This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me ([email protected]) any feedback. Enjoy!
All characters are entirely fictional besides Byron, whom has given me his express permission to include later in the book. Please follow him on Instagram (@byronrosekelly)!
The New Contender
George adjusted his grip on the dumbbells, rolling his substantial shoulders as he prepared for his next set. The weight felt good in his hands—challenging enough to demand respect, but not so heavy that his form would suffer. His earbuds pumped out classic late-90s club beats, the kind that transported him straight back to his youth—1999, when training was pure, when the gym was about effort, sweat, and passion, not just Instagram likes and protein sponsorships.
The thumping bassline of "Music Sounds Better with You" by Stardust flowed through his consciousness, the euphoric rhythm providing perfect accompaniment to the controlled burning in his muscles. The track blended seamlessly into Moloko's "Sing It Back," followed by Basement Jaxx's "Red Alert," each song carrying him on a wave of nostalgic euphoria. This was the golden era of dance music—uplifting, energizing sounds that made pre-workout supplements seem redundant. The music alone was enough to push him through plateaus, to make one more rep not just possible but inevitable.
As he reached for his water bottle, taking a moment between sets to hydrate and recover, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. The unexpected contact broke through his musical cocoon.
He pulled out one earbud and turned, expecting one of the regulars, maybe someone needing to borrow a weight plate or asking how many sets he had left before they could claim the bench.
Instead, what greeted him seemed to have stepped straight out of a Hollywood action movie—a vision of physical development so extreme it momentarily defied belief.
A young man—no, a kid really, surely no older than 20—stood over him. But it wasn't just his height or presence that caught George off guard. It was the sheer size of him, the impossible proportions that seemed to bend reality around his frame.
The kid was a walking sculpture, a testament to what the human body could achieve when genetics, training, nutrition, and sheer determination aligned in perfect harmony. Every inch of him seemed designed by some higher power with the sole purpose of commanding attention, of making others question their own physical achievements regardless of how impressive they might have previously seemed.
His broad shoulders created a V-taper so dramatic it appeared almost optical in nature, descending into a tight, narrow waist that only exaggerated the sheer mass of his upper body through contrast. His chest—Jesus, his chest—was practically architectural in nature. Two massive, perfectly symmetrical slabs of muscle hung off his frame like they belonged to a seasoned professional bodybuilder with decades of training behind him, not some teenager who couldn't even legally order a beer.
His arms bulged effortlessly with each subtle movement, thick veins mapping routes across their surface like rivers viewed from space. The density of muscle created deep separations between each group, shadows defining extraordinary development even under the gym's unforgiving fluorescent lighting. Even his forearms were ridiculous, every tendon and fiber etched into his golden-tanned skin with the precision of a Renaissance sculptor working in flesh rather than marble.
His face matched this physical perfection—strong jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes that held an undeniable confidence without crossing into arrogance. Nothing about him suggested insecurity or overcompensation; he simply existed at a level of physical development that others might aspire to but rarely achieve.
His hair was styled with casual perfection, golden brown and slightly tousled, the kind of artful dishevelment that might appear spontaneous but likely required specific products and deliberate technique. He looked like he had rolled out of bed looking like a fitness magazine cover model, the kind of genetic lottery winner who made others question the fairness of biological distribution.
The kid—this absolute unit of a human being—smiled politely, his expression friendly despite the intimidating nature of his physique. "Excuse me, mate. Any chance you could spot me?" His voice carried the polite hesitation of someone who recognized his own physical impact and tried to soften it through social nicety.
George blinked, momentarily thrown out of his 90s nostalgia trip and back into the present reality of the gym floor. He was completely straight, had never questioned his sexual orientation in his forty-plus years, but even he had to acknowledge the objective truth: this kid was built like a goddamn superhero, his development transcending normal parameters of human achievement.
He collected himself quickly, nodding with casual acceptance. "Yeah, of course," he agreed, setting his dumbbells back on the rack with a controlled motion that prevented unnecessary noise.
As he stood up, he couldn't help but give this magnificent specimen another appreciative once-over, the assessment purely professional rather than personal—one dedicated lifter recognizing another's achievements.
"You're in unreal shape, mate," George admitted, the compliment emerging without conscious thought. "How old are you?" The question wasn't unusual in gym culture, where understanding someone's age provided context for their development and potential.
The man mountain smirked slightly, adjusting the weights on the barbell with casual ease that belied their significant poundage. "Nineteen," he answered, the single word landing like a physical blow to George's expectations.
George let out a low whistle, the sound expressing both respect and disbelief. "No way. Nineteen? You've got muscle maturity like you've been at this for a decade." The observation wasn't flattery but simple acknowledgment of a physical reality that defied conventional understanding of development timelines.
The muscle teen chuckled, shrugging those impossibly broad shoulders with casual dismissal of his own extraordinariness. "Started young. Got serious about it at sixteen. Haven't looked back." The explanation was delivered without pride or boasting, simply a statement of fact, as though his dedication was unremarkable despite its exceptional results.
George nodded, impressed by both the physique and the matter-of-fact attitude that accompanied it. He liked guys like this—the ones who put in the work, who understood that results came from consistency and discipline rather than shortcuts, who respected the process regardless of their genetic advantages.
