Fourteen rejection emails in two months. That was my new record.
Yay me.
The latest one had pinged into my inbox at 8:12 a.m., polite as ever: We regret to inform you… blah blah, unfortunately… blah blah, best of luck in your future endeavors.
Translation: You're not good enough, Ava Daniels, but we hope you take it well. Well guess what? I do not take it well!
The first time I got one of those emails, I cried into a tub of strawberry ice cream and swore I'd never job-hunt again. Now, I barely blinked. I'd built up a strange tolerance, like it was just background noise.
Still, this one stung more than usual. Maybe because I'd actually imagined myself working there—imagined that neat pretty little paycheck hitting my account every month. My account balance was already low enough to give me heart palpitations, and this felt like the universe's way of twisting the knife.
I flopped back on my bed, phone dangling from my hand, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily. The air in my small apartment was warm, thick with the faint scent of last night's noodles. My stomach gave a half-hearted growl, but food wasn't going to solve the gnawing frustration in my chest.
And sitting here all day definitely wouldn't either.One way or the other I had to snap out of it and do don with all my extra time.
I glanced at my gym bag in the corner. My safe place. The one place I could go where rejection letters didn't exist—where the only thing that mattered was how much I could push myself before my legs gave out.
I hauled myself up, threw my hair into a messy ponytail, and pulled on my favorite black leggings and a loose tank. Sneakers, water bottle, headphones—done.
The walk to the gym was short but sticky. Lagos mornings had a way of wrapping you in humidity like a damp blanket, and today was no exception. The road was alive with the usual noise: a bus honking impatiently, two men arguing over change, the faint buzz of a generator somewhere down the street.
By the time I reached the gym's blessedly air-conditioned interior, my skin was already damp.
"Morning, Ava," the front desk guy greeted, scanning my membership card. His tone was familiar, friendly, like I was part of the furniture here.
Inside, the space hummed with low music and the rhythmic thuds of feet on treadmills. The scent of rubber mats and that overly citrusy cleaner they used after closing filled the air, it was oddly refreshing though. A few regulars were already scattered around: the treadmill warriors locked into their own worlds, the weightlifters in the corner grunting in time with their reps. It felt good to be in a community without constant rejection.
I was halfway to the squat rack when it happened.
"Hey," a deep voice called out, stopping me mid-step. "I was about to use that."
I turned, ready to apologize—until my eyes landed on him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Black T-shirt that didn't just fit—it defined. Sweat-darkened hair falling just enough to give him a slightly undone look. His skin glistened faintly under the overhead lights, and the smirk playing at his lips was the kind that said he was used to getting his way. I was practically undressing him with my eyes.
"You mean the rack you were standing five feet away from?" I asked, arching a brow and coming back to my senses.
He tilted his head slightly, crossing his arms. The towel over his shoulder looked like it belonged there, like part of some unspoken uniform. "Yeah. That one."
Something in his tone made me plant my feet instead of stepping aside. "Guess you'll have to share, then."
For a moment, he just looked at me—like he was measuring something. Then his mouth curved in the faintest of smiles. "Fine. But don't slow me down." I smiled in spite of myself, I mean I low-key ate with that one.
We worked in silence for the first set, trading the bar back and forth. His movements were precise, controlled, the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what you were doing. Every so often, I caught him glancing my way, and each time, the corners of his mouth ticked up a little more.
Halfway through, he broke the silence. "Your form's… not bad."
I gave him a flat look. "Not bad?"
"For a rookie," he added, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I scoffed. "That's your way of saying you're impressed?"
"Who said I'm impressed?" His voice was low, teasing, and that smirk deepened just enough to make my stomach flip.
I rolled my eyes and refocused on my next set, determined to outlast him. My muscles burned, sweat trickled down my spine, but I refused to tap out first. When I finally racked the bar for the last time, I tossed him a spare towel from the bench.
"Here," I said. "For all your hard work… standing five feet away from equipment you apparently own."
His laugh—low, rich, and annoyingly nice—made something warm stir in my chest. "See you around, rookie."
I slung my bag over my shoulder, pretending his words wouldn't echo in my head the whole walk home.