Chapter Eight Totally Professional
Chapter Eight
Totally Professional
Dani
On Saturday, June seventh, I spent the day teaching people how to lift heavy objects without injuring themselves and trying not to think about Amy Price’s mouth.
One of those tasks went better than the other.
At eight in the morning, I corrected a client’s squat while remembering the way Amy had pulled me closer onstage.
At nine thirty, I demonstrated a cable row while remembering the small sound she made when I touched the back of her neck.
At eleven, I answered three questions about protein intake while mentally counting nineteen seconds.
Tessa should not have provided the number. Nineteen seconds was data. Data belonged to Amy. Amy would analyze it. Amy would create categories. Initial contact. Publicly necessary duration. Unauthorized extension. Mutual loss of judgment. That final category had no measurable endpoint.
“Dani.”
Carol stood in front of me holding two dumbbells. She had completed fourteen after I told her ten.
“You were smiling at the wall,” she said.
“I like the wall.”
“You’re sleeping with someone.”
“I am not.”
“Not yet.”
Rose appeared in the doorway. “Office.”
Carol called after us, “Use protection.”
I left before the class could become educational.
Rose closed her office door. I sat on the treatment table. She remained standing.
“You kissed her.”
“Technically, we kissed each other.”
“That distinction is not helping.”
“It matters for consent.”
“I’m glad you remember the word.”
“That is unfair.”
“Is it?”
Rose set her pen parallel to the edge of her desk. Not angry. Concerned. I disliked concern more.
“We agreed it might be necessary,” I said.
“You agreed to a nineteen-second public kiss?”
“Tessa timed it?”
“She sent me the video with a stopwatch graphic.”
“I’m going to block her.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m considering it.”
Rose leaned against the desk.
“Miguel has the complete file, my edit access is gone, and Amy has written confirmation,” I said before Rose could run the checklist.
She waited.
“It was one kiss.”
“Nineteen seconds.”
“Time is subjective.”
“She grabbed your shirt.”
“That doesn’t make it a relationship.”
“No. It creates the conflict your agreement anticipated.”
I rubbed my thumb over a callus.
“I didn’t plan that.”
“We had an audience. Evelyn challenged us. Amy agreed.”
“I saw all of it.”
I exhaled.
“You watched the video closely.”
“I wanted to determine how worried I should be.”
“And?”
“Very.”
I pushed off the table and paced toward the window. Below, the weight floor moved through its Saturday rhythm. People lifted, stretched, talked. Franklin sat beside the reception desk wearing a bandanna that violated several health regulations.
“I can handle it,” I said.
“What is it?”
“Attraction.”
“Only attraction?”
“Yes.”
Rose waited. I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Probably.”
“Dani.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth would be refreshing.”
“I like her.”
Rose capped her pen. “Obviously.”
“I’m attracted to her.”
“Everyone with vision knows.”
I reached for the resistance band on Rose’s desk and stretched it between my hands. “I am not falling in love with her.”
“You’ve known her three weeks.”
“Exactly.”
“That was not reassurance.”
“I liked coaching her. I like running with her. I like arguing with her. I like when she laughs.” I watched a client drag a sled beyond the glass. “And the kiss was good.”
Rose’s face remained neutral.
“Very good,” I added.
“I gathered.”
“That doesn’t mean anything has to happen.”
“No. But pretending nothing happened is how you create worse problems.”
“We have an amendment meeting Monday.”
Rose blinked.
“An amendment meeting.”
“Amy is clarifying the kissing rule.”
“Of course she is.”
“We’ll establish boundaries.”
“You already established boundaries.”
“We’ll establish better ones.”
“And when those fail?”
“They won’t.”
Rose removed her glasses and cleaned a lens that was already clean.
“The formal transfer is complete,” Rose said. “The remaining problem is that you still reach for coaching authority when you are scared.”
“Miguel approved me as a pacing partner for Monday.”
“Then pace. Do not assess, prescribe, or correct unless there is an immediate safety issue. You are not her backup coach.”
I crossed my arms.
“Blake knows?” Rose asked.
“Blake signed the former-client conflict form and knows Miguel has final authority. They think the paperwork protects the competition.”
“Not that the relationship is fake.”
“No.”
“Or that the public kiss affected both of you.”
“No.”
Rose picked up her glasses.
“You are going to hurt her.”
The warning found an unprotected place.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
“I’m not planning to.”
“You never plan to.”
My thumb stopped worrying the callus. Rose put on her glasses and opened the door. The conversation was over. I remained in the chair.
“Tell me what to do, then.”
