Page 59 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I take a bite, let the flavor flood my mouth. The texture is grainy at first, then an oily coating on my tongue, followed by an aftertaste that is somewhere between sunscreen and funeral lilies.
I chew, swallow, and try not to make a face. “You want the brutal or the constructive?”
She shrugs, but there’s a challenge in it. “Surprise me.”
“Too much oil. Texture is off. If you dialed it back and added a binding agent—maybe psyllium or oat flour—you’d get a better chew. The taste is…” I search for a diplomatic phrase, but there’s no point. “Like eating beach candle.”
She doesn’t take offense. Instead, she grabs one and bites it, as if to confirm my assessment. “I knew it. The last batch collapsed at room temp, so I doubled the coconut oil. Should have trusted my notes.” She says it to herself, not to me, but I canhearher mind working as she files the data away for next time.
We stand in silence, both chewing, both pretending not to notice how empty the gym is.
Eventually she says, “I thought there’d be more players here.”
“They’re all in the media lounge, waiting for their next close-up.” I lean back, brace myself on the bench, and for the first time since October, I let the conversation go where it wants. “Nobody comes in here unless they need to. It’s not about improvement anymore, it’s about optics.”
She considers that, rolling a protein bar in her hands. “You’re the only one who actually likes it, aren’t you?”
“The weights don’t lie.” I look at her, direct. “Everything else is negotiable.”
There’s another silence, this one less awkward and more deliberate. She sits on the edge of the bench, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed. The tray sits between us like a peace offering.
I tear off another piece, smaller this time. “I could help you with the ratios. If you want.”
She looks up, surprised. “You cook?”
“My mom ran a catering business.” I don’t know why I say it, but I do. “Every Sunday, I had to prep enough Karelian pies for the church crowd or I didn’t get to leave the table. You learn about starch and fat ratios fast.”
She seems to process this, then nods. “I’ll bring the next batch. You can stress test it.”
We sit there, two idiots in a weight room, passing chunks of failed nutrition bar back and forth, neither of us willing to leave first.
Outside the door, I hear the echo of laughter, the shout of a PR guy corralling the rookies for another “team building” segment. It sounds a hundred miles away. In here, the only sounds are the click of teeth, the crinkle of wax paper, and the controlled exhale of two people trying very hard to look like this is just another day at the office.
I reach for another bar, and our hands brush, knuckles grazing. The contact is accidental but electric, and for a second, neither of us pulls away.
She leaves her hand there a beat longer than necessary, then retracts it, reaching for her phone to jot a note.
I take a deep breath. “Next time,” I say, “try dark chocolate. It masks the aftertaste.”
She nods. “Noted.”
We sit in the quiet. Sage checks her phone, then sets it face down. “Do you ever miss it? When we didn’t have to care about cameras?”
I consider the question. “I miss the quiet. I miss when it was just about winning.” My voice gets softer, accent flattening the vowels until I almost sound like my grandfather. “Now everything is a story. Even this.” I gesture to the tray, the weights, the empty gym. “They want drama. They want to see us crack.”
Sage picks at the edge of the protein bar, not looking at me. “You never crack though. You’re the only one who doesn’t.”
I almost laugh. “You should see my apartment.” I’m not sure why I say it, but it’s true: laundry everywhere, takeout boxes stacked in the sink, a collection of penalty notices from the building association that I keep meaning to pay but never do. “If I had a camera in there, nobody would believe it.”
“I would,” she says. Then, after a pause: “I can’t cook for one either. I mean, I can, but I don’t enjoy it and live off protein shakes and those meal kits they send you in a box. Sometimes I just eat dry cereal and go to bed.”
I look at her. She’s never said anything like that before. I try to think of something that doesn’t sound stupid, but all I come up with is, “You ever want to try real food, you could come over. My mom’s recipe. Rye bread and egg butter. It’s not fancy, but it’s good.”
She smiles, a real one this time, and it changes her whole face.
“Maybe I will,” she says.
We go back to sampling the bars, trading pieces and notes. At one point, I lean back on the bench, stretch out my legs, and watch the ceiling tiles drift in and out of focus. “You know, when I was a kid, my dad used to take me out on the lake. Ice fishing. He never talked, but we’d sit there for hours, just waiting. Sometimes we’d get nothing. Sometimes a whole bucket. But it was always better than being at home.”
