Snatched

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

COLT

I’m stretching on the turf when I see her walk in.

And everything in me stops.

Elena is wearing a wine-red one-shoulder athletic set that looks like someone poured the color of Friday night down her entire body.

I forget how to inhale.

The fabric hugs her waist, her hips, her curves—every part of her she tried to hide that first day.

Today, she walks straight toward me with the kind of confidence that makes my pulse slam against the inside of my throat.

Damien, behind the desk, straightens like he just spotted a crime.

Great. Fantastic. He’s going to be glued to us all session.

She stops in front of me.

“Hi.”

Her voice is soft, but her eyes? Her eyes are trouble.

“Hey,” I manage. “You…you wore red.”

Her lips twitch. “Thought you liked red.”

“I—” I swallow. “It’s a good color.”

Understatement of the century. She steps past me onto the mat and does a slow quad stretch.

One leg up, hip out, and her back arched.

I am a professional trainer. I have seen thousands of people stretch.

None have ever stretched like this.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Ready to work?” she asks, pretending innocence so poorly it might as well be a confession.

“Yeah,” I choke out. “Let’s… let’s warm up.”

I put her on a treadmill for five minutes so I can gather what’s left of my sanity.

It doesn’t help.

Her ponytail sways, and her shoulders flex.

The cut of the bra shows a long, perfect line of skin.

Damien is actually craning his neck to watch us. Fantastic.

Time to focus.

“Alright,” I say when she steps off. “We’re lifting heavy today.”

She smirks. “Is that what you said in your…nutritional lecture?”

I feel that line in my knees.

“Yeah,” I say, stepping close, guiding her toward the rack. “I meant it.”

She turns so her back is to me while I set the barbell for squats.

“Comfortable?” I ask.

She steps under and grips the bar. “We’ll see.”

“Hips back,” I murmur, stepping behind her.

She pushes her hips back.

“Good,” I say. “Chest up.”

She lifts her chest, breath hitching, and I’m close.

Close enough to feel heat radiating off her. Not to mention the faint scent of her shampoo.

Damien is glaring holes in the back of my skull.

Whatever.

She lowers into her squat and the movement is so smooth, so strong, so controlled that my mouth actually goes dry.

“Wow,” I say before I can stop myself. “You look incredible.”

“Been practicing my form for you.” She glances over her shoulder, eyes sparking. “Do you have any professional feedback?”

“Definitely not,” I mutter.

Her laugh is low and dangerous.

We do another set.

Then deadlifts.

And she’s…God, she’s unreal today. Focused, playful, and a little wicked.

Every time she bends over the bar, I think Damien might walk over and hand me a termination letter on the spot.

“Elena,” I say, stepping in close as she resets. “You’re gonna get me fired.”

She tilts her head. “What? For lifting properly?”

“For looking like that,” I say before my brain can stop my mouth.

She straightens slowly, smiling like she’s trying to trigger me.

“Oh,” she says. “Maybe you should…control the situation.”

I inhale sharply.

She’s playing with fire.

And I am the fire, but Damien is still watching, so I force my tone calm.

“I’m serious,” I say quietly. “This outfit is driving me insane.”

Her cheeks go pink, but she doesn’t look away.

“Well,” she whispers, leaning in just slightly, “you told me to wear something comfortable.”

“Comfortable,” I repeat. “Not criminal.”

She bites her lip, and I lose every coherent thought I’ve ever had.

Damien calls from across the room, “Everything okay over there?”

Elena doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t flinch.

Just whispers, “He hates not being the hottest one in the room.”

I choke on a laugh.

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “You’re evil.”

“Only on Tuesdays,” she says sweetly.

I look at her.

Really look at her.

And I know, without a single doubt:

I’m not surviving this session.

“Deadlifts,” I say. “Stay focused.”

Elena raises a brow. “You’re not going easy on me today, huh?”

“No,” I admit, voice low. “I’m not going easy on anything.”

Her eyes flare.

She steps back toward the bar for another set and I swear the gym tilts a little.