She looked back. I sounded more vulnerable than I intended. Rose’s clinical reserve eased.
“Stop deciding for her,” she said. “Give her accurate information. Respect the boundaries she sets. Stay inside the role you actually have. And when you’re afraid, don’t turn it into a joke she has to interpret.”
I absorbed that. The joke arrived anyway. I kept it behind my teeth.
Rose held the door open. I left.
Amy sent the amendment Sunday night at 8:03. It arrived as a PDF. Four pages. I opened it on my phone while eating cereal over the sink. The title read:
AMENDMENT
ONE:
PHYSICAL
AFFECTION
AND
PUBLIC-PERFORMANCE BOUNDARIES
I laughed so hard I inhaled cereal. The amendment reduced physical affection to three levels: routine contact, context-dependent contact, and restricted contact.
Hand-holding and ordinary posed contact were routine.
Cheek kisses and extended embraces required confirmation when practical.
Mouth kissing and anything likely to create real romantic or sexual ambiguity required an immediate threat to the deception, mutual agreement, and a post-event review.
The launch kiss appeared as:
An unplanned restricted-contact event sustained beyond the minimum duration reasonably required to preserve the competition premise.
She had written sustained beyond the minimum duration. At the bottom, Amy added:
The parties acknowledge that the launch-event kiss did not indicate a change in relationship status.
My appetite disappeared. I called it relief. My phone buzzed.
Amy: Please review before tomorrow.
I typed:
Dani: Do I submit feedback through legal counsel?
Three dots.
Amy: You do not have legal counsel.
Dani: Rose is emotionally licensed.
Amy: She is not an attorney.
Dani: She objects professionally.
Amy: Review the document.
I returned to the first page and read the sentence again. Clear boundary. Exactly what we needed. I typed:
Dani: Reviewed.
A pause.
Amy: And?
Dani: Level Three was well written.
The typing indicator appeared and disappeared. Appeared again.
Amy: Do you agree?
No change in relationship status. True. We were not dating. No promises had been made. No genuine feelings had been confessed. I should have answered immediately.
Dani: Yes.
The reply came quickly.
Amy: Good.
Then:
Amy: Tomorrow at 6.
I stared at the conversation. No joke. No good night. I put the phone down. The cereal had become soggy. I ate it anyway.
Amy arrived Monday wearing the bright blue running top. She had never worn it before. I forgot the amendment. I forgot the workout. I briefly forgot my name. She stopped at the training desk.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“New shirt.”
“Yes.”
“It’s blue.”
“That is generally how colors work.”
I checked the track before the fit of the shirt became visible on my face.
“It looks good.”
“Thank you.”
She adjusted the strap of her gym bag.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
I was not. The first official couples challenge began that evening, but Miguel had assigned me as Amy’s pacing partner for an easy morning run.
Two minutes running, one minute walking, repeated ten times.
I kept to the written pace and watched only for immediate safety.
I did not touch her. Not at the elbow. Not at the shoulder.
Not even when she stepped too close to the inside edge of the track and nearly collided with Carol.
The avoidance became obvious by the fourth interval.
“Is something wrong?” Amy asked during the walk break.
“No.”
“You are in the neighboring lane.”
“I am giving the amendment room.”
“The amendment does not require its own lane.”
Amy looked ahead.
“Is this because of the amendment?”
“No.”
“Truth?”
I had created the question and immediately regretted it.
“Yes.”
She adjusted the strap of her gym bag.
“I did not prohibit routine contact,” she said. “You have avoided even running in my lane.”
“Miguel’s plan does not require proximity.”
“It also does not require the neighboring lane.”
She stopped walking. The timer continued. I stopped too.
“Did I offend you?” she asked.
“No. The amendment is reasonable.”
“Then why are you acting as though I prohibited proximity?”
Because if I touched you at the waist, I would remember your hand in my shirt. Because I had spent two nights replaying the kiss. Because no change in relationship status had bothered me when it should have made everything easier. I put my hands on my hips.
“Rose thinks we should be careful.”
“Rose already thought that.”
“She verified that Miguel has the whole file.”
“He does.”
“She thinks I need to stop using coaching language with you when I am only the assigned pacing partner.”
Amy absorbed the statement.
“That is reasonable.”
I answered too fast.
“Yeah.”
“You disagree.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I think I can separate training knowledge from attraction.”
Attraction left my mouth before I could soften it. Amy’s hand flattened over the blue fabric. Not chemistry. Not performance. Attraction. The track seemed suddenly public. Carol passed us and did not comment, which meant the situation was serious. Amy lifted her gaze to mine.
“You are attracted to me.”