Chapter 5 Teddy
Teddy
A week flies by in a blur of early alarms, back-to-back clients, evening acting classes, and the unexpected addition of Bobby Antonov to my already chaotic schedule.
Today marks the end of our second training session, and I have to admit—despite the irritation simmering beneath my eternal optimism—Bobby is turning out to be one of my favorite new clients.
The private gym space Kirill has arranged for us is nothing like the crowded public facility where we first crossed paths.
This is upscale: gleaming equipment, mirrored walls, soft lighting, and best of all, no one else around to interrupt.
It feels almost too luxurious for a sixteen-year-old, but Bobby attacks every session with surprising focus and grit.
“Come on, Bobby, one more set,” I encourage, spotting him on the leg extension machine. “You’ve got this. Push through the burn… feel those quads waking up. Ten more. Nine… eight…”
Bobby’s face scrunches in concentration, his dark hair pulled back, sweat glistening on his forehead.
He is tall, athletic, with the same sharp cheekbones and intense eyes that remind me uncomfortably of his uncle.
But where Kirill carries a heavy, commanding presence, Bobby still has that mix of defiance and vulnerability that comes from being nineteen.
“Ugh, it burns!” he groans, but his legs keep moving, extending and lowering with controlled precision.
“That’s the point,” I laugh lightly, keeping my voice upbeat. “Pain today, power tomorrow. You’re doing amazing. I can already see the strength building. Finish strong… three… two… one. Perfect!”
Bobby lets the machine’s pad return to the starting position with a dramatic exhale, collapsing back against the seat.
“Done. Finally.” He wipes his face with a towel and grins up at me.
“Thanks, Teddy. You’re actually really good at this.
Most trainers just yell or count weirdly. You make it… fun? Sort of.”
I high-five him, feeling a genuine rush of pride.
“Hey, that’s the highest compliment,” I laugh. “You’ve got serious potential, Bobby. Good form, great work ethic, and you listen when it counts. Keep showing up like this and we’ll have you smashing personal bests in no time.”
He stands, stretching his legs with a satisfied wince. “Yeah, well… Uncle Kirill said I had to. But it’s not as bad as I thought.”
We gather our things—water bottles, resistance bands, my notebook where I’ve scribbled notes on his progress.
The first session went surprisingly smoothly too.
Bobby is quick to learn, responsive to cues, and has a dry sense of humor that sneaks out when he lets his guard down.
Training him feels rewarding on a professional level.
The only downside? It has completely wrecked my carefully balanced schedule.
Between squeezing Bobby’s sessions in, my regular clients, audition prep, and scene study, I am running on fumes. Sleep is becoming a luxury, and my poor darling Brando is getting less snuggle time than usual.
I am grateful for the generous pay—Kirill’s rates are absurdly high—but the abrupt way everything has been dumped on me still grates. No negotiation. No polite scheduling discussion. Just you will train my nephew.
Like… come on!
As we walk toward the exit together, Bobby chatting about a new song he is learning on guitar, I cannot resist probing a little.
“So… your Uncle Kirill,” I say casually, keeping my tone light. “He seems pretty… intense. What does he do exactly? Businessman, right?”
Bobby’s steps falter for half a second. He glances sideways at me, his expression closing off just a touch. “Yeah. Business. Imports, exports, that kind of stuff. Family company.”
Bobby doesn’t expand.
The silence stretches a beat too long, and I can sense he is holding back—something bigger, something he is not supposed to talk about.
His shoulders tense slightly, the easy camaraderie from the session dimming.
I don’t push. Whatever the Antonov family business really is, it clearly is not open for casual gym conversation.
“Cool,” I say, forcing cheerfulness. “Must be nice having family looking out for you like that.”
Bobby shrugs. “Something like that.”
We step out onto the sidewalk. Late afternoon light filters through the buildings, and the city hums around us—honking cars, distant sirens, the endless rhythm of urban life. Across the road, a sleek black SUV idles at the curb, tinted windows gleaming. Bobby’s face brightens.
“That’s my ride,” he says, waving half-heartedly.
My stomach does a little flip as the passenger door opens. There, in the back seat, sits Kirill. Even from this distance, his presence hits like a wave—broad shoulders filling the space, hair perfectly in place, that same unreadable, commanding expression. Our eyes lock across the street.
It feels electric.
A spark jumps between us, sharp and undeniable.
My breath catches. Heat rushes to my cheeks, the same confusing mix of nervousness and forbidden thrill I felt in the gym shower flooding back.
For a split second, the world narrows to just him—those piercing eyes that seem to see straight through my carefully maintained optimism.
In a moment of pure madness, I find myself walking across the road with Bobby, my gym bag slung over my shoulder, heart pounding louder than my footsteps.
What are you doing, Teddy? My brain screams at me, but my feet keep moving. I am irritated. Exhausted from the schedule disruption. Tired of being told what to do without a say. This ends now.
Bobby climbs into the SUV first, sliding across the leather seat. Before the security guy in the front can reach back and pull the door shut, I step forward and catch it with my hand.
Kirill’s gaze sharpens on me.
“Mr. Antonov,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Are you in the habit of telling people what to do instead of asking? Because, I’ve checked my schedule, and it’s not going to work. I’m not training Bobby anymore.”
The words come out fast, fueled by a week’s worth of resentment.
Bobby’s eyes widen in the back seat, but he stays quiet. It’s not like I didn’t mean it when I said he had potential, he definitely does. But this isn’t about Bobby. This is about me.
Kirill doesn’t look surprised. If anything, a faint flicker of amusement crosses his features. “Is there a problem with Bobby’s training?”
“No,” I admit. “He’s great. Hard worker, lots of potential. It’s not him.”
