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The gym at ten at night was empty, humming and lit like a fridge. Behind the free weights was a corner of crash mats left from the morning’s yoga, and Kat was already there in a sports bra and tiny shorts, tying wraps round her knuckles, tattoos catching the light.
“Shut the door,” she said. “Gareth does rounds.”
I did. It clicked, and the little light by the handle went from green to red. A laminated sign informed me, far too late, that the fitness suite fire door locks automatically at ten and can only be released from reception, which is unmanned until six.
We both read it. Kat looked at me. I looked at her.
“Well,” she said. “Nobody’s coming to stop us.”
I tried the handle for show. Then I put my phone on a bench, kicked off my trainers and walked onto the mat.
We circled. Kat fights like the gymnast she used to be, all springs and angles, long limbs everywhere. I’m shorter and stockier, built out of spin classes and spite. She got me in a headlock. I got her in a scissor hold with my thighs round her waist. We rolled, grunting, sweat soaking through our clothes, her breath hot in my ear, my knee wedged high between her legs.
Then we stopped, tangled and panting, her hand twisted in my hair and mine fisted in her bra strap, our mouths an inch apart.
Neither of us moved away.