Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,13

other winners stride out onto the stage. And he shouldn’t. He’s in the largest category, so he is going to have the most well-developed physique.

I settle back in my chair, enjoying the show. It’s usually the spectators’ favorite part. All the winners in each class do open posing, trying to impress the judges. The music pulses, and the crowd claps along.

I can’t take my eyes off Max. He’s obviously never done this before and has not been prepped. He keeps gazing from side-to-side, doing whatever the others do. Somehow, it’s even more endearing that he’s a little lost, and soon a chant for, “Max! Max! Max!” breaks out.

Eventually the music cuts and the judges’ callouts begin. Three numbers are called, and of course Max is one of them. As the heavyweight contender, that would be expected.

The judges request poses in rapid succession.

Max is back in known territory, moving fluidly through the poses. The tingles I felt earlier in the day return, and I know I’m probably not alone. Many of the women are shifting uncomfortably in their chairs as we watch the men display their perfect physiques. Max’s overwhelmingly handsome face and charming smile are winning over the crowd.

It’s no surprise when Max is named the overall winner for the entire competition. I want to run up to him as the crowd crushes forward. But Franklin is already on stage shaking his hand, and I don’t want to clue my brother in to my interest.

Besides, several men in suits are already approaching Max. He’s going to have sponsors.

He can’t get a pro card from this small of a show, but he will undoubtedly be selected for the invite-only one in two weeks.

Max Pickle is leveling up.

But what makes me smile as I exit the row and head toward the door is one important fact.

If Max is going to keep competing, he’s going to need more tans.

7

Max

The day after the competition is surreal.

I sit at my desk in the office at L.A. Pickle, the family deli I own, sorting through emails and contracts for sponsorship offers in bodybuilding.

I didn’t expect any of this. Not to win. Not to move up so quickly.

I’m simultaneously thrilled and concerned. Franklin seems stoked for me, but I have to wonder if he doesn’t resent my immediate success.

And I do have this restaurant to run. My focus was already divided when I was training. Now it will be even more fractured.

A knock at the door drags me from these concerns. I swivel in my chair. “Come in.”

The door opens. It’s Angelo, an employee who works the sandwich line.

“What’s up?” I ask him.

Angelo fingers a blue, pink, and white striped bracelet, pulling it from beneath his plastic glove. He’s a pistol and fun to have on staff. “We had an early run on the bread of the month,” he says. “Miranda’s wondering if she should bake more or if we let it go for today.”

I glance at the clock. It’s only eleven-thirty. The biggest part of the lunch run will come late on a Sunday. “I think we have time to do another batch.”

“I’ll tell her.”

As he’s about to turn away, I ask, “Does she need help? Should I scrub up?”

Angelo gives me a grin. “You know what Miranda’s like with her bread. I’d stay far away and let her do her business.”

I give him a salute. “Point taken. I leave it in her very competent hands. Thanks for paying attention.”

He mimics my salute. “I’ll let you know if we need your help in the afternoon. We are short one with Andre out.”

My manager is off today. “I’m at your service,” I say.

He gives me a grin and heads out.

I spin back to the computer. I shouldn’t sit in here thinking about bodybuilding. When I’m at work, I should focus on the deli.

Besides, we close early on Sundays. I’ll have plenty of time to get my workout in and confer with Franklin about my next move.

We didn’t plan for this possibility. I assumed I would have a whole month before the next small competition in San Bernardino. But now it looks like I won’t be attending that one at all. After winning and getting invited to a regional contest, I’m not even eligible for the beginner meet.

I’m doing it again. Thinking about bodybuilding when I should be worried about pickles.

I head out to the kitchen.

Miranda is well into mixing another batch of dough. She works it so hard and fast that the black knot of hair on