Fatty's Court

Chapter Two: Is She Playing Me?

School ended for the day. Harry’s home was about 3 kilometers away from campus. Usually, he would hail a taxi, but since he had decided to lose weight... he would run home.

Harry took off, his massive frame lumbering along the road. After barely making it 500 meters, he passed the outdoor basketball courts and saw Charlie Logan playing a pickup game with some other classmates.

Harry thought to himself: Maybe I should play basketball too.

Half an hour later, Harry finally completed his "Long March." By the time he arrived home, he was completely wrecked. Thank god I called Mom beforehand, he thought, panting. Otherwise, the neighbors would definitely think I was being chased by a pack of rabid dogs.

It was already 6:00 PM when he stumbled through the front door. By the time he had showered and eaten dinner, it was 7:00 PM.

Normally, Harry would have locked himself in his room to play Dota, but since he had resolved to cut down on gaming and focus on his health... he couldn't stop now.

Harry grabbed his wallet and headed out, mounting his bicycle (a custom model, thankfully very sturdy). He pedaled toward the Titan Fitness Center, which was about 5 kilometers from his house.

Titan Fitness was the largest gym in the district. It wasn't just a weight room; it had state-of-the-art equipment, professional coaches, and even rehabilitation tutorials for athletes.

After a grueling 20-minute ride—another fierce battle for his legs—Harry finally arrived.

He parked his bike and walked inside. The gym was packed. It was peak hour; city dwellers were busy with work during the day and could only crowd into the gym at night to burn off stress.

A staff member at the front desk stepped forward and asked politely, "Welcome, sir. Do you have a membership card?"

Harry hesitated for a moment. "No."

"Would you like to register, or perhaps purchase a day pass to try it out first?"

"I'll sign up for a six-month membership," Harry said decisively.

After completing the transaction and paying the fees, Harry asked the attendant, "I need some help... Can you recommend a personal trainer? Preferably someone who knows how to handle... this." He gestured to his body.

The attendant smiled politely but apologetically. "We have three senior coaches here, but their schedules are fully booked. I don't think they can squeeze anyone else in."

Harry felt a pang of disappointment.

Then, the attendant spoke up again. "Actually, do you see that woman over there in the yellow running gear?"

Harry looked.

"She’s a yoga instructor who just started here recently. Perhaps she meets your requirements. You could go ask her."

Harry squinted. She was tall, at least 5'9" (175cm), with a physique that was toned and athletic. She looked intimidating.

Wouldn't it be too abrupt to just walk up and ask? Harry thought. Will I look like a creep hitting on her?

But then he remembered: I’ve already died once. What is there to be afraid of? Rejection? At worst, it’ll just be a little embarrassing.

Steelng himself, Harry stepped forward and approached her. "Hello. Excuse me, I’d like to hire you as my fitness coach. Is that okay?"

The woman looked Harry up and down, her expression unreadable. She bluntly stated, "My fees are very high."

Harry blinked, intimidated, but pressed on timidly. "How expensive?"

She grinned, a sly look in her eyes. "Very expensive."

Harry swallowed hard but shamelessly asked, "Is the price... negotiable?"

Upon hearing this, the woman stopped the treadmill she was warming up on. She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and looked Harry in the eye. "If you want me to be your coach, get on this treadmill and run until I tell you to stop."

"Deal," Harry said.

He stepped onto the machine. He adjusted the speed and pressed start. He felt a bit silly, but secretly pleased with himself for securing a chance.

The treadmill wasn't set very fast—only about 6 miles per hour (10 km/h)—so at first, Harry ran quite easily.

However, while he was focusing on his feet, the woman turned around and walked into the locker room. Moments later, she emerged in her street clothes, grabbed her bag, and walked straight out the front door without looking back.

Through the large glass windows facing the parking lot, Harry watched as a car pulled up. She got in, and the car drove away without even a glance in his direction.

Harry was stunned. You have got to be kidding me!

I was so naive. I was played so easily.

Harry's heart sank. He looked at the emergency stop button. She's gone. What is the purpose of staying here?

To lose weight!

Yes, he reminded himself. Running will definitely help me lose weight. There's no need to stop just because someone tricked me. Her leaving doesn't change the physics of burning calories.

Harry pulled his hand back from the stop button and continued running.

As he ran, Harry observed his surroundings. He realized he seemed to be the only heavily overweight person there. Looking at the fit bodies around him, Harry felt a pang of envy and secretly made a vow: I will look like that one day.

Unknowingly, Harry had run for 5 minutes—over half a mile. Adding the run from school and the bike ride, this was a massive feat for someone who had been sedentary for 18 years. For a man of his size, the exertion was already becoming a heavy burden.

Harry was just an ordinary fat man. Sweat was already pouring off him, soaking his clothes completely. He was giving it his all, refusing to give up, choosing to suffer in silence.

10 minutes: Harry's legs felt like lead. His form deteriorated significantly, and his breathing became loud and ragged.

20 minutes: Harry felt a burning heat in his knees. This was dangerous; for someone so overweight, running this long put tremendous strain on the joints. But he bit his lip and kept moving.

30 minutes: Harry was gasping. His breathing was so loud that people on nearby machines began to stare.

The friendly attendant from the front desk approached him, looking concerned. "Sir? Would you like me to stop the treadmill for you?"

Harry didn't answer. He just shook his head.

The attendant paused, then tried again. "With this level of intensity... it's very easy to injure yourself."

Harry shook his head again, sweat flying. The attendant glanced at him one last time, sighed, and walked away.

40 minutes: Harry's face was turning pale. He was running on pure will now, his arms swinging mechanically. Even the treadmill belt seemed to groan under the sustained abuse. His mind was blank, slipping into a state of numbness. The burning sensation in his throat was unbearable; he was incredibly dry.

50 minutes: Although Harry’s steps were becoming increasingly unsteady, stumbling occasionally, he showed no intention of stopping. By now, everyone in the gym had noticed the new guy—the big guy who wouldn't quit.

Suddenly, a bottle of sports drink appeared in front of Harry’s face.

Harry thought it was a hallucination. He shook his head to clear his vision and looked again. It was indeed a bottle, the cap already removed, with a straw thoughtfully inserted so he could drink while moving.

Harry looked to see who was holding it. It was the front desk attendant again. The young man gently nodded, signaling Harry to take a sip.

Harry lowered his head slightly, took a deep, ragged breath, and wrapped his lips around the straw.

He took two large gulps. The cold liquid hit his system like high-octane fuel.

He immediately felt like he could fight another 200 rounds. Of course, that was impossible—the tension in his limbs hadn't actually improved—but the water soothed his burning throat and settled his panic. He wasn't alone.