“Then what is the issue?” He leans forward slightly, his deep, accented voice calm but carrying that undeniable authority. The same tone that has haunted my thoughts for days.
I shake my head, irritation bubbling over. “The issue is the way you just… decided for me. No discussion, no schedule check, nothing. My life is already packed. I can’t keep dropping everything because you snap your fingers.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turn on my heel and start stomping off toward the sidewalk, cheeks burning.
Great job, Teddy.
Real professional.
Now you’ve probably lost the best-paying client you’ve ever had.
I don’t make it far before a firm hand lands on my shoulder—warm, strong, stopping me gently but inescapably. I spin around, ready to snap something else, but the words die in my throat.
Kirill stands there, having exited the SUV with surprising speed for a man his size. Up close, he is even more imposing: tall, broad-chested, dressed in a tailored dark shirt that hugs his powerful frame. That dark energy rolls off him again, wrapping around me like invisible smoke.
“Teddy.” Kirill’s voice is lower now, almost soothing in its control. “I will take you for coffee. By way of an apology for being so abrupt about Bobby. We can talk”
I blink, thrown completely off balance. “What?”
“Coffee,” he repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be the ghost of a smile. “You look like you could use one. And we can discuss this like adults.”
My irritation wars with curiosity—and that stupid, traitorous flutter low in my belly. Part of me wants to refuse on principle. The other part remembers the way he looked at me in the gym, the commanding way he moves through the world. Before I can overthink it, I find myself nodding.
“Fine,” I snap. “But just coffee. Quick.”
He gestures toward the SUV. “Bobby, go home with the driver. I’ll handle this.”
Bobby gives me a small, knowing wave before the door closes. Kirill leads me down the block to a quiet café I have never noticed before—tucked away, with plush seating and the rich aroma of fresh beans. No bright, bustling chain. This place feels intimate, almost private.
Inside, I order my usual green smoothie with mushroom powder—adaptogens for focus, a little spirulina boost. The barista raises an eyebrow but writes it down. Kirill orders a double espresso, black, and pays without hesitation.
We settle into a corner booth. The tension between us crackles like static electricity.
“So,” he says, sipping his coffee, watching me over the rim. “Acting dreams?”
I nearly choke on my first sip of the earthy, slightly bitter smoothie. “How did you—?”
“Bobby mentioned it in passing. And you carry yourself like someone who performs. Tell me more.”
Something in his calm interest disarms me.
Before I know it, the words are spilling out—how I moved to the city after acting school, the endless auditions and classes, the grind of personal training to pay the bills, my big dreams of landing a real role someday.
I even mention Dermott’s coaching and the upcoming audition I am prepping for.
Kirill listens without interrupting, his gaze steady and surprisingly attentive. Impressed, even.
When I finally pause for breath, he sets his cup down.
“I can help you,” Kirill says simply. “Get your name out there. Not just as a talented trainer, but as an up-and-coming actor. I’ve got connections in the industry. Auditions that actually matter. Producers who owe favors. And when I call a favor in, I call it in.”
My heart skips. It sounds too good to be true. The wary part of me—the part that grew up in a small town and learned that nothing comes free in the big city—sits up straight.
“What do I need to do in return?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “Because nothing’s free, right?”
Kirill’s expression doesn’t change.
No smirk, no leer.
Just that steady, commanding calm. “Nothing complicated. Simply keep training Bobby. Help keep him out of trouble. Give him the structure and discipline he needs right now.”
I search his face for the catch. There has to be one. But his offer feels genuine in its straightforwardness. Training Bobby is not terrible—he is motivated, and the pay is life-changing. If it comes with a real shot at advancing my acting career…
“Deal,” I say finally, extending my hand across the table.
He takes it. His grip is firm, warm, enveloping mine completely. A spark shoots up my arm at the contact, and for a second I forget to breathe. We shake once—slow, deliberate.
“Deal,” Kirill echoes, his voice a low rumble that sends another shiver through me.
As we release hands, I take another sip of my smoothie, trying to steady the whirlwind in my chest. What have I just agreed to?
Part of me feels triumphant—like I stood up for myself and came out ahead.
Another part whispers caution. Kirill Antonov is not the kind of man who does casual favors.
There is weight behind every word, every decision.
Yet sitting across from him now, with the city moving outside the café windows and that electric tension humming between us, I cannot deny the pull. The dark energy that unsettled me in the gym now feels… intoxicating.
I am playing with fire.
And for the first time in a long while, a small, secret part of me wonders what it would feel like to get burned.
We finish our drinks in relative silence after that, the conversation shifting to lighter topics—Bobby’s progress, my favorite pre-workout flavors, his surprisingly dry sense of humor when he comments on the “mushroom dirt water” I am drinking.
Kirill sticks firmly to his caffeine, eyeing my green concoction with open skepticism.
As we part at the corner, he pauses.
“Tomorrow, same time for Bobby?” Kirill asks, though it still carries that note of expectation rather than pure question.
I nod, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Good.” His eyes hold mine again, that intense contact sending warmth spreading through my chest. “And Teddy… thank you.”
Then he is gone, disappearing into the flow of the city with the same quiet command he seems to exert over everything.
I stand there for a long moment, gym bag heavy on my shoulder, mind racing. My irritation has faded, replaced by a confusing cocktail of excitement, wariness, and something dangerously close to anticipation.
Training Bobby is no longer just a job.
And Kirill Antonov is no longer just a bossy uncle in the background.
Whatever I have just stepped into, it feels bigger than schedules or smoothies or even my acting dreams.
It feels like the start of something forbidden.
And deep down, beneath the optimist who always looks for the bright side, I am not sure I want to step back.