The squat rack.

For no reason in particular, you wander on over to one of the gym’s many squat racks. Its current user is a curvy Latina girl who’s clearly no slouch at the exercise; several heavy plates hang off each side of the barbell as she lowers herself down to the ground. She’s clothed much more sensibly than you expect she would be for a match, wearing a simple sports bra and short-shorts to facilitate her workout—but that does little to diminish the fact that she has an absolutely gorgeous pair of glutes, and they’re sticking right out at you as she drops down for a rep. You know it’s untoward, but you can’t help but to stop and stare.

She pops up with a grunt of effort and re-racks the weight, letting it rest on its hooks with a loud clank of metal on metal. Then she turns to you, glaring. “Hey! You! Were you ogling my ass?!”

“Uh...” You’re briefly at a loss for words. You don’t want to admit it, but your hesitance to speak is pretty damning itself.

But you breathe a sigh of relief as the glare gives way to a cheerful grin. “Because if you were, good, that means the squats are working,” she finishes.

“Oh, uh...good,” you reply as your excuses die in your throat.

She almost doubles over laughing. “Oh, man, you should have seen the look on your face. I totally got you!”

You’re not quite sure what to say to that, so she continues as she gets her laughter under control. “I always spring that one on the newbies. They’re the ones who haven’t quite gotten used to the fact that everyone flaunts their body a lot around here. Getting stared at is usually a compliment, so...thank you.”

“Yeah, well, you do look pretty fantastic,” you say with a smile.

“I do, don’t I?” She preens, looking down at her curvaceous form. “But enough about that. I didn’t get your name.”

“I’m John,” you say, sticking out your hand to shake.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, taking it in her own. “My name’s Angelica, but you might know me better as La Diabla Roja.”

“Wait, you’re La Diabla?” you ask in surprise.

She does an exaggerated stage-bow. “The one and only. You a fan?”

“Definitely.”

She actually seems pleasantly surprised by this. “Wait, really? That was rhetorical.”

“Not anymore,” you joke, and she smirks. “You know, it’s interesting that a girl named Angelica—”

“—ends up with the devil-themed stage persona? Yeah. Someone up in the commissioners’ board thinks they’re funny. Probably the same guy who keeps making me fake that ridiculous accent. I swear, one of these days...”

“At least you’ve got a gimmick,” you point out.

“Yeah, true,” she says pensively. “Most people in the League don’t have one. They tend to only give them out to the best performers. Like me.” She strikes a provocative pose, but she can only hold it for a few seconds before breaking down into giggles.

“Sounds like a good place to set my sights,” you say.

“Never hurts to aim high,” she agrees. “Listen, I’ve got a workout to get back to, but I’d be happy to chat again. Come by my dressing room if you want to say hi.”

“I will,” you promise. “Good luck with your squats.”

“Who needs luck when you’ve got an ass like this?” she says with a wink.

Shaking your head in amusement, you head back to the center of the gym—but not before sneaking a quick glance behind you.