That Monday, Chuck showed up at Meg’s house after school. The ground was muddy and caked with frost, and he kept his fingers jammed into his pockets to keep them warm. Meg, who stood in front of the shed in her backyard, wore black spandex pants and a sweatshirt with Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album artwork across the front.

She looks good, Chuck thought, which wasn't anything new. But his attraction withered when he saw the sadistic grin on her face.

“Today’s workout,” she said. “You run three miles.”

Chuck waited for her to say more. When she didn't, it was his turn to smirk. In ninth grade, he’d been scouted by the varsity wrestling team at Taylor Allderdice, because he was one of the only boys at school who’d weighed under 103 pounds. His coach, a gruff Italian who worked for the Drug Enforcement Agency, would often make them run five to ten miles before each practice. He’d quit the team after his parents had died, and it’d been a few years since he was regularly running several miles every day, but he was fairly confident three miles wouldn’t present much of a problem.

Meg raised an eyebrow at his grin. "Oh, I'm not done," she said. "I'm just letting that sink in. After you run, you're going to stretch. Then you have six rounds of twenty squats. While you do that, you're going to wear this backpack."

She pointed to the scuffed black backpack at her feet.

"What's inside?" Chuck asked. A part of him didn't want to know, but he had to ask.

"Rocks," Meg said. "Fifty pounds of them."

"Okay. Running, stretching, and squats. Got it."

"Then, you have pullups," Meg said. "Also with the backpack. I want to see thirty of them. You can take as much time as you need, but you're not done until I see thirty."

Chuck hadn't done a pullup since he'd been on the wrestling team. "That's... a lot," he said.

Meg shrugged. "You're the one who wanted this," she reminded him. "After pull-ups, you have deadlifts. The weights are in the garage. You might not have done these before, so when we get there, I'll show you the proper form. You're going to do four sets of ten reps each. When you're done with that, you'll do six rounds of sit-ups and pushups, twenty per round. We'll close out with three rounds of planks, which you'll hold for a minute each.”

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“I'm going to be sore tomorrow, aren't I?” Chuck said.

Meg's grin grew wider. “Interestingly enough, you wanted this. Tomorrow, we do the same thing, but you run four miles, and we add a boxing workout. Unless...”

"Unless?"

"Unless you can pin me in a wrestling match. Right here, right now. You used to wrestle, didn’t you? You beat me, you go home right now. First to a pin. Come at me.”

"I don't know about--"

That was as far as Chuck got before Meg charged him. He jumped back, narrowly dodging her attempt at a single-leg takedown.

"Hold on a minute!" he shouted. "I'm not ready!"

"Your enemies won't wait," Meg said as she circled him. She attempted a penetration step and he was forced to jump backward again. "Let's go, Chuck. Do you want to learn how to be a fighter or not?"

Chuck dropped his stance to present less of a target. He may have been on the wrestling team, but Meg had at least thirty pounds on him, her back corded with muscle. At school, people talked about them, making fun of Meg for hanging out with someone like Chuck--or, they had, at least, until Meg had punched one of Chuck's bullies in the stomach so hard he'd vomited. Now, they spoke in whispers or when they thought Meg wouldn't find out, but their talk boiled down to the same message: why would someone as strong as Meg hang out with a loser like Chuck?

But that's why I want this, isn't it? Chuck thought as he took a shot of his own at Meg. This time, she was the one who dodged, and he pulled back so she didn't sprawl and take him to the ground. His whole life, he'd never had a problem with tests, though his weak body had never done him any favors. Even now, three years after his stint on the wrestling team, he barely cracked a hundred and twenty pounds. If he punched a pillow, he'd probably break his knuckles.

It was the perfect build for a sidekick, but someone who could fight? Not so much.

Chuck took a few quick shots at Meg's ankles to test her reflexes, but she danced backward each time. He was preparing to lock up with her, perhaps go for a front headlock, when she exploded forward and caught him in a perfect double leg takedown cut and catch. He hit the icy mud and breath left him. As he struggled for a defensible position, she advanced a cross-face cradle into a pin, putting him on his back. Chuck lay in the mud with Meg’s knee digging into his hip socket and her hot, sweaty face pressed against his.

“Not your day, sport,” she said.

Chuck was hot and breathing heavily, sweat beaded on his forehead. Even in that short round, he'd been winded. But he'd learned something. Speed was the name of Meg's game, and he could counter that in two ways. Either he could become faster than her, or learn how to defend against her, interrupting her lightning blitzes in ways that left her open to his own attacks. It wouldn't happen overnight, though this was a start. His smarts had been handed to him, but this... he'd need to work for this. The only way to get better was with practice.

"You win," he said as Meg climbed off him, and he pushed himself to his feet. "I'll do your workout. But first... another round?"