Bolton was stopped at the door by the nagging voice of his mother, ‘I’m not a piece of furniture ya know?’ 

          He sighed, dumped his gym bag and got to doing what she wanted. The eggs were cooked plated and delivered to the mouldy couch in two minutes flat. ‘I wanted porridge,’ she complained. 

          ‘You need the protein, Mum.’

          Whack. He should’ve seen the cane coming.

          Bolton hobbled back to the kitchen to make her porridge. Atrophied muscles or not, his mum knew how to damage a shin and he knew better than to make matters worse. He delivered the breakfast with the berries and cinnamon she’d ask for then finally left for Smash Fitness. 

Bolton took a moment as he entered to enjoy the gym’s bench press leaderboard. He was number 1 with 265kg from yesterday’s lift and now had a 20kg lead on second place. In a week’s time he’d win the shitty K-mart trophy and get three months of free entry. 

          ‘Hey, Bolts, hear the news?’ asked Davey from behind the counter.

          Oh God, thought Bolton, the pathetic manager of Smash Fitness always wanted to talk to him. Bolton was only kind to this weasel because Davey was nice to him at school. 

          ‘Rich worked out here last night,’ Davey announced. Bolton must’ve looked surprised because Davey went on with more enthusiasm, ‘he’s moved back in with his parents - there was some news story about it.’ 

          Bolton had read the headline, “Pro Weightlifter Moving Back to Glensden” in the local paper and heard stories of Rich’s money problems but he never thought he’d actually move back in with his parents. 

          ‘Another St. Judes alum back, we should get you guys both down to trivia sometime, right?’ posed Davey. 

          ‘I gotta look after my mother,’ answered Bolton before fleeing to the benches. 

As Bolton racked the bar he thought of Rich. Not that he was obsessed or anything, just that it was weird that they could’ve run into each other last night. Why would he even care about Rich, though? Rich was a compulsive gambler who ruined his career and marriage, Rich should be nervous seeing Bolton and all that he’s achieved while he’s been gone. He’s no longer that scrawny boy he knew in Year 12. 

          While imaging Rich flabbergasted by his new hulking physique, Bolton dropped a 20kg plate on his toe. He yelped and berated the plate for its stupidity which made the two wimpy teenagers using the leg press laugh. Or they laughed at something else at the same time and it was just a coincidence. It’s true they weren’t looking at the benches but no way, Bolton was sure they’d laughed at him.  

          He clocked them before not locking their legs out at each rep and almost felt bad for them, he was once weak and dumb too, but now that they’d laughed at him he hoped their knees buckled on their next set. 

          Bolton picked the weight back up with one hand trying not to think of the pain in his toe or those stupid teenagers. Then he saw them leave their machine without wiping the seat. 

          That did it.

          Bolton strided over to them. ‘Oi, kids,’ he spouted, ‘forgot to wipe, did ya?’ 

          The two teens looked at one another confused, giving Bolton time to notice and get a kick out of the fact his shadow was so large it covered them both. 

          The pimply one spoke up, ‘we sat on our towels, mate. There’s no sweat or nothing.’ 

          Bolton took a quick glance. Didn’t quite look wet but, what about proper etiquette, huh? 

          ‘Yeah, well your form was off, champs,’ Bolton said, ‘you’re supposed to lock your legs out after each rep.’ 

          ‘No you’re not,’ went the pimply one. 

          Bolton was so shocked by the gall of this wimp that he needed a moment before he sternly informed them that he was right as he’d been going to the gym for over a decade now. 

          ‘What about this?’ said the squeaky voiced one as he showed Bolton the Youtube tutorial they were following. According to the video the kids were right but the instructor wasn’t even as big as Bolton, maybe his legs were bigger, who really cares about legs anyways, top half is what matters and Bolton was definitely bigger there. 

          ‘Yeah, well, um,’ Bolton sputtered, ‘JUST WIPE THE FUCKING SEAT!’ 

          At that, the whole gym paused their workouts. Even the Katy Perry song that had been blasting out the speakers seemed to sense the moment and quieted down. All eyes were on the teens whose faces were now glowing red. 

