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By Robert Lynch
“Frank, you son of a bitch.” Sean’s eyes were fixed on the monitor in the corner, “How the hell did you know about the Banana Wasps? Did you have a man on the inside?
I looked to the monitor. The Banana Wasps, a local sporting team, had been found to be using enhanced gravity to train in. The league had suspended them for the season. “Sorry Sean, no insider trading,” I held my hand up in a scout’s three-fingered salute, “Just old fashioned detective work.”
“Sean lose a bet?” Hannah asked from next to me.
“I picked six months ago that the Banana Wasps were gravity doping,” I told her. “Bet a round over the bar. Now he has to pay up.”
“Six months ago?” Hannah asked.
“Muscle definition from repetitive workouts builds differently to endurance muscles,” I answered. “The Wasps have been getting bulkier in all the wrong places.”
“You notice muscle definition when you watch sport?” Hannah said. “I think you’re doing it wrong.”
“Each to their own, I guess,” I answered. “But right now it’s buying you a drink, so maybe don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Muscle definition,” Sean grumbled.
I opened my comm and projected two images on Jackson Calper, one of the Wasps stars for the season. “Heavy training could build up the quads and hamstrings, but the adductor muscles don’t build in the same way. When you see all of the muscle groups build, it requires more than a new workout; it requires a new environment.”
“Bollocks,” Sean said as he poured out the next round, “Nothing but luck.”
“And yet you’re pouring the drinks,” I said.
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