Imperfect Fit

Chapter 1-First Crack of Dawn

My foot taps to the Lizzo song playing. The urge to believe it's a sign that I should be here is strong. My personal anthem—that, by no coincidence, has been on repeat from my Bad Bitch playlist for three weeks straight now—blares out of the speakers at this exact moment. However, the familiarity of Lizzo's blunt support —and why I've been leaning on her so much—isn't as overwhelming as my distaste of getting sweaty in front of a bunch of strangers.

Normally, I consider myself a positive person, yet I can't stop feeling scornful at the other participants and patrons milling around, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; some even have the audacity to be laughing at this hour!

There is an obvious difference between the regular gym rats versus those of us participating in this challenge... but even the regular Joes seem to have an understanding of the outfit requirements. Most are in shorts or leggings paired with fitted T-shirts or tanks, regardless of their age.

Snickering from a couple of girls nearby reaches my ears. Their critical eyes travel over my outfit.

Jokes on them. I don't even own workout clothes. My oversized hoodie and camo sweats also serve as pajamas.

Focusing on the lyrics of the song still playing, I square my shoulders and face them. They turn away, whispering and giggling as a third valley girl joins them. I know I don't belong here, but I'll be damned if they think they can mean-girl me.

"At least the music's decent. I thought they played rage music in gyms." I glance at Quique bent over at the waist, stretching.

"I think you're going to really like the atmosphere of this gym and the staff. My buddy, Zeke, loves working here. Everyone is chill, well, except the owner... es un poco malhumorado," he says, standing upright warning me of temperamental bigwig. "I hardly see him when I come in, but my advice is to stay on his good side if he's part of this boot camp." I roll my eyes when he shudders for effect.

More people are here now, and begin stretching. Warming up is a good idea. I nod to myself and step onto the nearest treadmill. The machine buzzes under my feet when I turn it on, the belt begins to move, and I begin to walk.

Not so bad. Although, I can't say I'm a fan of the unnecessary bouncing of my chest or jiggling of my thighs. The large hoodie and camo sweats were not a terrible idea after all.

I sweep up the black strands brushing my shoulders —I love this new cut— and assemble them into a haphazard bun. My fingers push my glasses up my nose then slide my oversized sleeves up my arms. A pinching and tightening sensation begins to radiate from my shins and a slight burn builds in my calves. My breathing starts to pick up.

I never said I was in shape. More like well-padded and durable. A late bloomer, I was happy with my curves, until a few weeks ago—three to be exact.

"How fast can you run?" Quique asks, standing off to the side and crosses his arms with a smirk.

An unlady-like snort escapes me and I roll my eyes. "Please! If my life depended on running, then that would be the end of me."

He chuckles. "You play soccer or shoot hoops at your family gatherings, so I assumed you were like a high school athlete or something."

"Just because I like playing a sport doesn't mean I'm athletic."

His eyes light up as he steps closer. "Let's see how fast you can run."

Screw that.

I shake my head, laughing. "If you want to take me out before this stupid thing even begins, sure."

He presses a button. With an ominous tone, the treadmill accelerates, forcing my legs to move faster. The jiggles increase, but the pace is not too bad. I can handle this for a minute or two.