          Bolton felt no shame, this was his gym. 

          ‘Okay, dude, chill,’ said the pimply one. 

          They wiped down the leg press and everyone went back to their workouts. 

Bolton, back at his bench, was so energised with anger toward the stubborn younger generation that he decided to try a 270kg lift. Yeah, he was sore from yesterday but it’d basically guarantee that he got the plastic trophy. 

          The bar descended to Bolton’s chest and it no longer felt 5kg heavier than his PB, it felt 30kg heavier. Bolton strained his head into a throbbing red melon, blood vessels along his neck expanded and his whole body contorted to give his chest as much leverage as possible but the bar didn’t go up an inch. 

          Davey rushed from the PT session he was instructing to save Bolton. As Davey clasped the metal Bolton saw the two teens, in his peripherals, migrating to a squat rack. 

          ‘Let go!’ shouted Bolton and without Davey’s help the bar slowly elevated against the tides of gravity and slammed back into the rack. 

          ‘Wow, Bolts, thought we almost lost you,’ said Davey only half jokingly. ‘Thought wrong,’ declared Bolton before he commanded Davey to update the leaderboard immediately, his PT client could wait. 

Bolton spent the next couple of hours by the mirror. He took the largest pair of dumbbells and hit a set of bicep curls, then flexed for 30 minutes thinking of how Mickey B had no way of lifting 270kg by the end of the month. Rich probably could but the competition rules stated you had to have registered by the first of the month to enter. Also, like, everyone knew Rich was juiced so his lifts shouldn’t even count anyway. Bolton barely took any of that stuff, he was basically natural and one of the few real weightlifters left out there. Yep, no doubt soon enough there’d be something new in his mum’s trophy cabinet for everyone to see. 

          He hit another set of bicep curls, this time grunting with each rep. Then back to flexing and imagining the cup in his hands. 

          He was about to start his back routine when he saw the two teenagers, on their way out, talking to an attendee and pointing in his direction. What bullshit were they pulling now? He should complain about them later, I mean just look at the difference in muscle mass and it becomes pretty obvious who was upholding gym etiquette and who wasn't. Despite his innocence, Bolton kept mulling the incident over till he got so pissy about those pathetic wimpy babies that he obliged his urge to do another set of bicep curls with even louder grunting and then admired himself for 30 more minutes. 

Later he got a lift home from Davey as his workout and the Smash Fitness manager’s shift ended conveniently at the same time. The whole trip Bolton readjusted his back against the Pergot’s small withered seats and gave non-answers to Davey’s invitations to his pub trivia team. 

          ‘My nephew is a nurse in training, I’m sure he could look after your mother for a night,’ Davey kept trying, ‘they also have this protein parma with good macros if you’re worried about the food. Oh, and Dicko is still such a pisser, he comes up with the best joke answers. I’m gonna ask Rich next time I see him.’ 

          Bolton entered his home laughing at the idea of him spending time with blokes who call themselves The JUGulars. I mean, hanging out with a bunch of old men who’ve amounted to nothing, that wouldn’t be him. 

          His laughter stopped when he clocked the good table cloth, a full ashtray and his mother washing dishes. 

          ‘Don’t strain yourself,’ Bolton urged as he took the baking tray from her hands. ‘What’d you even use this for?’ 

          ‘Sheryl just had to come over with that son of hers. He’s back.’ 

          ‘I heard,’ Bolton said sternly. 

          ‘That biggin ate like there were no tomorrow. Why don’t you see him and save me some money?’ 

          Bolton didn’t respond, he just scrubbed the baking tray harder. ‘You two were close way back when, ya know?’ his mother continued, ‘might be polite of you.’ 

          ‘We weren’t,’ Bolton said, slamming the tray into the rack. 

          ‘I’m sorry for suggesting such a horrible thing for my son to do. I guess you should hate your mother for trying to get you to socialise a little.’ She shook her head then added, ‘and you wonder why you have no friends.’ 

          Bolton scoffed and gave an eyeroll. He had plenty of friends. 

