Chapter 2: The Spark
Aiden woke up to the blare of his phone alarm, the default chime he'd never bothered to change. His room was dim, the Saturday morning light barely sneaking through the blinds. His head felt heavy, like he'd barely slept, and the memory of yesterday's pep rally hit him like a truck. Lila's voice—I'm not looking for anything right now—looped in his brain, each word sharper than the last. He groaned, rolling onto his side, his eyes landing on the gym bag in the corner. It was still there, untouched since last year's optimistic "get fit" phase that lasted all of two days. Today was going to be different.
He dragged himself out of bed, his bare feet cold on the hardwood floor. The house was quiet—his dad was probably already at the garage, working an early shift. Aiden pulled on a faded black T-shirt, sweatpants, and his sneakers, the soles still clean from disuse. His reflection in the mirror looked the same as always: average height, average build, brown hair that never sat right. Average. The word stung worse than Lila's rejection. He grabbed his gym bag and headed out, locking the door behind him.
The Westbridge Community Gym was a ten-minute bike ride from his house, past the diner and the strip mall with the flickering neon sign. The air was crisp, October leaves crunching under his tires. His stomach churned—not from hunger, but from the thought of walking into a gym full of jacked guys who'd probably laugh at him. He almost turned back twice, but the image of Lila's polite smile kept him pedaling. He wasn't doing this for her, he told himself. He was doing it for him.
The gym was a squat brick building with a faded sign that read "Westbridge Fitness." Inside, it smelled like sweat and rubber mats. The front desk guy, a bored twenty-something with a man bun, barely looked up as Aiden flashed his free trial pass. "Locker room's that way," he muttered, pointing to a hallway. Aiden nodded, clutching his bag tighter, and headed toward the main floor.
The gym was louder than he'd expected—clanging weights, grunts, and a hip-hop playlist blasting from speakers. Guys twice his size were deadlifting bars that looked like they could crush him, and a few women were running on treadmills, earbuds in. Aiden felt like he'd walked into a different planet. He headed for the dumbbell rack, figuring it was a safe start. He'd watched a couple of YouTube videos last night—form mattered, apparently. He picked up a pair of 15-pound dumbbells, lighter than what the other guys were using, and started curling them, trying to mimic the form he'd seen online.
His arms burned by the third rep, and his grip felt shaky. He glanced around, hoping no one was watching, but a guy nearby—a tank of a dude with a shaved head—smirked and shook his head. Aiden's face heated up. He was about to set the weights down when someone spoke.
"You're new, huh?" The voice was friendly, not mocking. Aiden turned to see a girl about his age, maybe a year older, adjusting a barbell nearby. She had short dark hair tied back, a gray tank top, and a no-nonsense vibe. "Don't overthink it. Just keep showing up."
Aiden lowered the dumbbells, embarrassed but grateful for the lack of judgment. "Yeah, first day. I'm probably doing this wrong."
She shrugged, wiping her hands on a towel. "Everyone starts somewhere. Keep your elbows in when you curl—less strain on your wrists." She demonstrated with an imaginary weight, her form smooth. "I'm Sophie, by the way."
"Aiden," he said, managing a half-smile. "Thanks for the tip."
"No problem." She grabbed a pair of weights and started her own set, leaving him to focus. Aiden tried again, keeping his elbows in like she'd said. It felt better, less awkward. He managed ten reps before his arms screamed for mercy. He set the weights down, his breathing heavier than he'd expected. Sophie was right—showing up was half the battle. He moved to a bench press, loading it with just the bar to start, and pushed through a set, ignoring the guy with the shaved head who was now deadlifting what looked like a small car.
By the time Aiden left the gym an hour later, his muscles ached, but he felt something else—a spark, small but real. He wasn't stronger yet, but he'd done it. He'd walked in, survived, and even talked to someone who didn't treat him like a loser. He biked home, the cool air hitting his sweaty skin, and for the first time since yesterday, Lila's voice wasn't the loudest thing in his head.
At school on Monday, Aiden felt different, even if he didn't look it yet. The hallways were the same—lockers slamming, kids shouting, the faint smell of cafeteria pizza—but he held his head a little higher. He'd gone back to the gym on Sunday, pushing through another workout, and Sophie had been there again, giving him a nod like they were old friends. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him going.
In third period, he passed Lila in the hall. She was with her usual crew—Jess and Mia, the kind of girls who always seemed to know everyone's business. Lila's eyes flicked toward him, and for a second, he thought she might say something. He kept walking, his heart thudding, but didn't look back. Let her wonder what he was up to.
At lunch, Aiden found Ryan at their usual table in the corner of the cafeteria, a tray of fries between them. Ryan was scrolling on his phone, muttering about some coding project he'd been obsessing over. "You're still alive," Ryan said, glancing up. "Thought you'd be hiding in your room all weekend after, you know, the Lila thing."
Aiden grabbed a fry, shrugging. "I'm over it." He wasn't, not really, but saying it out loud felt good. "I went to the gym. Twice."
Ryan's eyebrows shot up. "The gym? You? What's next, you joining the football team?"
"Shut up," Aiden said, but he grinned. "I'm just... trying something new. I signed up for debate club too."
Ryan choked on his soda. "Debate? You? Man, you're really going all in." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "This about Lila? Like, some revenge glow-up?"
Aiden shook his head, but his jaw tightened. "It's not about her. It's about me. I'm done being the guy who gets shut down in front of everyone."
