Because they took me in as their own I would make sure they knew I appreciated their. I had just finished up a game with 'the guys' and knew their matured bodies were in more pain than even my young frame after a few layups and full court press. Now that he was gone I had become the new center of attention. I had first gone to this gym as a boy with my grandfather, and his friends. The scent of musk infused with mildew from the poorly treated benched and softened tiles tickled my nose and memories.
She knew where to make me lay, to make it more comfortable for me, easier for him. The boilier spat scorching steam under the cedar benches, forcing my hanging legs back up to the bench. I slowly slid down the wall farther into the bench, removing the towel from my thighs as I eased down to fashion a pillow under my head. Somebody had covered the harsh yellow light with a couple wet towels. Being so wasted from my work out, it hurt to just sit up against the back dark corner of the steaming box. The bleached white towel that lazily draped over my thighs was the only image of purity that this bath house would conjure up this evening. The steam room was my sanctuary in the house of pain that most called a gym. It was always hot, wet and ready for me to enter.
