinarily, I might be self-conscious about such a hearty laugh, especially around guys, but with him, all inhibitions vanish. My laughter rings through the room and is apparently, infectious. "Okay, but if you continue to make me laugh, your body will keep shaking, and it might interfere with those squats," I tease.

He seals his lips and leans into the challenge, pressing his chest forward, his momentum sending my stomach into flips. "Two," he counts, finishing the second squat. With each squat, it feels more and more like a thrilling rollercoaster ride. My legs are jerked around in all directions, leaning off his hold, while my curly hair dances in the draft created by him.

"And ten." He takes two purposeful steps forward, lowers his arms, and gently releases me back onto his mattress. I rise up on my forearms, turning to face him, my vision slightly distorted from the spinning sensation. He has taken a seat on the edge of his bed, and I rub my eyes, trying to regain my bearings. His smirk is still firmly in place, with no hint of perspiration from his exertion. I applaud his effort, finding his showmanship both charming and amusing.

“So what’s your max in squat?” He asks again. Eye roll.

“I don’t know.”

“Marissa yes, you do.” he chides gently.

"What's yours?" I push the spotlight from me again, well aware of our mutual stubbornness and the possibility of this conversation going in circles all night. He chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief, acknowledging the futility of pursuing this. He hovers his hand over my legs, the other hand still wrapped tightly in his lap. "Let's just say, in terms of weight, you'd be considered light work."

“Interesting.” I quip.

“Interesting indeed.”

I tuck my hands underneath my backside. “You’re about to be a strength and conditioning coach, right?” I ask.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“Can you coach me sometime?” A faint pink hue colors his cheeks. "I'd love to," he beams, his grip on my legs tightening slightly. "But only if you're open to constructive criticism," he teases, lightly tapping the outside of his hand against my leg.

"I do," I affirm. Recalling a particular incident when he cranked up the volume on Doja Cat's song, "Vegas," in the weight room to rally a women's tennis team, I'm reminded of his knack for motivating others. His choice of music had even inspired one girl to achieve a personal record in deadlift. It's clear that we share a mutual appreciation for positive encouragement.

Leaning into the banter, I tease him further, "Ok coach. You might just get to witness my max in squat then."