They moved over to the bench press station, the equipment seeming almost undersized for the young man's frame. George stepped into position behind the bar as the young stud lay back on the bench, his massive back spreading across the padding, his grip finding the barbell with practiced precision.
George spotted him through a heavy set, the weight substantial enough to demand respect but not so challenging that the younger man's form suffered. The barbell moved with controlled precision, raising and lowering in a rhythm that suggested intimate familiarity with the exercise and its proper execution.
But it was impossible not to stare at the teen's pecs as they worked.
They were beyond impressive—they were almost otherworldly in their development. Thick, deeply striated masses of muscle that seemed to function with their own internal architecture, contracting and expanding with mechanical precision. Each press of the bar made them flex and stretch, the separate heads of muscle working in perfect coordination, bouncing slightly with the sheer density that only dedicated training could produce. When fully contracted at the top of each rep, they created a shelf-like protrusion from his torso that defied conventional understanding of human anatomy.
George didn't even realize he had been staring until the kid glanced up mid-rep, catching his eyes with a knowing look that suggested he was accustomed to such attention.
A brief flicker of amusement crossed the young man's face before George quickly shook his head, letting out a gruff chuckle to acknowledge the awkwardness of the moment.
"Sorry, mate. Just—" He exhaled, shaking his head again with undisguised admiration. "I've seen a lot of big guys in my time, but that?" He gestured vaguely toward the teen's extraordinary chest development. "Jesus. Only person I've ever seen built like that is my step-son."
The young stud racked the bar with ease and sat up, rolling out his shoulders with fluid grace that belied their massive size. "Oh yeah? Who's your step-son?" he asked, curiosity evident in his tone.
"Harry Schett."
The lad's eyes lit up instantly at the name, recognition blooming across his features like sunrise.
"No shit—Harry Schett?" The question emerged with unmistakable enthusiasm.
George raised a questioning eyebrow. "You know him?"
The young man leaned back slightly, a smirk playing across his features as he wiped a light sheen of sweat from his brow with a small towel. "I mean, everyone knows Harry Schett," he replied, the statement containing no exaggeration despite its boldness.
George chuckled, acknowledging the truth of this observation. Harry's physical presence and larger-than-life personality had indeed made him something of a local celebrity, his reputation extending beyond mere gym recognition into broader community awareness.
"He's the town stud," the teen continued, admiration evident in his tone. "I don't know him personally, but I'm a big fan." The admission carried none of the awkwardness that might accompany such a statement in other contexts—in the world of serious training, admiration for exceptional physical development was simply professional respect rather than anything more complicated.
George laughed, shaking his head at the young man's earnest appreciation. "Well, I'm sure he'd like hearing he's got some competition," he replied, the statement both compliment and observation. The kid before him was genuinely in the same league as Harry—perhaps the only person George had encountered who could reasonably stand beside his step-son without being completely overshadowed.
The young guy grinned, a flash of perfect white teeth against golden skin. "Doubt I can compete. Guy's an icon." The modesty seemed genuine despite the evident fact that he absolutely could hold his own in any comparison.
George thought for a moment, then shrugged with casual decisiveness. "Tell you what—Harry loves training with guys who take this as seriously as he does," he offered, the suggestion emerging naturally from his assessment of the situation. "I can ask if he fancies a session with you sometime."
The teen raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the possibility. "Yeah?" The single word contained evident interest despite its brevity.
"Yeah," George confirmed, genuinely meaning it. There was no ulterior motive, nothing but one serious gym enthusiast offering another a chance to train with someone whose approach and dedication matched their own. "He appreciates having a training partner who can actually challenge him. Most can't keep up."
The muscle boy nodded, pulling out his phone with a quickness that belied his enthusiasm despite his attempt at casual acceptance. "Alright, I'm in," he agreed, unlocking his screen with a quick gesture. "The name's Dylan, Dylan Kincaid."
They exchanged numbers efficiently, Dylan saving George's contact with a quick tap, organizing the information for future reference.
"I'll let him know," George promised, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long drink, the conversation reaching its natural conclusion. "I'm sure he won't say no to a bit of healthy competition." The observation carried no hidden meaning, just the straightforward understanding that exceptional athletes often sought out others at their level for mutual improvement.
Dylan smirked, cracking his knuckles with unconscious physicality. "Looking forward to it," he replied, his words simple but his expression suggesting deeper anticipation of the potential connection.
As Dylan turned back toward his workout, George found himself oddly pleased with the unexpected encounter. Harry had always been in a league of his own, physically dominant in any gathering by simple virtue of his extraordinary development. It might be interesting—educational, even—to see him encounter someone who could genuinely match him, who existed in the same rarefied atmosphere of genetic blessing and dedicated application.
The idea of these two extraordinary specimens training together, pushing each other beyond normal limits, held a certain fascination that transcended simple curiosity. It would be like watching two forces of nature collide—not in conflict, but in a harmony of shared purpose and mutual respect.
George replaced his earbud, allowing the rhythmic pulse of late 90s dance music to reclaim his attention as he returned to his own workout.
