On Powerlifting: Some things are more important than making weight
I was fidgeting. I always fidget as the preworkout kicks in. With the wind ripping through my hair, I uselessly tried to clumsily wrap it into a bun, only to have tendrils snake their way out again.
I squeeze his giant hand with my little fingers. The universal sign for “you’re fucking up my hair, slow down.” He drops his foot harder onto the accelerator.
Men.
My phone makes an unfamiliar chime. Shit, I forgot to turn off my ringer. In my distracted state I turn the slim object over, feeling the silky smooth metal under the pads of my fingertips. The flash across the screen screams 6 missed calls from my brother.
Strange. He never calls.
