Pumping Iron

The gym was nearly empty when Max arrived — just the way he liked it.

Gladiator wasn’t flashy. No bright murals, no influencer lighting, no curated playlists blasting from every speaker. Just the clank of iron, the low hum of industrial fans, and the occasional hiss of someone catching their breath. The metal shutters over the windows let in slats of morning sun that striped the scuffed concrete floor like a barcode. The air still held that faint, permanent scent of chalk, sweat, and rubber mats.

Zeke was already there, wrapping his wrists beside the squat rack. He looked up briefly, nodded once, then went back to it.

“Figured you’d sleep in,” Max said, dropping his duffel by the benches.

Zeke smirked without looking up. “I could say the same.”

There wasn’t much else to say. They weren’t the kind of guys who needed a preamble. Just two players, two friends getting on with their work.

They moved through warm-ups and stretches without commentary. Max rolled out his legs, still tight from the night before. Zeke started in on his back squats, slow and deliberate, like he was laying down tracks he planned to run back over later. Both of them moved like guys who’d won last night, but weren’t about to coast off it.

There was a quiet rhythm to mornings like this. No distractions, no eyes on them. Just repetition. Breath. Correction. That near-meditative focus you only got with sweat and silence.

Between sets, Max spoke. “I’ve been thinking about switching up conditioning. More agility drills. Coach mentioned maybe working more out of the pocket.”

Zeke reracked the bar, stepped back, and nodded. “Makes sense. Your reads were clean last night, but some of those scrambles — you were one cut away from breaking them open.”

Max didn’t bristle. He just nodded, stretched out his shoulders with a resistance band. That was the thing with Zeke — he called it how he saw it, but it never came off like he was showing off. It was just facts. Game talk. Real.

“Did you write anything after the game?” Max asked.

Zeke raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking about my poetry?”

Max gave a half-shrug, grabbing a dumbbell. “Trying to be a supportive teammate.”

Zeke chuckled. “Nah. Too tired. Might get something down later. Got some rhymes bouncing around.”

They shifted to sleds, dragging them across the open turf. Max pushed first, head down, arms locked — a slow, grinding effort that burned straight through his thighs. Zeke followed, smooth and steady. They didn’t talk much, just worked. One set, then another.

When it was over, they leaned against the back wall, letting the cool of the concrete soak into their skin. Both of them were soaked in sweat, breathing steady.

“You eating after this?” Zeke asked.

“Yeah,” Max said. “Thinking Cielo Rojo.”

Zeke pushed off the wall, adjusted his watch. “Not yet, though. We still got legs. You up for a run?”

Max gave him a look like he’d lost it — then caught the glint in Zeke’s eye. He wasn’t joking.

Max let out a breath. “Alright. Easy pace?”

Zeke just grinned.

They took the usual loop — out past the faded brick storefronts at the edge of Mariner’s Hollow, up through the paved trails beside the river where the morning sun bounced off water like scattered coins, then back down past the rec fields where a few kids were already shooting hoops in the quiet. Five kilometers, give or take. No watches. No timing splits. Just steady rhythm and the sound of shoes on pavement.

By the time they looped back toward the corner where Cielo Rojo sat, Max’s shirt was plastered to his back and his legs had that solid ache that only came from a good morning. Not punishment. Just proof.

Cielo Rojo sat like it always did — small, easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look for. Its faded red awning fluttered a little in the breeze. The scent of grilled meat, lime, and roasted chili was already curling out through the open door.

Inside, it was the usual mix of people — a couple construction workers nursing sodas at the counter, a pair of grandmothers arguing over salsa at the window, and a few teens with earbuds in and elbows deep in burritos. The music was low, the ceiling fans hummed, and the air carried just enough heat from the kitchen to make you feel like you’d earned your food.

They ordered like regulars. Carne asada tacos for Max. Sweet potato and black bean burrito for Zeke. Horchata for both.

“You guys killed it last night,” the cashier said as she rang them up. “That rollout-pass-touchdown thing? Nasty.”

Max gave her a small nod. “Thanks.”

They grabbed a booth near the window. Light streamed in. The tiles were warm underfoot. Their paper trays hit the table like clockwork.

Max took a sip of his drink, leaned back. “Last year, I’d sit here after a game and replay every screw-up in my head. Obsessed.”

Zeke looked at him. “You’re still doing that.”

Max smirked. “Less. It’s different now. Like… I’m not chasing it so hard. I’m just playing.”

Zeke nodded. “You’re playing smarter. Cleaner.”

There was a pause as they ate. Not uncomfortable. Just quiet.

“You think we can take North Ridge?” Max asked, eyes still on his tacos.

Zeke didn’t answer right away. He wiped his hands, leaned back, glanced out the window. “If we stay healthy. If our secondary stays sharp. And if you keep seeing the field like you did last night?” He gave a small nod. “Yeah. I think we’ve got a real shot.”

A couple of kids came in wearing Raven jerseys, the sleeves too long for their arms. One of them recognized Max, nudged the other. Max looked up, gave a small nod. The kid smiled like he’d been handed something important.

Zeke saw it. “They look up to you, y’know.”

“I’m not trying to be anybody’s hero,” Max said.

“Exactly why you are.”

They finished in comfortable silence — the kind that came from shared effort, not from running out of things to say. When they finally stood, Max dropped a tip on the table without thinking. More than he needed to. Just because.

Outside, the streets of Mariner’s Hollow were coming alive — lawnmowers, dogs pulling on leashes, someone blasting old rock from a cracked garage.

Zeke slowed as they hit the corner. “I heard Vivi might throw a party tonight. After the basketball game.”

Max blinked. “Wait. There’s a basketball game?”

Zeke gave him a side-eye. “You really don’t pay attention to anything except game film, huh?”

Max laughed — low and a little surprised. “Guess not.”

“You going?” Max asked, kicking at a crack in the sidewalk.

“Can’t pass it up,” Zeke added. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to live in a big house up in the Heights.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Right. Must be nice.”

Zeke smirked. “I’ll let you know what that’s like if I ever get there.”

They paused at the corner where the sidewalk forked — one way to the park, the other toward home.

“I’ll probably swing by,” Max said. “After I walk this off.”

Zeke gave a nod. “Might see you there.”

“Yeah. See you around.”

They didn’t do goodbyes, not really. Just broke off in different directions.

Max headed toward the park, muscles loose, the day stretching open in front of him — warm, bright, and not quite what he expected. He didn’t mind. Not today.