          In response his mother pulled her cane back threateningly. ‘You watch yourself, young man,’ she said, ‘I didn’t even want to see him but Richard was very nice. He asked a lot about your father.’ 

          ‘Wasn’t at the funeral though was he?’ 

          Whack. 

          ‘Go to your room!’ She yelled. 

          Bolton gave a look that said, ‘seriously?’ then saw in his mother’s eyes just how serious she was. He went, only cause actually he wanted to anyway, and slammed the door. 

He lied on his bed and took out his dad’s footy card for comfort. He’d bought it to show his father when he was in hospital and kept it to remind him of how he looked before the cancer. It wasn’t an easy find, a VFL card of a back pocket that only played three seasons at Footscray, but after enough eBay searches one came up. 

          Seeing his dad with the footy tucked under one arm and trying to fend off Ross Glendenning with the other reminded Bolton of his own junior footy and of Rich. 

          Bolton’s dad coached their team from Auskick to under 18s. Everyone liked him because he was one of only three people to ever make it professionally from Glensden. 

          At the under 14s club-night Bolton’s dad announced that the winner of the Best and Fairest would be captain of the team next year. Apparently rotating who took the toss each week was no longer good enough and there needed to be some on-field leadership. The team all expected Bolton would get it, he was pretty good and even at 14 everyone knew that Bolton’s dad just picked the order he thought was right and fixed the game-by-game votes to get that outcome. 

          Bolton finished 3rd to Zach the ruckman and next year’s captain, Rich. The whole car ride home his dad, who was a few beers deep, told him he should be proud of third and that the ribbon would go in the trophy cabinet. Bolton hated seeing it there and was determined to win something else so it could be replaced. He hadn’t yet, just because he lost interest in team sports, but soon enough it’d be gone. 

          After becoming captain Rich only got better at footy, mainly because of Bolton’s dad. He really believed Rich could make the AFL so most weekdays Rich would walk home from school with Bolton then do drills with Bolton’s dad in the backyard. Bolton was asked initially to join but after only ever declining they stopped asking and Bolton would just listen from his bedroom. 

          In their draft year Rich misjudged a marking contest and snapped his fibula. It broke Bolton’s dad’s heart. Truthfully, Bolton felt relief when it happened which soured into guilt as he had to watch Rich hobble around the schoolyard on crutches and see his dad spend his afternoons at the Glensden Hotel instead of the backyard. His guilt ended when Rich’s leg had recovered and he began his weightlifting career. The leg if anything taught the cunt resilience and gave him reason to only work out his upper body for months. 

          Bolton’s dad was so impressed that even though he knew nothing about professional weightlifting he watched Rich’s competitions until he was too ill and even donated some cash most years. Enough cash was donated that they could’ve had the home gym Bolton always wanted, but no “that local joint,” as his dad would say, was good enough for Bolty.

Bolton snapped out of his reverie to tears dripping on the footy card. He no longer found it impressive that his dad played VFL, he wasn’t even any good. Fuck him anyways. And why was he waiting to replace the ribbon? It was time for that shit to go, now. 

          Bolton found his mother on the couch watching Farmer Wants a Wife smoking a dart. 

          ‘Can I get a light?’ asked Bolton. 

          Without taking her eyes off the screen she handed him her sweat covered purple lighter and requested he, ‘don’t get any grease on that there.’ 

          Bolton reached in the trophy cabinet past his younger sister’s netball and cheerleading trophies and snatched the moss green ribbon from the top. He read “third” one last time then pressed on the lighter’s spring. On his third attempt the flame leapt from the lighter to the bottom of the ribbon and began rising toward the gold lettering. 

          His mother got a whiff of something other than nicotine burning and finally looked away from her show. ‘Fuck are you doing?’ she said, getting up quickly without her cane. She smacked the ribbon out of Bolton’s hand and stomped on the remaining half, grimacing with each stomp. She saved only the top quarter. 

          ‘Fuck me, ya want me dead or something?’ Bolton’s mum asked as she caught her breath. ‘Your father was proud you won that ribbon you ungrateful little shit.’ 

