Dean Jessop stood over Chris Brooker, spotting the man as he lowered three hundred and fifty pounds towards his chest. Chris handled the weight easily, lifted it, lowered it again. By the ninth press, Dean saw the strain begin, and he leaned over his friend.
“You got this, man. Three more.”
Chris’ massive arms shook, every muscle defined and cut. He did two more reps, struggled on the last one. Dean helped him set the bar back on the holder and Chris sat up, stretching his chest.
“God,” he said. “I’m getting old, man. I used to be able to do that, no problem.”
Jim grinned as he taped his hands. “That’s why I stick to the punching bag. No showing me up when I can’t struggle through twelve reps.”
“Yeah, you may be on to something,” Chris mused as he wiped down the bench. “Or maybe I’ll