All I can think is, wine-red, one-shoulder, and curve-hugging. This outfit was manufactured in a laboratory to destroy me.

“Alright, Coach,” she murmurs. “Show me what you want.”

I nearly forget how to move.

She stands over the bar, feet planted, hands reaching down.

The position is…dangerous.

I step behind her, close enough to correct her form but not touching.

“Elena,” I say quietly, “bend at the hips, not the lower back.”

She lowers her hips slowly. Much too slowly. Clearly she’s doing this on purpose.

“You said control the situation,” she reminds me.

I inhale sharply through my nose.

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“You implied it.”

“No,” I say. “You implied it.”

She smirks. “And then you told me to wear something comfortable.”

“This—” I gesture helplessly at her entire body “—is not comfortable.”

“It’s very comfortable,” she says innocently. “Feel.”

I choke on air. “Absolutely not.”

She laughs, low and wicked.

I clear my throat and force myself to focus.

“Alright,” I say, stepping closer, my voice going rough. “Lift.”

She lifts.

And she’s strong.

Strong in a way that’s unfairly attractive. Something about watching her focused, controlled and fluid does something to me.

Her hamstrings tighten, her shoulders engage, and she brings the bar up with perfect form.

I swallow hard. “Again.”

She does it again.

“Again.”

Her breath starts to deepen. Sweat forms at the base of her throat, glistening faintly under the overhead lights.

Damien doesn’t stop staring.

He is absolutely watching us, and the thing is, I don’t care at this point.

“Good,” I murmur. “Let’s add weight.”

“More?” she asks, wide-eyed, breathless.

“Yeah,” I say. “You can handle more.”

She holds my gaze too long.

“You really think so?”

My voice drops. “I know so.”

Her lips part just slightly and she looks away fast, as if the intensity startled her too.

I add plates to the bar.

“Hip thrusts next,” I say.

She blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Her voice goes small. “Is that… necessary?”

“Very,” I say. “It’s leg day. And you did say you wanted to work on your derrière.”

“Mmm. Glad to know you’ve been practicing your French because of me.”

I’m already regretting this choice, but it’s too late.

I set up the bench, load the bar, then sit on the bench and demonstrate the movement.

She watches me with the kind of attention that makes my chest feel too tight.

“Your turn,” I say, trying to sound normal.

She sits on the floor, back against the bench.

The position is…I can’t think about the position.

“Ready?” I ask.

“No,” she admits.

“Good,” I say. “We’ll start light.”

I help her roll the bar over her hips. Her breath catches when the metal touches her.

“You good?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” she says, panting.

She is absolutely not fine.

“Alright,” I say gently. “Drive through your heels. Lift your hips.”

She lifts.

And as her back arches and her hips rise, I lose whatever composure I had left.

Her breath shudders on the exhale.

My hand instinctively touches the air near her waist—not on her, but close.

“Higher,” I manage. “But don’t overextend. Stay relaxed.”

She obeys. Her head falls back against the bench, and her ponytail spills over the edge.

A soft sound leaves her throat—too soft to be indecent, but enough to bruise my self-control.

“Good,” I say, voice low. “Very good.”

She opens one eye. “You sound…pleased.”

“I’m a trainer,” I say. “My job is to encourage good form.”

“Mmm,” she says. “Is that what this is?”

“Elena,” I warn.

She lifts again. Higher.

And then someone interrupts us.

“Everything okay over here?” Damien’s voice cuts through the air like a bitter fog.

Seriously, buddy?

Elena doesn’t lower her hips. She holds the position, glancing up at him upside-down.

“Oh, we’re great,” she says sweetly. “Colt’s just pushing me hard.”

Damien makes a choking noise. “Oh?”

“Yes. He’s doing great!” She says with a bubbly smile.

I force myself not to cover my face with my hands.

After a few moments, Damien finally leaves. Though I can feel a lecture coming from him again at some point.

“Elena,” I murmur, “you’re going to kill me.”

She lifts one eyebrow. “You said heavy day. So that’s what we’re doing.”

“I didn’t mean emotional damage,” I whisper.

