Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,72

I have about fifteen minutes.”

“Exactly. Let’s get you out of these sweats so I can prep you. It’s gonna be tight on time.”

We awkwardly work together as I hold the bag to his eye, and he peels out of his pants and jacket.

Amy arrives as I’m folding up his clothes.

She’s pink-cheeked and harried. “How bad is it?”

Max pulls the ice pack away from his face.

“Oh, my God. I can’t believe Franklin did that.”

“Of course you can,” I say.

“I’m resigning as his coach. I’m not going to have that sort of behavior between my clients.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “We can sort this later.”

“You can get him disqualified for this.” Amy sets Max’s bag down beside him.

“We’re not going to get him thrown out,” Max says. “It was a reaction to us lying to him. It’s perfectly reasonable.”

Amy huffs. “Your definition of reasonable and mine are not the same.”

I pull the ice away from Max and pat his skin dry. “I can’t wait any longer. We’ll have to work with what we’ve got.”

I don’t know what it feels like for him as I press color on the discolored skin around his eye, but he’s one-hundred percent chill about it.

“That’s looking good,” Amy says.

I smooth the color, set it with powder, and blend out some highlights and shadows so it looks more natural.

“You think I should do the other eye to match? I’m worried it will be obvious when the lights hit it.”

“Less is more,” Amy says. “Besides. You’re out of time.”

She’s right.

I lean over and give Max a soft kiss. “Put all this from your mind. Focus on what you need to do up there.”

He gives me an easy grin. “I got this. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

Max takes off for the backstage. I collect his things, and Amy and I rush to make it to the auditorium before the heavyweights go on.

We don’t bother trying to find the Pickles, and we definitely don’t look for Franklin or the gym crew. We slide into the back row and sink low in our seats.

Amy squeezes my arm. “Are you okay?”

“A little shaky. But I’m all right.”

We’ve barely made it. The first heavyweight comes out, the one who won last time.

“Damn, he looks good,” Amy says.

“You ever date a bodybuilder?”

“No. I try not to mix business and pleasure.” She elbows me.

Yeah, I know.

Max is near the middle again, and his entrance is heralded by a roar from the left side of the audience. I glance over and squint in the dim light. The Pickles and the gym crew aren’t sitting together, but they are close. Franklin isn’t among them.

I want to know where he is, but I don’t dare text.

Amy leans in. “It’s not too obvious. I think you’d have to know to see it.”

I focus on Max. With the intense lights casting varied shadows, and Max’s continuous movement, it isn’t super obvious while he’s posing.

But as soon as he goes to stand with the other competitors who have finished their routines, I feel like it’s perfectly clear that one eye looks different from the other.

My anxiety ratchets up as we get closer to the end. They often hold their form during the final posedown. His eye is going to jump out. Will the judges notice? Will they care?

But when all the competitors come forward on the stage, it’s not as bad as I think. He got lucky in the lighting placements.

Maybe we’re going to pull this off.

As the judges rearrange the competitors, I realize I don’t even know how Franklin did. His scores should have been announced well before we came into the audience.

But I’m not sure I care. After what he did, I’m not even going to tan him anymore. Amy’s ditched him, too. If he keeps advancing, or even if he continues to do the opens, he’ll have to find a new team.

And pay for his own damn tans.

The judges finally send the men to the back of the stage while they tally the numbers.

Amy sits back. “He looks good up there. He may not be huge, but he’s beautiful.”

I see what she means. If these were male models instead of bodybuilders, Max would win hands down. He’s gorgeous, friendly, charismatic. And built. His skin is taut, veiny where it should be and smooth in all the right places. His symmetry is perfect. And of course, his tan is exactly right.

But this isn’t a modeling competition. It’s about muscle mass. And he isn’t even in the top ten for size.

I have