Ryan studied him, then nodded. "Fair enough. Debate's not a bad move. You're good at arguing when you want to be. Just don't turn into one of those cocky debate bros, alright?"
"Deal," Aiden said, stealing another fry. He glanced across the cafeteria, where Lila was sitting with her friends, laughing at something Jess said. Her red hair caught the light, and for a second, he felt that familiar ache. Then he looked away, focusing on Ryan. "You coming to watch me crash and burn at debate practice?"
Ryan smirked. "Wouldn't miss it."
Debate practice was after school in Room 204, a stuffy classroom with posters of historical figures on the walls. Aiden walked in, his backpack heavy with textbooks he hadn't touched yet. The room was half-full—ten kids, mostly juniors and seniors, some he recognized from AP classes. The coach, Ms. Torres, was a no-nonsense woman in her thirties who looked like she could out-argue anyone. She was scribbling on a whiteboard when Aiden slipped into a seat near the back.
"Alright, new faces," Ms. Torres said, scanning the room. Her eyes landed on Aiden. "You. Name and why you're here."
Aiden's throat went dry. "Uh, Aiden Carter. I just... wanted to try something new."
She nodded, unimpressed but not dismissive. "Good enough. We'll see what you've got. Today's practice round—resolved: school uniforms should be mandatory. Pair up."
Aiden ended up with a junior named Kyle, a lanky kid with glasses who talked like he'd been debating since birth. They were assigned the pro-uniform side, which Aiden thought was a losing argument. Kyle launched into a spiel about equality and school spirit, but when it was Aiden's turn to speak, his mind blanked. He stood at the front, facing the room, his notes shaking in his hands.
"Uniforms, uh, they make things... fairer," he started, his voice wobbling. "Like, everyone looks the same, so no one's judged on their clothes." He fumbled through a minute of half-baked points, his face burning as Kyle sighed audibly. A few kids smirked, and Aiden wanted to sink into the floor. Ms. Torres cut him off.
"Carter, sit down," she said, not unkindly. "You've got the right idea, but you need structure. Read the handbook tonight. Next time, come prepared."
Aiden nodded, slinking back to his seat. Kyle muttered, "We'll work on it," but it didn't help the sting. He'd bombed, just like he'd bombed with Lila. The thought made his stomach twist. He wasn't giving up, though—not yet.
After practice, Ryan was waiting in the hall, scrolling on his phone. "How'd it go, champ?"
"Terrible," Aiden said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I sounded like an idiot."
Ryan shrugged. "First time's always rough. You'll get better. Or you'll quit, and I'll say I told you so."
Aiden snorted. "Not quitting. I'm just getting started."
That night, Aiden was sprawled on his bedroom floor, the debate handbook open in front of him. His laptop was on, playing a video of championship debates, but he wasn't really watching. His phone buzzed—a notification from the school's social media app. He opened it, half-expecting another Lila post to ruin his mood. Instead, it was a group chat from debate club, Kyle posting a link to research articles. Read up, newbies, he'd written. Aiden rolled his eyes but saved the link.
He scrolled through his own profile, hesitating, then opened his camera. He was still sweaty from the gym that morning, his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders. On impulse, he snapped a selfie in his desk lamp's light, the faint outline of muscle showing in his arms. He posted it with a caption: Day 3. Keep going. No hashtags, no emojis—just the truth. He didn't expect much, but within minutes, a few likes popped up. One was from Sophie, with a comment: Looking strong! Keep it up. Aiden's lips twitched into a smile. Maybe this wasn't so bad.
Downstairs, his dad was watching a football game, the TV's glow filling the living room. Aiden grabbed a water from the fridge, pausing when Mike called out, "You eating enough? You're looking scrawny."
"I'm fine," Aiden said, leaning against the counter. "Been hitting the gym."
Mike grunted, his eyes still on the screen. "Good. Don't just do it to impress some girl, though. Do it for you."
Aiden's jaw tightened. "It's not about a girl."
Mike glanced over, his expression skeptical but soft. "Sure, kid. Just keep it real."
Aiden nodded, heading back to his room. He didn't want to admit it, but his dad was right—it had to be for him. Lila's rejection still burned, but it was starting to feel like something else, something he could use. He opened his laptop again, pulling up the debate articles. His phone buzzed with another like, this time from a random kid in his math class. It wasn't much, but it was something. A spark.
Across town, Lila was at her desk, her laptop open to a college application essay she couldn't focus on. Her sister, Maya, was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone. "You see Aiden's post?" Maya called out, her voice teasing. "He's hitting the gym now. Guess you broke his heart so bad he's getting ripped."
Lila rolled her eyes, but her fingers hovered over her phone. She opened Aiden's profile, seeing the selfie. He looked... different. Not just physically, but in the way he carried himself, even in a photo. She clicked her phone off, her stomach twisting. "I didn't break his heart," she said, more to herself than Maya. "He's fine."
Maya snorted. "Sure, sis. Keep telling yourself that."
Lila stared at her essay, the cursor blinking. She'd meant what she said at the rally—she was too busy for a relationship. But seeing Aiden move on, already changing, made her feel something she didn't expect: guilt. She pushed it down, focusing on her screen. She had bigger things to worry about. Didn't she?
Back in his room, Aiden closed the debate handbook, his eyes heavy but his mind buzzing. He wasn't good at this yet—not the gym, not debate, not any of it. But he was trying. And for the first time in a long time, trying felt like enough.