          Bolton just took the insult and let the words burrow inside of him before saying with a strange clarity, ‘Mum, dad was a piece of shit, wasn’t he?’ 

          Her eyes peeled back, ‘Bolts, you know he was the only good bloke in this shit town, don’t you ever say a bad word about him again.’ Sitting back down she commented, ‘must’ve had something wrong with his sperm though.’ 

          Bolton saw his mum take hold of her cane, he closed his eyes ready for the smack but when he opened them all he saw was her using it to sink further into the cushions like she was trying to get swallowed by the couch. 

          She wasn’t getting away that easily, ‘why don’t you love me, Mum?’ Bolton asked, ready for her reaction. 

          His mum said nothing, just stared at the T.V and thought of her husband. 

          Bolton took out his phone and pretended to take a call, ‘hey Mum, Rich is calling, he said he wants to be your son. Wouldn’t you want that?’ Bolton waved the phone at her, she did her best to ignore it but couldn’t help making an angry scowl that encouraged Bolton. ‘Maybe Dad fucked Sheryl and that’s why her son is great,’ Bolton crudely suggested. 

          His mother still didn’t take the bait, she tried to bury her consciousness in Farmer Weston’s date with the annoying blonde. 

          ‘Didn’t he sleep around, Mum? He certainly loved to drink.’ 

          His mum didn’t get up with the cane and whack him around like she should, she took deep inhalations and let the tears flood her face. 

          Bolton couldn’t believe his mother didn’t bite, this was the one time she didn’t take her anger out at him, selfish bitch. Now, because she was the one crying, Bolton felt bad even though he was the victim here. This must’ve been one of her manipulation tactics. He didn’t want a bar of it so he took off. 

Bolton arrived at Smash Fitness around midnight shocked to see a group of ten middle-aged blokes all wearing custom made, matching T-shirts with either jeans or khakis crowding around one of the benches. He heard one of them put on a deeper voice and yell, ‘just wipe the fucking seat!’ It got a decent laugh from the group. 

          Bolton realised those words weren’t a coincidence as he identified Craig, Marshall and of course Dicko, the one mocking him. He just had to run into The-godforsaken-JUGulars post trivia. 

          Davey was the first to spot him. ‘Bolty,’ he said at an alcohol-induced loudness, ‘you came to see this?’ 

          Bolton watched Dicko squirm in embarrassment before asking Davey why they were all here. 

          ‘We were leaving the Brown Hare when Rich texted me. Told me we should come watch him lift.’ 

          Then Bolton saw the shirtless mountain of a man loading the bar in the middle of the trivia team. He’d forgotten Rich was a foot taller than him. 

          ‘Look who’s here,’ announced Davey. Bolton could handle the looks from The JUGulars but Rich’s glare had some weird power to it. It made Bolton feel like he was drowning. 

          His shyness made Rich smile, ‘270, old mate, that’s an impressive lift,’ Rich said, ‘I see you’ve put on some kilos, maybe you could spot me?’ 

          Bolton exhaled, he no longer felt like drowning. He actually felt this warmth inside him that only got warmer when he saw Rich slide under the bar with only 250kg loaded.

          Rich lifted the weight off the rack so Bolton rushed into spotting position. 

          Reracking the bar, Rich said, ‘this is just a warm-up weight, Bolty. I’ll call out when I might need you.’ 

          ‘Silly me,’ Bolton said, trying to laugh it off. No one laughed with him, they all just sort of looked and said nothing. 

          Bolton pushed his way past The JUGulars to sit by the chin-up bars. The dumb arseholes with their beer bellies had never come to watch Bolton lift. They didn’t even know that Rich’s abs or whatever didn’t help his bench press anyway, he was just showing them off, the arrogant prick. 

          Bolton pretended not to watch Rich lift. So what if he could make the 250kg bar bounce with ease and precision? Bolton could also pause at the bottom and he knew Rich wasn’t doing it to increase the benefit of his reps, he just did it to give his captive audience more time to witness his “greatness.” All in all, Rich did 20 reps and didn’t show any signs of fatigue. Must just be those “supplements” he’s jacked up with, thought Bolton. 