She laughs and finishes her set strong.

When she stands, flushed and glowing, she wipes her forehead with a towel and meets my eyes.

“So,” she says softly. “What’s next?”

I swallow.

Everything.

Everything is next. Everything I’ve been trying not to feel.

But all that comes out is, “Stretching.”

She gives me a look that knows exactly what I meant underneath that one word.

We’re both breathing harder now.

Neither of us is hiding it.

The session ends before I’m ready for it, and before my brain recovers, really.

Elena wipes sweat from her neck, and it is a whole problem how much I notice.

“Good work today,” I say.

I sound like I’ve just run up five flights of stairs.

She slings her bag over her shoulder, eyes still bright from the lifts.

“Thanks, Coach Evans.”

She says it like a problem too.

I walk her toward the exit.

And just before I think I’m home free, her demeanor changes.

“Oh.” She stops short. “I, uh… brought you something.”

She rummages in her bag, pulls out a neatly stapled packet, and hands it to me.

The title page hits me like a punch to the chest:

“COLT EVANS: DREAM COACHING JOBS”

Potential paths, timelines, certifications & next-step strategies.

I blink.

She’s watching me react, suddenly shy.

“I… did some research,” she says quietly. “After you told me you wanted to coach. There are programs in the city. Sorry about that silly plumber joke. It was stupid. These are certifications you could get. I made notes on deadlines and requirements.”

I look up at her, speechless.

“Just…in case you wanted a place to start,” she adds, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I know how hard it is to restart momentum. But you shouldn’t give up on your dreams.”

My throat goes tight.

My mom hasn’t even done something like this.

My last girlfriend? Hell no.

And Elena, a woman who wants “casual,” who keeps teasing me, who nearly ended me in burgundy gym clothes…

She took hours of her life to do this.

“You took the time to do this…for me?” I ask, redundantly.

She shrugs lightly. “I like helping people reach their potential. Comes with being a corporate overlord.”

I laugh under my breath. “Elena, this is, I mean…”

I don’t get to finish.

“Evans!”

Damien’s voice slices through the air.

Elena flinches, and I straighten.

“See you later,” she whispers, slipping out the door.

I watch her go until she disappears into the evening rush on West 27th.

Then I brace myself and head toward the lion’s den.

Damien’s waiting in the office, door half-open like a trap.

I step in.

He closes it all the way.

“What the fuck was that?” he snaps.

I stare at him, jaw tight. “Beg your pardon?”

“You were practically on top of her,” he continues. “The hip thrusts? Seriously? Are you kidding me? This is a luxury gym. Clients pay for professionalism, not whatever that was.”

I grit my teeth. “I was correcting form.”

“Form,” he scoffs. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

I rub my face. “Come on, Damien.”

“No. No excuses.” He leans forward. “You keep this up and I will write you up. One complaint. One rumor. And you’re gone.”

He steps back, folding his arms.

“Is that understood?”

My jaw ticks.

“Yeah,” I force out. “Understood.”

“Good.” He gestures at the door. “Now get out.”

I step into the hallway and finally let my breath out.

God.

This is getting dangerous.

I walk to a bench in the locker room and sit heavily, the packet still in my hands.

I thumb through it.

Local programs.

Youth leagues I could volunteer with.

Accelerated certifications I didn’t even know existed.

Salary comparisons, application deadlines, and handwritten notes in the margins.

She even circled one.

“This one feels right for you.”

My chest does something weird and uncomfortable.

I swallow hard.

She wants to be casual.

She said that.

She meant that.

And I—idiot that I am—I played into her casual idea too.

But this?

This doesn’t feel casual.

This is someone seeing something in me.

Someone investing in me as a friend in a way few in my life ever have.

Someone believing I’m more than a washed-up athlete with a half-broken body and a sick mom.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling shakily.

“She just wants fun, Evans,” I mutter to myself. “She made that clear.”

I flip the packet closed.

But the truth cuts deeper:

She helped me in a way no one ever has.

And now?

I’m in trouble.

Serious, emotional, confused trouble.