I’m dripping sweat. So’s Chad. And lobster-faced with it. Hopefully, I’m not quite the same beetroot-hue as he is, but that may be wishful thinking.
The rock playlist batters out its last blast of percussion, then falls to silence.
Chad tugs up his tee, mopping at his face, then chugs from his water-bottle. “Something calmer to cool down to?”
“Sounds good to me.”
No one has to concede defeat…
Thus, honour is served…
Then, feeling a bit sheepish…
Don’t be so damn silly…
Chad taps at his phone. More mellow tunes roll out from the speakers, melodic in the echoing acoustics of the gym. Something from the Eighties. Could be the Bee Gees. Maybe Dire Straits.
In a kind of mutual, if unspoken, disarmament, we ease our pace, dropping to a jog then, as muscles cool and faces stream, to a l
