Page 12 of Own the Eights
Jordan shifted his weight. “I did want to talk to you about something I’ve got coming up. Do you have a minute?”
“Yeah, I’ve got some time,” the man answered with a curious expression.
His mentor knew something was up.
Jordan steadied himself. Jordan Marks didn’t get nervous. Jordan Marks owned the room, any room. Six four and built like a god with a face to match, jittery was not a word in his vocabulary. At least, that’s what he tried to project. But today could be a game changer, and the butterflies in his stomach agreed.
“Let’s talk in the back,” he offered.
Deacon followed him, past a row of state-of-the-art cardio machines and several trainers working with clients, to a small office tucked near the locker rooms.
Deacon settled himself in a chair as Jordan sat behind the desk.
“Now, spill, Marks. I’ve known you long before you became Marks Perfect whatever. What’s going on?”
“You do read my emails?” Jordan quipped.
Deacon stretched his arms then relaxed into the seat. “In between the ones sent from Maureen’s lawyers.”
Jordan leaned forward. “About the divorce?”
It seemed crazy that Deacon and his wife were splitting up. He’d known Deac’s wife, Maureen, as long as he’d known his mentor, and she’d been like a second mother to him. She’d given up her teaching career to help get Deacon CrossFit off the ground and now devoted herself to raising their girls.
The man sighed. “Divorce. Time with the kids. The amount of spousal support. It’s always something. Now, come on, Jordan. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
He’d met Deacon a decade ago entirely by chance. Working at a deli as a delivery guy in college, he’d been sent to Deacon CrossFit to drop off some sandwiches. Rail thin and gangly, he wasn’t surprised when he’d entered the gym, and a couple of bulked-up meatheads started giving him shit.
Careful with that bag, Tinker Bell. It looks pretty heavy for you.
He’d heard it all and was just about to brush off another bout of bullying when Deacon Perry strode up to the front with an air of confidence, that at the time, Jordan never even dreamed of attaining. The hulk of a man looked him up and down, then made him an offer.
You want to make sure no one ever fucks with you again? Come back tomorrow.
And he did just that. He showed up the next day and the day after that.
Every day for the next four years.
His time in Deacon’s gym transformed his life. He graduated from college with a double major in English Literature and Kinesiology and Exercise Science, and Deac was right. He’d put on fifty pounds of muscle, ran a six-minute mile, and could bench press three-fifty in his sleep—and nobody fucked with him. Through damn hard work and dedication, the skinny kid from the Colorado plains stepped foot into Deacon’s gym a lamb and came out a lion.
Jordan brought up the gym’s master calendar on the computer and tilted the screen for Deacon to see. “I’ve rearranged the schedule for the next three weeks.”
Deacon slipped on a pair of glasses from his pocket and gazed at the screen. “I don’t see you on there very much.”
“I did that on purpose. You see, Deac, I’ve entered a contest, and if I win, I’ll need the next few weeks to focus on my blog.”
“That perfect thing?” his mentor asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset.”
Deacon sat back and pocketed his glasses. “What kind of contest is this?”
“If I win it, I’ll become a paid contributor on the CityBeat site.”
Deacon whistled. “Even I know of CityBeat. They’ve got a huge fitness community.”
Jordan nodded. “It’s a complete lifestyle platform, and if I get it, things could really pick up for me.”
Deacon narrowed his gaze. “I see. And Deacon CrossFit? Is that a part of your plan?”
