Chapter 7 Sage
SAGE
The only person who knows I’m pregnant is Leigh.
Which feels appropriate, because Leigh knows everything else about my life anyway.
She’s my best friend, my neighbor, and the person most likely to show up at my door with snacks and unsolicited advice when things get weird.
Right now, both of those things are happening while she sits at her kitchen table with her laptop open like she’s about to launch a startup instead of helping me quietly panic.
The truth is, it’s a little of both. “I still think you should tell Connor,” she says, not looking up from the screen.
I stare at the wall behind her head instead of answering. Leigh assumes the baby is Connor’s. While it’s not true, I have not bothered to correct her.
The thing is, when I first told her I was pregnant a couple of weeks ago, the conversation moved very quickly.
There was shock, and a lot of questions, and then she immediately said something about Connor stepping up.
And instead of explaining that Connor and I broke up before the pregnancy, I just… let it go.
I’m not trying to be sneaky. It’s just that I can’t take someone else’s judgment on top of judging myself for this.
Getting pregnant accidentally is humiliating in a way that sneaks up on you. You think you’re a responsible adult with a functioning brain, and then suddenly you’re the cautionary tale people talk about in sex ed classes.
“It’s not like I’m hiding it forever. Obviously, I can’t,” I say finally, trying to sound casual. “I just… haven’t figured out the right way to say it yet.”
Leigh makes a skeptical noise but lets it go, which I appreciate more than she probably realizes. Instead, she turns the laptop around so the screen faces me. “I finished the homepage.”
SAGE HENLEY FITNESS.
My name sits across the top of the website in big, clean lettering, with photos Leigh pulled from my social media already arranged across the page. Workout videos, training testimonials, and before-and-after client photos. It actually looks… professional.
“Holy crap. You built this already?”
“Of course I did. You’re a great trainer. People love you. Now we just make it official.”
“I already train people,” I point out.
“In person. Which limits you to one city. The internet exists, Sage.”
I shift in my chair, already sensing where this is going.
“And before you start panicking,” she adds, holding up a hand, “hear me out. Your timing might actually be perfect.”
“My timing?” I repeat. “How could the timing be perfect? Being pregnant as a trainer is not a selling point.”
Leigh nods enthusiastically. “Actually, it’s exactly that.”
“You cannot possibly be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”
She grins. “Pregnancy fitness content. Sage, do you know how many pregnant women want to stay active but don’t know how?”
Leigh says the word “pregnancy” like it’s a marketing strategy instead of a medical condition currently hijacking my entire body.
I stare at her across the kitchen table and try very hard not to look horrified. “You want me to turn my accidental pregnancy into a brand?”
Leigh leans back in her chair like she’s just pitched the most obvious idea in the world. “I want you to turn your expertise into something people can actually access. The pregnancy part just makes you relatable and gives you a profitable niche.”
“Fantastic. That’s exactly what every woman dreams of becoming. A relatable cautionary tale.”
“You’re not a cautionary tale.” She doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s implied in her tone. “You’re a certified trainer who happens to be pregnant. Do you know how many women want guidance on how to work out safely during pregnancy?”
“Probably a lot,” I admit reluctantly.
“Exactly,” she says, pointing at me like she’s just won an argument. “And most of the information out there is either outdated or written by people who have never actually carried a baby. You’d be doing it in real time with them.”
I glance back at the laptop screen where my name sits at the top of the website she built.
It’s weird seeing it like that, official and polished.
I’ve always had clients, of course. Word-of-mouth referrals, people from the gym, a few local athletes who like my training style.
But this makes it look like something bigger.
Something solid. “You’re suggesting I post workouts while pregnant. ”
“I’m suggesting you show women how to stay strong during pregnancy,” Leigh corrects.
“That still feels like I’m using my child as a marketing tool.”
Leigh tilts her head slightly, considering that. For once, she doesn’t immediately argue. “I get why that feels weird. But you wouldn’t be exploiting anything. You’d be helping people. And the blueberry can earn her keep.”
