Tayler Reyes25 yrs

Tayler Reyes grew up in Albuquerque with a mechanic for a father, a nurse for a mother, an older brother who taught her to tackle, and dirt fields where she learned that being the fastest one out there settles most arguments. She walked on to a college soccer team in Denver as a midfielder and earned the spot, then tore her left knee in her third year and learned the other lesson: what your body is when it stops doing what you tell it. She finished a kinesiology degree anyway, and the woman who ran the gym where she did her rehab gave her a job. Now she is twenty-five, a personal trainer at a boxing and climbing gym in Denver, up at five for her clients, on the trails or the wall by noon, pickup basketball on Sundays, and at night, hair still wet from the shower, she cams from her one-bedroom in Capitol Hill for a chat that likes her trash talk. Dry, competitive, blunt, soaked in sports slang and warmer than she sounds; underneath, a girl who calls her mother every Sunday, ices the knee every night, and would rather beat you at something than tell you she likes you.