Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,40

equally as charismatic, and at least a third larger. He’s got the gold medal, hands down.

The men shift to the back of the stage as the announcer fills in time while scores are tallied.

The crowd is on fire, and they begin clapping and stomping in unison, encouraging the bodybuilders on stage to resume posing.

Max is one of the first to comply, and the others have to quickly jump forward to join in.

This move could help him if the judges are still considering placements. The old-school scores are all about muscle development, but increasingly, the judges consider the marketability of a bodybuilder and how they help bring in spectators.

Finally, a runner takes the card up to the announcer, and the crowd quiets down.

“In third place, for the bronze medal…” The announcer pauses while the requisite hot girl in heels can approach with the medal. “Goes to number seven, Max Pickle.”

I jump from my seat. Holy cow, he’s placed. At this level, you don’t have to win the gold to move up. He will be eligible for next week’s national qualifier. Dang. My ears ring with my own shrieking for his win as he strikes his pose.

After a moment, I realize I’m the only one left screaming for Max, and I drop into my chair.

A woman two seats down reaches out to bump my arm. “Girl, I’d be hollering too if he was my man.” The woman on the other side of her nods.

True.

But he’s not mine. Not yet.

Max steps back. The silver medal is awarded to one of the well-developed men with a decent stage act.

And as expected, the crowd favorite wins the gold medal.

The three medalists step forward for one more pose, and I smile when Max does Most Muscular. He’s already figured out he needs to work the crowd based on what they love.

He walks off the stage, leaving the winner to be joined by the gold medalists of the other categories for their final posedown and grand champion.

I don’t want to stay for this. I want to get to Max. Since he didn’t win, he won’t have the photo shoot. He’s free for the night.

I bump my way out of the row before the winners get on stage and burst through the back doors.

My rainbow Converse slap along the shining floors down the length of the rotunda to the door leading backstage. I flash my vendor pass at the security guard and rush to the back room where the competitors line up.

Max’s things are still in their spot by the wall. I stop in the middle of the room, where a few competitors are hanging out. Where is he?

I turn and see him wander through the door, shaking the hands of the other heavyweights. I careen into him and wrap my arms around his neck.

“You placed! You placed!”

He grasps my waist and spins me in a circle. “I did! Who’d have thought it!”

His body is slick with oil, but I don’t care. I’m so excited for him, and I don’t want to let him go.

We walk arm in arm back to his bag.

“I think we should celebrate!” I say.

“Me too. As soon as I can get all this gunk off me.”

Max Pickle naked in the shower. That’s a vision.

He squeezes my hand. “I think something decadent might be in order since I can technically eat carbs on competition day. Some Italian? A steakhouse?”

“Anything you want.”

He pulls on his jacket. “I should go easy on the carbs. I don’t even know what’s next.”

“Well, you qualified for the next level, which happens in one week. That one is a national qualifier.”

He shrugs. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re working toward being a professional bodybuilder. Sponsors. Traveling. The whole thing!”

He pulls on his pants, his eyes down. “It’s a lot to take in. I have a deli to run.”

“You know what. Don’t worry about the future. Let’s celebrate today,” I say.

“Now that I can do.” He shoulders his bag, and we walk hand-in-hand out to the parking lot.

“You have your car here?” Max asks.

“Yeah. Did you want to meet at a restaurant or something?”

My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. Max is more important.

He punches his remote to unlock a sleek blue sports car. “We could meet at my place. It’s a bit of a haul from here, but not too far from you.”

Before I can answer, Max’s phone buzzes.

Then mine again. Then his.

“What the hell’s going on?” Max digs his phone out of his pocket.

I glance down at mine.

When we