From the Sidelines (Breaking Barriers #1)

Chapter 1

One

Blair

“If you want to do another Nickelback themed spin class, you’ll need to get at least six people to commit.

Beforehand.” I lean forward on my desk, elbows resting on the paper schedule I’m drafting for the next month.

“Do you have six people?” I ask the question even though I probably already know the answer.

“I have three,” Bella says, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Well, when you have three more, we’ll put one on the schedule.” My smile is sincere as I make some final notes based on our meeting and wait to see if she’s going to push back. When she doesn’t, a wave of relief hits me—as someone who despises rejection, it’s hard to also reject others.

In my defense, we tried the class twice, and each time it was Bella and one other person.

It cost me money to simply have the class on the schedule and, unfortunately, I’m not in the position to hand out cash.

Having six people attend would cover the cost of the instructor and that’s the best I can do.

Bella nods. “You got it.” She smiles, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she leaves my office.

Ember and Ashes is my dream come true. A gym focused on women feeling safe and confident. We offer a variety of classes and make sure there’s a strong emphasis on functional fitness. While the business is woman forward, everyone is welcome—as long as you’re not a creep or an asshole.

I open my laptop to finish the weekly financials.

My stomach rolls, the same way it does when I look at the books, even though we’ve been open for three years.

While we’ve slowly grown our memberships, we’ve always toed the line of making money.

After paying me, which is always last, we typically have a little leftover to fix a piece of equipment, or save for when we need it, and when you run a small business, you always need it.

We’re killing it in vibes and attitude, even if we’re not in the bank account. I’m hoping this is the year I can really grow our revenue—take us to the next level. Which is why I can’t let Bella do another Nickelback spin class, no matter how bad I know she wants to.

My phone buzzes with a message:

Tyson

still on for tonight?

The smile that hits my lips immediately makes me feel lighter. I text him back.

Me

absolutely

considering we haven’t been able to get together since your move

meet you there

Tyson Bishop. We’ve been friends since college—we met informally when he saved me from an icy demise on campus and then formally at a student athlete mixer our sophomore year. But since he ended up in the NFL and on a team across the country, we haven’t seen a lot of each other.

Tyson was recently traded to the Upstate Cosmos—New York’s newest football team.

He’s one of the best offensive tackles in the league and I’d be lying if I wasn’t thrilled he wound up in the same state as me.

Getting traded has to suck, but I’m sure the contract of more than one hundred million dollars makes the sting more manageable.

When the finances are finished, I take my final lap around the gym.

It’s a habit I’ve gotten into: look at how much money we’ve made or lost, then pause to take a moment and see what I’ve built.

It’s surprisingly busy for a Tuesday, with many of the machines in use, and people filing out of spin classes or waiting for yoga.

This doesn’t suck.

I go to the front desk and take a seat just as Tiffany—one of my favorite people and our Embers and Ashes office manager—helps a new member get signed up. This feeling is better than hot coffee on a chilly morning, which is really saying something considering I view coffee as basically sacred.

I’m looking out through the floor to ceiling windows to the busy street. When it’s bustling with people, it’s fun to see patrons stop and peer in the window, or pause when they see our signage.

“I didn’t know this was an Athlala gym,” the new member says, while signing her paperwork. The excitement bubbling around her voice warms my chest and also makes me want to give her an aggressive high five.

Embers and Ashes is an Athlala sponsored company. College soccer didn’t bring me a career as a professional athlete like it did for Tyson, but it did bring me Athlala—an organization focused on gender equity in sports.

Without their support, I don’t think I would’ve been able to get this place off the ground. I won a grant and was able to pair it with years of saving every extra dollar to jump all the way in on being a small business owner.

Life changing. And I’ve loved every minute of it. No matter how stressful.

There’s no other situation where I’m sitting at the front desk of my own gym, with things I’m passionate about, watching people meander by on a picturesque street in Ashbury, right outside New York City.

The imposter syndrome typically rages but right now, there’s a little voice that says: it’s called a glow up, babe.

A whistle comes through my FaceTime, catching me off guard as I try to get dressed.

“I think you forgot you aren’t wearing pants,” Maggie says, pretending to fan herself.

“Ugh, sorry!” After I grab the jacket I was looking for, I make sure my thong and bare ass aren’t facing the camera–my phone propped on the mirror so I can use both hands.

“Don’t apologize but do feel to drop the deets on that glute routine because damn,” she jokes, and it brings a twinge of heat to my cheeks.

It’s mostly missing her and the way we make each other laugh—plus maybe the smallest sliver of embarrassment.

Since she’s a world away, chasing bad ass tennis player dreams, we do a lot of random video calls like this.

Once I put on my favorite pair of skinny jeans and a leather jacket, I step in front of the mirror, bringing my phone with me. I’m checking myself out when Mags chimes in again.

“Quit touching your shoulders. The jacket looks good. You look hot.”

Rubbing my upper arms, I try to push the doubt back, the one my truest friend can locate even when she’s thousands of miles away. I’ve always been self-conscious of my muscles—the way my arms look in a tank top, the way my thighs have rubbed together my entire life.

I’m working on it—in therapy, in the mirrors I walk by and catch my reflection, and with the clothes I choose to wear.

You look strong.

This color is working for you.

Oh, hello triceps.

Why is being kind to yourself so fucking hard?

I shake out my hair—my signature, almost awkward, mid-length brunette waves— and reply, “Why are you looking at me like that?” I can feel Mags' side eye before I confirm it on the screen.

She crosses her arms, sitting back. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just watching you nervously jitter about for your date.”

This again.

“It’s not a date. I haven’t seen him in almost two years. Can say, pretty confidently, we’re not dating.”

“You know what I mean,” she jokes.

I let out a slow breath and grin at my best friend. There’s no use arguing with her. Considering Tyson and I have never even kissed, or had a drunken hook up back in college, I know we’re just friends. We’ve just always been close. He’s always made me feel comfortable, like a close friend does.

My alarm vibrates, telling me my time is up and it’s time to go.

“Gotta go.” I grab my crossbody bag, putting it on. “Love you to the moon.”

“Love you to Saturn,” Mags says, blowing me a kiss before the screen goes blank.

The brisk October air licks my exposed skin. The sun is long gone and we’re in the type of fall where it’s still warm during the day but you need a jacket at night—hence the black leather jacket.

I can’t remember the last time I went out to dinner. I limit myself to takeout once a week, considering I’m a decent cook and can save tons of money by using my kitchen. I swing the door open, The Wild Sage emblazoned on the host stand, and start to scan the room for Tyson.

He must’ve been watching the door because as my eyes find the corner of the room, there he is–eyes on me. Tall. Dark. A beard I've never seen him in person with. While his fingers rub the strap on his watch, a grin takes over his lips, and it’s like a punch to the gut.

The air practically squeaks out of my lungs and I immediately start to cough. The hostess looks at me, those beautiful sympathetic eyes, as I cover my mouth and try to get it together. Why is coughing in public one of the most embarrassing things a person can do?

And because Tyson simply couldn’t wait, he’s in front of me in seconds. I barter with my body, promising one more annoyingly loud cough, before I cover my mouth and refuse it anymore. I’d rather quietly choke than cough again.

“Blair, you okay?”

Holding my breath, trying to force the coughing fit to stop, I keep a hand on my chest as I say, “Yes. Just choked on my own spit.”

Why the fuck did I say that?

Tyson laughs like he always does. He always tells me I'm his funny friend. Not sure if he means it or he’s being nice.

No matter what, I take it. Because as I follow him to our table, I’m willing the blushing to leave my cheeks.