          With his warm-up set complete, Rich loaded up the bar to 275kg in total then whistled Bolton over to spot. 

          While Bolton wandered over cause he knew Rich’d need his help with this, Rich took his time towelling his face. He was in no rush and accentuated his actions to allow his old schoolmates to notice the sculpting of his arms and the sharpness of his jawline. 

          With those idiots gawking and Rich probably concealing a steroid shrunken stiffy, Bolton slid under the bar and took the spotlight. He used the momentum of the weight to bounce the 275kg from his chest to the height of the rack. It was a clean move but any experienced onlookers would know that it was a cheated rep. Unsatisfied, Bolton went for another. It took all his might but his second rep was controlled, smooth, perfect. 

          He leapt off the bench to cheers from Davey and the like. A couple of the drunkest JUGulars, Zach and Ethan gave Bolton a bro-hug each and Bolton was so full of adrenaline that he didn’t even mind their foul BO. 

          His grin left his face when Rich spoke. ‘Pretty good,’ the professional had said with squinted eyes. 

          ‘After you,’ Bolton replied, tipping an imaginary fedora and getting a few laughs from his old classmates that he lapped up. 

          ‘I no longer feel like it,’ said Rich. Instead he added 15kg plates on each end. ‘305kg - my PB,’ he announced and then showed all the St. Judes alumni competition footage off his phone as proof. 

          Directing The JUGulars’ attention to Bolton, Rich said, ‘I’d like you to try it.’ 

          A couple of the beer smelling losers started an ‘oooooooo’ chant building up to Bolton’s response. 

          Bolton looked at the weight, his heart pounded, pecs were on fire. He hung his head when he admitted it, but it was true, there was no way he could lift that. The ‘o’ chant died with a whimper. Bolton understood now why his mother just cried instead of fighting back.

          His defeat gave Rich a smug look. Not satisfied with that, Rich went over to the leaderboard and snatched the plastic trophy off the top. ‘Guess I can just take this now?’ he jokingly asked the girl behind the desk who didn’t look up from her book. Wanting more of a response, Rich pointed at Bolton and told the girl, ‘that guy over there really needs to wipe his seat, by the way,’ which got some laughs from The JUGulars. 

          Rich kept going, he grabbed the eraser and brought it to Bolton’s name. First, Zach and Ethan got around it, then the whole trivia team started pitching in their own jokes and giggling at Rich’s taunting. All except Davey. 

          Davey instead moved to Bolton and consoled him, ‘y’know, we lose trivia almost every week to this one family,’ he said, ‘that nan, she really knows her shit.’ 

          Bolton looked at the gym manager. He was about to say thank you when behind Davey he saw what the leftover losers were now doing. They celebrated around Rich like crazy. Dicko had precariously hopped on Zach’s shoulders, Craig sprayed Rich’s water like it were champagne and Ethan and Marshall took their shirts off and ran laps around the gym hysterically. Rich at the centre of all the commotion lifted the shitty trophy like it was the premiership cup. 

          Bolton hoped they all stacked it and cracked their heads on kettlebells. At least he wasn’t some loser that did pub trivia every week in his 30s, pieces of shit. 

          He slid under the bar. 

          ‘Woah,’ pleaded Davey, ‘I can’t spot this.’ 

          Who cares? thought Bolton. The bar came off the rack. 

          Davey had to have told them about him yelling at those kids and made him seem like the bad guy. That loser, Bolton knew for sure he designed those matching T-shirts too. Bolton didn’t need Davey. 

          The bar was too heavy. Bolton didn’t try to lower it, he knew immediately he shouldn’t have done this. 

          He tried to rerack it. The 305kg slipped out of his hands. Davey couldn’t save him. 

A week later Bolton was sat up in the bed waiting. He heard someone making a request to the nurse but because of the neck brace and all the other shit attached to him he couldn’t turn to see who it was. When she dumped his breakfast tray the nurse waved the $2 trophy in Bolton’s face so he could see it and then chucked it on the table by the bed.