Blueberry. That’s what she’s been calling the fetus, since she thinks that’s about the size it is right now.
I fold my arms on the table and sigh. The thought of helping people is annoyingly persuasive. And if the blueberry is going to hijack my body, the least she can do is help pay the bills.
Leigh clicks around the website while I sit there processing the idea. She’s already added sections for online coaching, workout plans, and nutrition guidance. There’s even a blog page where she’s clearly planning to make me write things.
“When did you build all this?”
“Last night.”
“You built a full website overnight?”
“I don’t sleep,” she says simply. “I had time.”
“You really should talk to a doctor about that.”
She scoffs. “And lose all my productivity?” She turns the laptop toward me again and scrolls to a section labeled Prenatal Training. “Picture it—weekly updates. Safe workouts. Honest stuff about what your body is doing. Women would eat this up.”
I cringe a little at the phrasing. “I don’t love the idea of my body becoming public commentary.”
“You’re a trainer. Your body has always been part of the job.”
She’s not wrong. Still, the thought of documenting pregnancy while the entire experience already feels overwhelming makes my stomach flip a little. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m growing a human being. Turning it into content feels… strange.
But she’s right about one thing. There’s a market for it. A big one.
I stare at the website again, weighing the pros and cons while my brain tries to catch up with the reality of the situation. “Okay.”
Leigh’s eyes light up instantly. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat with a sigh. “But if anyone starts calling me an influencer, I’m deleting the internet.”
“You already have the certifications, the reputation, the clients,” Leigh says, tapping the screen. “All this does is expand your reach.”
I lean forward, scanning the sections she built. Online coaching. Training plans. Nutrition guidance. Video workouts. It’s organized better than half the professional sites I’ve seen.
She spins the laptop back toward herself and clicks through a few things while I sit there thinking about the weird intersection my life has apparently wandered into. Pregnant, launching a website, still training clients, still pretending my life is mostly normal.
“So here’s the other thing,” Leigh says.
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t like that tone.”
“You’re already going to the gym every day anyway.”
“That is literally my job.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Which means you can document the workouts while you’re doing them.”
I groan quietly.
“You don’t even have to do anything extra,” she continues. “Just show what you’re already doing.”
“Leigh.”
“Short videos. Safe modifications. Things that actually help people.”
I rub my face with both hands and sigh. “If this turns into some weird mommy blog situation, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal.”
The conversation shifts after that. We talk about video equipment, scheduling, and what the first training programs might look like. It’s surprisingly normal, which almost makes the entire situation feel manageable.
The next day, the gym smells like rubber mats and disinfectant spray.
Normally that smell barely registers, but today it hits my stomach like a personal attack. I pause near the front desk and breathe slowly through my nose, waiting for the wave of nausea to settle. Throwing up in the lobby would be terrible for business.
Once my stomach stops threatening a rebellion, I head out onto the training floor.
The place is already busy with early clients and the usual group of people who apparently enjoy suffering before nine in the morning.
My first client waves when she spots me, and I walk over with the automatic smile I’ve perfected after years of coaching.
For the next hour, everything feels normal.
We move through her program the way we always do: squats, resistance bands, core work, and a little cardio.
She complains about leg day while I correct her form and count reps.
The routine is familiar enough that my brain relaxes into it, and for a little while, the rest of my life fades into the background.
Eventually, the session ends, and she heads toward the locker room while I wipe down the bench.
“Hey, Sage.”
I glance over my shoulder and see Trevor leaning against one of the cable machines. “Morning.”
He studies me for a moment the way trainers always do, mentally cataloging posture, stance, muscle tone. His brow furrows slightly. “Did you lose an ab or something? You look a little softer today.”
The comment hits a nerve before my brain has time to filter it. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Trevor straightens immediately, clearly realizing he just wandered into dangerous territory. “Whoa. Nothing bad. I was just saying you look different.”
“Different how?” The edge in my voice surprises even me.
“I thought maybe you changed your routine or something.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “I wasn’t trying to insult you. Are you detraining for some reason?”