Bad Rep

ONE

I hold my breath, too afraid to look down, but I know I have to do this quick. Reluctantly, I look down, absolute dread washing over me, tightening my stomach and my throat.

Forty-two.

I knew it was going to be bad, I just didn't think it was going to be this bad.

The door to the back room bursts open and I quickly scramble, nearly tripping over my own two feet to get my shoes back on.

"What are you doing, Claire?" Eli, my boyfriend-of-two-and-a-half-years-turned-fiancé, asks. Hands on his hips, he tries to regain his breath, swiping at the sweat peppered across his brow with the hem of his shirt.

"N-nothing," I stutter.

He rips off his sweat drenched shirt and kicks off his shoes, stepping up to the scale I just stood on moments ago. I'm absolutely mortified as he blatantly glances at the number on the screen that hasn't disappeared yet, displaying my weight.

When the screen finally clears, he steps onto the scale and anxiously awaits for the numbers to settle on the screen. After five seconds the numbers still, blinking twice to show his official weight.

Eli curses under his breath. Frustrated, he steps off the scale and sheds his gym shorts and even his socks. When he's down to just his boxers, he steps back onto the scale once it clears.

"Fuck!" he seethes, stepping off the scale and tugging back on his clothes. From his reaction I can tell he hasn't cut as much weight as he wanted to for the meet.

For the past five weeks, Eli has been obsessed with losing fifteen pounds to drop a weight class to compete with Rhodes York, one of the best power lifters in the area. Eli has been fixated on beating him for years now, ever since I started dating him. Apparently, he's had a rivalry with Rhodes since high school when they were on the wrestling team together. Then they both started powerlifting after high school and have kept up since. I personally don't understand why Eli is busting his ass to drop a weight class to compete with him anyway. Since he's a cheater.

Early on, when they first started competing and before I was even in the picture, Rhodes failed a drug test before one of their biggest competitions and it's been rumored he's been using steroids ever since. Apparently, he has connections to cover it up so he can still compete.

As Eli finishes tugging on his clothes, I sneak a quick peek at the scale to see that he's point two pounds off. He slips his shoes back on and exits the back room of the gym to go run some more laps around the building in the blistering heat and spit into a cup every ten seconds to try to shed that point two ponds before the competition this afternoon.

Once he's gone, I close the door, taking off my shoes one more time and stepping on the scale. The numbers take forever to load, but I'm still as disappointed as the first time.

Forty-two pounds. In the course of just over a year, I've gained forty-two pounds. Disgust, horror, and utter humiliation coils my stomach and I feel sick.

I step off the scale and take a few steps over to view myself in the full length mirror, feeling even more disgusted with myself. I haven't truly looked at myself in the mirror in a long time, and I'm shocked at the huge difference I notice. I twist and turn, looking at my body at different angles, hating the way it looks every time. Especially my stomach.

Once upon a time, I had abs. I had a flat stomach, toned arms and legs, and one chin instead of two. Emphasis on the word had. Before the accident.

A little over a year ago, I was in a car wreck. With the number of bruises and broken bones I sustained, I was unable to hit the gym for a few months—a place I frequented at least once a day with Eli—due to doctors' orders. I know during those early months of having to be a couch potato I lost some muscle, since I had no other choice but to rest, but I didn't realize how much fat I gained.