Chapter 23

  Date #1 - The Yoga Rat

  The gym doors slam shut behind me, loud enough to sound like a dare. The noise hits instantly—weights clanging, treadmills humming, the occasional primal grunt of someone in a war against gravity. Overhead fluorescents burn bright, no mercy, exposing everything—the gleam of polished dumbbells, sweat sliding down foreheads, the sheer, raw determination etched into every mirrored reflection.

  It’s a shrine to effort. And I’m the guy who forgot to bring an offering.

  My sneakers betray me with a loud, awkward squeak as I shuffle inside, hoodie yanked up like a security blanket. A few lifters glance over, unreadable expressions, but I can feel the silent judgment. What’s the dude with the coffee doing here?

  Yeah. Still clutching my cup. The ultimate outsider flex in this holy land of protein shakes and pre-workout chugs.

  Machines sprawl out before me, all steel and cables—less “fitness equipment” and more “medieval torture.” Treadmills drone in unison, a relentless rhythm that only makes my nerves worse. The whole place feels like I accidentally queued for an MMO raid with zero gear and no strategy.

  “This is not how I imagined a date…” I mutter, barely a ripple in the gym’s roar.

  My free hand jams into my pocket, fake confidence mode activated. But every step still feels like a spotlight’s tracking me—coffee in hand, zero clue in my head.

  I’ve been out of my element before. First time I picked up a guitar, my hands shook so bad I could barely scrape out a chord. But this? No melody to lean on here. No rhythm to follow. Just the crash of weights and the steady, pounding thud of sneakers against rubber belts.

  You’ll do great, mijo. Abuela’s voice from this morning drifts back, her faith in me solid as ever. Like believing in me was as natural as breathing. She wouldn’t recognize this guy—standing here, coffee in hand, looking like he clicked the wrong spawn point.

  The cup’s lukewarm now, cooling along with my resolve. I could bail. Call it a bad idea. But then I remember why I’m here.

  Her.

  Alicia. The yoga instructor with the kind of impossible optimism that makes you question your own life choices. The one who somehow convinced me this would be—her words, not mine—“fun.”

  “It’s not a date,” I mumble, as if saying it out loud will make it true. But the knot in my stomach doesn’t loosen.

  I scan the machines again, their sleek, metallic frames gleaming under the harsh lights. A different kind of rhythm, she said. Sure. Feels more like a battle march.

  “Carlos?”

  Her voice cuts through the chaos, light and effortless. I turn, and there she is—Alicia.

  She moves like she belongs here, like the whole gym bends to her pace. Leggings, tank top, ponytail bouncing with each step. Not just glowing—radiating. That post-workout energy that practically shouts, I own this space.

  “You made it.” She stops in front of me, smiling. Then her gaze flicks down to the cup in my hand. “Bold choice for a pre-workout.”

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  I glance at it. Then at her. “Figured this looked less out of place than a Monster.”

  She laughs, quick and warm. “Well, you’re definitely making a statement.”

  “I like to stand out,” I deadpan.

  She tilts her head, smirking, like she’s trying to decide if I’m serious. “Relax. Nobody’s judging you.”

  I arch a brow. “Really? Because I’ve seen enough gym memes to know rookies get roasted.”

  Her grin widens, eyes sparking with mischief. “Only if they do something spectacularly dumb. Like trying to deadlift while holding a coffee cup.”

  I glance at my cup again. Then set it down on the nearest bench. “Got it. No multitasking.”

  The yoga section feels like a completely different dimension—like I’ve stepped through a portal from Gym Chaos into Tranquil Mind Palace. The hum of cardio machines and the clank of weights fade into a distant murmur, replaced by soft, diffused lighting and an air so thick with lavender it’s practically a personality.

  Too calm. Suspiciously calm. Like the eerie silence before a horror movie jump scare.

  My sneakers betray me immediately, letting out a high-pitched squeak against the polished floor. A couple of people stretching on their mats glance over. I duck my head, shoving my hands deeper into my hoodie pockets like that’ll somehow make me blend in. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

  “Here we are,” Alicia says, glancing back at me as she moves ahead with the effortless grace of someone who actually belongs here.

  She’s in full Zen-warrior mode—yoga mat slung over one shoulder like a shield, sleek black leggings and a loose top flowing with every step. Meanwhile, I feel like an out-of-place NPC who accidentally wandered into the wrong cutscene. The lavender scent intensifies as she stops in front of me, and for a second, I wonder if it’s coming from her. Wouldn’t be surprised. She radiates the kind of energy that makes people believe in things like healing crystals and gratitude journaling.

  “This section’s quieter—good for beginners,” she says, her voice all smooth and reassuring, like one of those sleep meditation apps. She flashes a quick smile, the kind that sneaks past your defenses before you can react.

  “You good?” she asks, tilting her head.

  “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. It comes out rough, like I’ve been chewing on sandpaper. Nice. Real smooth. If Alicia notices, she’s kind enough not to comment.

  Her gaze flicks over me—hoodie, sneakers, the overwhelming rookie energy I’m probably radiating. She doesn’t say anything, but I see the quiet understanding in her expression. Like she already knows I don’t belong here but isn’t going to call me out on it.

  “You’re early,” she says, and there’s something almost approving in her tone, like I’ve managed to do one thing right.

  I shrug, rubbing the back of my neck. “Figured I’d, uh… get a feel for the place.” I gesture vaguely at the mats, hoping it comes off as casual and not just wildly unprepared.

  Her lips twitch in amusement. “First time in a gym?”

  “That obvious?” I shoot back, forcing a grin.

  She chuckles—soft, genuine. Somehow that makes me feel even more like an imposter. “Not really. You just look… out of your element.”

  “Story of my life,” I mutter. Apparently, not quietly enough, because she smirks like she finds that relatable.

  She unrolls her mat with a crisp that sounds absurdly loud in the hush of the room. “So, what made you decide to come here?”

  I hesitate. The real answer feels too personal to toss out in casual conversation, so I go with the vague-but-technically-honest route. “Needed a change of pace. Thought this might be… different.”

  Alicia raises an eyebrow, studying me like she can hear all the words I

  say. “Different can be good. Or terrifying.”

  “Sometimes both,” I admit, surprising myself.

  She nods like I just dropped some ancient wisdom. “Well, this is a good place to start. The yoga section’s more forgiving than the weight room.”

  I glance toward the main floor, where lifters and athletes move with the effortless confidence of people who were knowing how to deadlift. The idea of stepping into that arena feels like challenging a boss fight I’m nowhere near leveled up for.

  “Forgiving sounds perfect,” I say.

  Alicia laughs softly, warm and easy. “You’ll be fine. It’s not about perfection. It’s about showing up and doing the work.”

  Her words settle between us—simple, steady, way more comforting than they have any right to be. I exhale, tension in my shoulders easing slightly. The nervous energy still buzzes under my skin, but maybe—I didn’t completely screw up my first encounter. Although, it’s not much of a spawn point.