Chapter Text
Coach Mag:
Hello. Park. My transfer is complete. I am now working full-time at Phoenix. Call me if you can make it and I'll fit you in your usual slots.
Brendon placed his phone in his car's cup holder with his hands clenched, suppressing the urge to throw it out the window. He hated changing his gym, hated walking into a place and looking around for a couple of visits before actually knowing where everything is. Park is a man of high confidence, built on dedicated work towards a very distinguished spot in his career, he can't simply walk into a gym and look for the water fridge, or the treadmills. He groaned aloud just imagining stopping to ask someone where the sanitizers are.
Couch Magnus, while sounding flat and soulless over text, was a giant Swedish kickboxing trainer who's insides were as soft as a collagen surgical sponge. Brendon has worked with him for a while, starting a few months ago when he needed something physical for his frustrations to target.
Magnus was bouncing between two fitness clubs for years by then, one of which was close enough to Park's house that he could just walk to, leaving him no excuse to slack on a commitment. Phoenix Fitness, however, was a 15 minute car ride that Brendon did not think was worth the travel time. It might be now, since his coach was exclusively there.
At least he received and read that text before heading home, before packing to walk to his Boxing class. Small mercies, Brendon hated wasting his time.
You've been coming to your shift in different shoes than when you leave.
The idea was to put on running shoes after logging off, run directly towards the gym, get warmed up on the way, save gas, all that good stuff. It's been working for a few weeks, before Pittsburgh decided to open the floodgates right on top of your head in the middle of a crosswalk. You did do this to break a sweat early, you thought, guess soaking wet on arrival also works.
The socks squished against the shoe soles when you stepped through the glass doors and you cringed, scrunching your nose tight. You ran through remedies for the situation and you got hung up on the lack of extra shoes. Always packing extra clothes and socks, you have not once thought about shoes.
"Fucking-"
"Hey!" your curse got interrupted by Magnus as he stomped his way over from the lockers, his white-blond head tilted, "Did you fall into a puddle?"
"Hey there, Mr I'm so big I can make short people jokes at everybody," you retorted, not pausing as you dropped your duffle on the wooden bench and dug into the shelves for a towel, "the sky has descended upon my head, so I'm working barefoot today."
The man snorted, and walked past you into the training arena, pushing open the glass door.
"I am of above average height, you know," you yelled behind him.
"I don't," Magnus shrugged, "I know I can pick you up with a finger and a thumb, though."
You scoffed dramatically and rolled your eyes, "that counts for nothing when your body is a brick wall."
"Glove up and I'll show you brick wall."
"You ever look into reusable sports gauze?" you heard Mag through the pounding of your pulse in your ears, "We could stock up, then people won't have to buy things to start boxing."
How considerate. This giant fluff ball of a man, who is an immovable force against your gloved swings and sweeping kicks. Coach had just finished up your hour, and was tauntingly jogging in a circle around your prone body as you lay on the padded vinyl flooring. He loved to chat at you when all you could hear is your heavy breath.
"Why does everything have to be reusable?" you whined and turned your head to the other side, cheek against the plastic-y floor, "are you gonna wash hundreds of wraps so they can be reused?"
He sighed as he passed your head in surprisingly light steps.
"It's too late to save the planet anyway, a dozen boxing class kits won't tip it over the edge," mumbling, you pushed your hands under you and sat up on your knees.
"Afternoon is for light taps and lying down on a bouncy canvas, not for your pessimistic-" His phone blared a buzzing noise from the floor behind you and he stopped mid-sentence.
"Bullshit?" you fake-whispered as you watched him answer a call, " were you about to say bullshit?"
"Coach Magnuson," he said, his hand waving at your face dismissively ,"Park. Yes."
Your head tilted curiously. Magnus doesn't usually book a slot after yours on weekdays, so it must be one of his clients from FitFlex gym.
Coach's stomping steps passed by you, heading to the front door. You dropped your head to your chest, took a deep breath while wiggling your arms, then stood to head to the showers. While exiting the first glass doors and walking left towards the lockers, you heard Magnus talking with his client at the reception desk.
"I'm gonna need your name and phone number please," Amy from behind the desk politely said.
You looked down at your fists, finding one end of your dark green wrap and starting to release it. For a reason you couldn't identify, your ears stayed at the reception desk as you slowed your stride. Tilting a shoulder back while opening the door to the lockers, you peeked behind you just as the client said-
"Brendon Park."
His presence was always so palpable, It's surprising you didn't recognize him sooner. You blinked down at your sneakers, your body halted with a hand to the door. Brendon Park. Magnus said Park.
It would've been fine, made no difference, if you hadn't agreed to assist Coach on his classes.
The distinction was in his jaw, the outer ends of his eyebrows, and his earlobes. The semi-permanent scowl knotting his forehead. The shoulders that were bit too wide for the sleeve seam on his shirts. These were all Dr Park. Park The Shark.
The man in the boxing class is the same Park. Key differences, ones you're not ashamed to say caught your breath at first sight, were the soft frizzy waves of his hair, the gentle lift of his brows while listening to Magnus, and that one specific heel bounce right before the class started.
You don't think he's been new to anything in years by the look in his eyes.
"So, friend Park has covered a few sessions of basics," Coach walked beside you from his office towards the arena, "training was staggering due to scheduled so progress is good but not."
"Not? still beginner, you mean?" you looked up at him.
Magnus hummed and held open the door for you. You walked forward carrying a boxing beginner's kit containing complimentary items to support training, including disposable boxing wraps.
Brendon. Park? you weren't sure what you could call him in your head. You weren't even sure this man existed outside the hospital, outside Park The Shark, until today. He sat on a bench at the edge of the training area, ready in an unfairlyfitted sports top and shorts. You slowed your pace while he was looking down, not yet alerted to you and coach arriving.
He'll know.
Dr Park will look up and know, you thought.
Your relationship with boxing, fitness as a whole actually, was an incredibly private, separate-world for you. The OR nurse part of yourself was never mentioned here, she usually takes a backseat and pretends she doesn't work in healthcare. The athletic, loud, and frankly powerful part of you was an entirely different person, and you weren't sure how to feel about anyone from PTMC knowing about her, let alone Dr Park.
You shouldn't have pulled your wet hair in a ponytail, you had no way to hide.
"This is my assistant trainer," Magnus introduced you, prompting Brendon to look directly at you, "She will be helping me organize the contents of your sessions, as well as assist during demonstrations and mock duels."
His face did not do anything for a while. His gaze swept over your face, then scanned over it again, blinked then nodded, "Brendon Park."
Right as your mouth was about to let out the words I know, you realized he doesn't. He couldn't recognize you. It was that, or he has the most control over his face muscles out of everyone in the world. Park has never seemed to like acting.
You, instead, blurted out your first name, your voice a tad quieter in a way that made Mag throw you a glance, and smiled, "Welcome to Phoenix, Mr Park."
From your knowledge of him within OR theaters, you expected him to say "It's Dr Park," but he shook his head minimally, "just Brendon's fine."
That tone, the surrender of such a high title, rested your nerves and you settled back into the gym vibe you love. Your smile widened as you offered him your hand in a fist, "Brendon."
His hand came up to copy yours, and the moment your knuckles touches, you saw the curl at the corners of his lips for the first time.
Fuck, he has dimples.