Alex #2
I lift my legs effortlessly, keeping them perfectly straight and holding them parallel with the rubber mats. My abs lock, my breathing steady, and his hand ghosts over my ribs, tracing the line of my oblique.
“Impressive,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me, his hand moving to hover over my hip but never making contact. When another alpha walks past, letting out a low whistle, Marcus drops his hand like he’s been caught sticking it in someone’s wallet.
“Damn,” the alpha says, and I recognize him as one of the two men sparring in the ring when I first walked in. He’s wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “Maybe you should be training Marcus.”
“Fuck off, Dyl. Keep your eyes on the big match, and out of my business.” Marcus flips him off with a smirk, and the alpha walks towards the locker rooms, laughing. At least not everyone here is as intense as my first impression. “Okay, you can release.”
I let myself drop from the bar, landing with a silent, perfectly absorbed bend of my knees.
“Your arm and core strength are fine. Clearly.” He moves us over to a taped square on the floor, grabs a couple of boxing pads, and brings them up in front of his chest. “Let’s see how you move your feet.
A lot of guys who come in here think boxing is all about upper body strength, but it starts from the ground up.
Shadowbox for me—just a one-two punch combination, nothing fancy.
I just want to see your natural stance, how you transition your weight. ”
I hesitate, feeling a little out of my depth for the first time since I’ve got here.
I fall into my best impression of a fighting stance and aim a few punches at the pads.
My dancer’s instinct takes over immediately: when I throw a jab, it’s sharp, but my posture is too upright, and my hips shift with an elegance that feels out of place here.
Marcus hums, dropping the pads. “You have great posture,” he says. “Just not for boxing. Here.”
He comes around to my side, pressing one palm flat against my back, right between my shoulder blades, and the other on my chest. I notice his nostrils flare, and mine do the same, the proximity to another alpha and the closeness of his scent sending a pleasurable, aggressive thrill through me.
He transfers the pressure of his hands slightly, guiding my torso an inch forward so my center of gravity shifts lower.
“You’re leaning back too much. Boxers need to tuck the chin and keep their center forward, like this. ”
My eyes meet his, and I feel the hitch in his breath when he realizes how close we’ve gotten. He pulls his hand back quickly, his fingers curling into his palm like he’s just touched something hot. He breaks my gaze, his eyes darting to the other fighters in the gym again.
I figure there are a hundred things I could say right now that would make that delicious blush rise to his cheeks again, but I’ve got no interest in pushing into territory that he can’t handle.
It was one thing to flirt in the privacy of his office, but it would be another to do it in front of his clientele: not everyone’s as comfortable with themselves as I am, and sometimes I need to remember it’s not my job to bring it out of them.
It never works out like I want it to, anyway.
Been there, done that, got the tear-stained t-shirt.
“Like this?” I say instead, taking a couple more jabs in the air with my adjusted posture. It already feels better, engaging my muscles in an unfamiliar way—something I wasn’t sure was even possible, considering how rigorous my training is.
Marcus nods, putting more distance between us, the professional trainer firmly back in control, although I can still see the frantic kick of his pulse in his neck.
“Yeah. Exactly. Your impressive core holds you too straight, dancer. We’ll need to break that habit if you’re going to hit a bag without wrecking your wrists. ”
He glances up at the clock on the bare concrete wall.
The consultation was only meant to be twenty minutes, and we’ve already slipped over half an hour.
“That’s enough for today,” he says, his voice gruff.
“I’ve seen what I need to see to map out a customized training plan for you, and we’ll fine-tune it over the first few sessions. ”
“So you’ll be training me?” I say, picking up my duffel bag and slinging the strap over one shoulder. The gym around us is still thudding with the sound of heavy bags and low-level chatter.
“If that’s not a problem,” he says, and I don’t know if I’m imagining the hint of trepidation in his voice.
“Not at all,” I smile coyly. “Just figured the head trainer might have bigger fish to fry. But I guess it’s my lucky day.”
“I can never pass up a challenge,” he says, and for the first time, I think I see a flash of humor in his dark eyes, the brusque mask lifting for a fraction of a second.
“Is that what I am?” I goad. “A challenge?”
“You seem like the type that takes a lot of work,” he shrugs, eyes dancing. And damn, keeping my hands off of him is going to be the real challenge. “You’re a principal at the Royal Conservatory, after all.”
We discuss our schedules, coming up with a plan that works around my classes and rehearsals, and Marcus’ other clients: Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays at 7 pm.
When we bid our goodbyes, Marcus watches me walk towards the glass doors, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture back to rigid. As I step out into the crisp afternoon air, I don’t have to look back to feel his gaze following me down the street and out of sight.