Previous Part: Trainer on Top – Part 1
Reels and Resistance Bands
Mondays in Kinetics were chaos. Everyone wanted to burn the weekend off their bodies — cheat meals, missed steps, excess guilt. The cardio machines beeped like a casino floor. The AC sputtered against the collective heat of 40 gym bros. Dumbbells clicked. Water bottles rolled.
Arjun was everywhere. Wiping sweat. Refilling sanitisers. Unjamming the rowing machine for the third time. And, of course, dodging Tara’s voice, which sliced through the air like an overused whistle.
“Why is there chalk on the floor?”
“Why is the fan pointed at the leg press, not the cross trainer?”
“Who approved the playlist? It sounds like a dhaba.”
Arjun smiled without smiling. Nodded. Fixed what she demanded.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Then there was the mid-morning lull. Then came the click of white sneakers and a rush of citrus perfume. Kaviya. Fitness micro-influencer. Student at Mount Carmel College.
Roughly 8,200 followers. All hungry for mirror selfies and tips she stole from American reels and pretended were her own.
“Hey,” she chirped, spinning her ponytail like it held Wi-Fi signal. “Arjun, help me set up the band tension again?”
He nodded, stepping into frame because there was always a frame with Kaviya. Her tripod. Her ring light. Her iPhone that recorded vertically — always vertically — and cut out half his face.
He crouched and adjusted the resistance band. She bent over dramatically, pretending to examine his work. Her hips swayed, and when she rose again, she smiled in a way that made the corner of his mouth twitch.
“Your form’s improving,” he offered.
She winked. “My glutes thank you.”
Ten minutes of exercises followed — mostly squats and hip bridges. She moaned softly after each rep, dramatically arching her back. Every fourth or fifth set, she’d “accidentally” press too close while adjusting her camera or tugging his elbow to correct him.
Finally, she dragged him to the corner with the medicine balls.
“Content idea,” she whispered. “Let’s do ‘partner lifts.’”
He hesitated. She didn’t.
She stepped in front of him, lifted his arms, and pressed her chest against his back. “Like this.” Then she grabbed both his wrists and squatted. Slow. Intentional. “Now you go.”
He swallowed hard. They did four reps. By the fifth, her breath was hot on his neck. By the sixth, she was biting her lower lip every time he pulled. And by the seventh — he didn’t care who was watching.
“Want to do one more set?” he asked, hoarse.
“No,” she whispered. “Wanna do something else?”
She pulled him by the wrist into the storage room.
No camera. No filter.
Just her. Him. And the buzz of the cooler unit.
She shoved a towel off the bench and climbed on top, legs spread like an invitation.
He hesitated. “Kaviya…”
“Shut up.”
He didn’t need more convincing. They kissed hard — like they were trying to erase the gym from the outside world. Her hands tore at his polo, and her fingers slid under her sports bra. He dropped to his knees. Tugged at her leggings, pulled them down mid-thigh.
She gasped as he kissed the inside of her thighs, teeth grazing lightly. Then he stood, positioned himself, and entered her in one smooth motion. She moaned his name. He didn’t last long. But neither did she.
Their rhythm was fast, messy, unscripted. They finished almost at the same time, panting in the dim blue light of the storeroom. After a minute of silence, she reached for her phone.
“Wait,” Arjun said. “Don’t record anything.”
She rolled her eyes. “Relax. I wasn’t going to.”
She didn’t kiss him when she left. Just winked again and disappeared down the corridor. He leaned against the doorframe. Still shirtless. Still stunned.
He was still trying to make sense of what had just happened. But there was no time to think. The door creaked open again — Tara’s voice rang out. “Arjun! Where the hell is the floor mat? I told you yesterday it stinks.”
He quickly pulled on his shirt, wiped his face, and stepped back into the hallway. The world hadn’t changed. Only his pulse had.
Later that evening, after closing time, Arjun sat alone near the front desk.
The gym was dark. Silent. But his head was loud.
Kaviya’s touch. Tara’s commands. Mrs Sharma’s scent. And that blue-orange glow in his memory. “4rabet.”
He opened his browser. Just looked. No sign-up. No bet. Just curiosity. Just a thought. Just a possibility. But something inside him whispered, Soon.
Back at his PG, Arjun sat by the window. He could hear the guys in the next room watching cricket, shouting every time their team hit a boundary. One of them had placed a bet online. Arjun heard him bragging all week.
“Just ₹200 became ₹1,600. Bro, I’m telling you, these apps are the future.”
Arjun had rolled his eyes earlier. Now he wasn’t so sure. He took out his phone.
Typed “4rabet” again. Browsed silently.
IPL banners. Live odds. A flashy welcome bonus. The site loaded fast even on slow Wi-Fi. He didn’t register. He didn’t even bookmark it. But his thumb hovered. Was this how it started?
Not with desperation. But with a win. Of a different kind. Earlier that day, he’d made a girl moan his name. No payment. No camera. No obligation. Just heat. And muscle.
And timing. Maybe he was finally figuring things out. Maybe power didn’t always come from birth or bank balance. Maybe it started here — under flickering lights and overused dumbbells. Maybe it started when someone like him looked someone like her in the eye and didn’t blink.
He shut the tab. Locked his phone. Sank back into the pillow. And smiled.
Because tomorrow was leg day, and maybe, just maybe, it was also the start of something more.
The next morning, he arrived at the gym before dawn. The air was still, the compound empty. He turned on the lights, swept the entry mat, and refilled the water station. The same routine — but he moved differently, like someone who’d won a silent bet with the universe.
By 7 a.m., the machines were humming again. Tara walked in wearing a lime-green crop top and headphones she didn’t use. She didn’t look at him. But her eyes flicked down his chest, just for a second.
Kaviya came later, all smiles and sunscreen, and whispered, “You free after work?” And Mrs Sharma, in her blazer and shades, asked him if he could come by for a private evening stretch session.
Arjun said yes to all of them. But inside? He was already planning something else. A future where he owned the gym. His name was on the glass door. And where everyone — even Tara — waited for his approval.