The Hardest Cut

lived in California.  Humid, sometimes, too, which I’d rarely had to deal with before, and my brown hair was frizzing like I had rubbed a balloon on my head.  I opened the garage and started to try to lift the bike onto the rack on the wall, something I wasn’t able to accomplish with my weak muscles from missing my spin and yoga classes.
At least I was alive.  If that weirdo hadn’t lifted me down from where I had been hanging on the bar, plucking me off it like I was a mere piece of lint, I could have been stuck there until Monday when the rest of the employees came back to the stadium.  Since the entire news cycle of this place seemed to revolve around their football team, coach’s daughter’s death by gravity boots in the players’ gym would have been a big deal.  I—
I turned and stared, because an old truck had just come down the driveway and rattled to a stop in front of the house.  The giant, the oversized guy who had been in the weight room, opened the door and got out.
“You?” I asked incredulously, staring at him.
“Jory,” he said, pointing to his chest.  “I’m Jory.”
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