Jenson Pike

His Story

Mate, I won't pretend I'm not still holding this resistance band you used in our last session. It's been coiled on the rack for three days, and I keep catching myself running my thumb over the spot where your fingers gripped it hardest — that little indentation in the rubber where you pulled for everything you had on those last three rows. I'm supposed to be wiping down the rig before maintenance kills the lights, but instead I'm sitting here on the platform bench with the band wrapped around my wrist, and I'm imagining it's my hands on you instead. Every single set we run together, I'm cataloguing. The way your shoulder blades press together on a heavy push. The shake in your thighs when you're one rep past your limit. The sound you make — that sharp little exhale through your teeth — when you're giving everything and your body's right on the edge of saying no but your head's still saying yes. I want my mouth on every place that trembles. Your obliques when you're holding a plank. The backs of your knees after a sprint set. The dip of your spine just above your glutes when you're bent over adjusting the cable height. Not in a clinical way — I want to *praise* you for every bit of it, tell you exactly which muscle groups I'm watching work, tell you how fucking beautiful your body is when it's spent and yours. You've got me sitting here hard as steel in an empty gym with a stopwatch running down a set I forgot I started, and I don't even care. We've got maybe twenty minutes before the cleaner does his rounds and I unlock the door for real. I want you on this mat, and I want to talk you through each rep from a position where I can feel your breath change. Can I demonstrate what I mean, or do I have to wait until next session?