Squat. Press. Pull-up. Jump. Drag. Plank.

After the last game, Leo walked back to Sal’s garage with a six-pack of cheap beer. The old man was sitting on a milk crate, watching snow fall through the open door.

The next morning at 6:00 a.m., the garage light flicked on. The iron clinked. And a new set of footprints appeared in the snow, leading from the alley to the squat rack.

“Six exercises done right,” Sal said. “For years. Not weeks. Years.”