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brainless man-fun. Anything to get my mind off the fact that I’d just been dumped.
     
    THAT night, I went to the gym later than usual.
    The place smelled of chlorine and sweat. It was a smell I’d come to associate with being healthy, and the second it hit my nostrils, I got a surge of adrenaline. I strode across the crowded space to secure a locker for my cell phone and wallet, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of the gym— muscles pumping, men grunting, the clang of heavy weights hitting the floor. Treadmills whirred, ponytails bounced, and sneakers tapped out a choppy rhythm on the treadmill belts. In the background, sneakers squeaked on the basketball court, and children squealed beneath the gushing fountain in the indoor pool, which should have been closing any minute.
    My brain shifted into workout mode, and I turned everything else off.
    Whether I was straining to eke out that eighth rep on a weight machine, pushing myself to failure, or zoning out on the treadmill for an hour, it was always cathartic. Focusing on pushing my body gave my mind a much-needed vacation. I didn’t have to think about school, or relationships, or whether I could afford to go out with my friends on Friday night. It was just me and the machines, and we had only one goal in mind: physical exhaustion.
    When I was almost finished with my Thursday night arm routine, a guy sat down on the machine directly in front of me. It was one of those awkward situations where both of us were forced to stare directly at each other as we worked. I was doing lat pull-downs, and he was on the ab crunch machine. I’d never seen the guy in school. He was slightly shorter than my six-foot height, with light hair and a broader build. I was of the opinion that people who took part in sports had a slightly different musculature than people who only worked out in a gym environment, and this guy had a gym jockey look about him. Not that it wasn’t a good look on him, because it definitely was.
    Normally, I would have tried to engage him in a little chat to dispel the awkwardness of staring right at each other while we worked out. Except for my horrible attempt at impersonating a reporter during the MMA event, I’d never had a hard time talking to people. But after Layla knocked the wind out of my sails, I hadn’t felt much like socializing.
    As I watched, the guy slipped his t-shirt off and slung it over the arm of the machine. Then he began to crunch his very tight, very prominent abdominals, keeping his eyes trained on his six-pack as if to visually confirm that the muscles were engaging. When I realized I was studying his muscles just as intently as he was, I looked away and reminded myself to resume my own exercises.
    I could tell a difference in my own appearance during the off season. I kept myself in shape, which was easy considering my natural tendency toward a long, lean muscularity. Baseball, basketball, and football had all been important to me in high school. I’d juggled all three sports until my junior year when it got too much for me. Carrying a full load of Advanced Placement classes and trying to play every sport they offered began to feel like a slow suicide, so I reluctantly dropped baseball. By college, football had fallen by the wayside as well, mainly because I had little chance of doing anything at a big university other than riding the bench.
    The decision had also been affected by my desire to focus on preparing myself for a successful career, and also by my secret fear that I couldn’t hang with college-level athletes in such a physically demanding sport. My parents seemed relieved when I announced my plans to drop football. I think we all breathed a little easier knowing I wasn’t going to have to compete with guys who would probably stomp me in the dirt. I did still play basketball, though I often considered retiring that jersey, as well.
    Quitting ball wouldn’t be so bad. I could always stay in shape by frequenting the