Chapter Five Jo
Chapter Five
Jo
S aying goodbye to Serena was harder than I thought it would be. The morning after her party, Amber and I smothered her in a tangle of arms, cheeks wet with tears, and I could feel Serena’s frame shaking with the effort of fighting off her own emotions. Years and years of Monday through Thursday travel and thousands of hours of work culminated in this point in her career, and the promise of being promoted to senior partner if she’s successful.
I know she will be. Serena will show up in Tokyo, turn a struggling company around, and be home in time for Amber’s wedding at the end of the summer. That’s just who she is.
But it does mean that the three of us will be separated for months—the longest period of time since we came crashing into one another’s lives all those years ago. It means no more Thursday drinks sessions, no more trips to the nail salon together, no more strolls through the farmer’s market or lazy weekend afternoons lying in the park together. Our little triangle is missing a crucial piece, leaving all of us open-ended and exposed.
Her departure looms over me like a hangover for the rest of the week. Even when life as usual resumes, everything seems different; I return to teaching after a weekend off, but my classes require more of me than they usually do. I have to search for the right words to coach my clients. My body is battered and worn at the end of each day. Not even my usual physical therapy appointment seems to help.
The in-between hours are spent compiling my ten A.M. Saturday class. The competitive side of me—the one that’s made me successful as a Haven instructor—wants nothing more than to prove Silas wrong. I need him to see how hard we work and how much fun we have. That’s what sets Haven apart, after all. That’s why people come back to us, week after week, year after year, and why our client base keeps growing.
By Thursday afternoon, I’ve just finished assembling the perfect playlist. It’s in the format Haven is known for, but it’s at the difficulty level that I’m known for. I know each of these songs like the back of my hand, so there’s no need for notes. The class won’t be recorded, which means that I’m free to be off script. It will be my hardest class to date.
If Silas wants a story, he’ll have to work for it.
My phone dings from my bag as I stretch out my legs and close my computer. I’m glad to see it’s a text from Z; her absence has shifted from “annoying for me personally” to “worrisome in general.” When I tap the screen, I see it’s a group text between her, Mike, and me:
Can you two swing by my office in the next 10 min?
Z knows both of our schedules better than anyone; we’re her most prized instructors. Today, Mike and I are both in the building to teach streaming classes. I see Mike’s response pop up—as usual, just a simple “K”—before I slide my phone back into my bag and exit the employee lounge.
Z’s office is on the fifth floor of our NoHo HQ labyrinth. It’s housed next to a few conference rooms, the executive team’s offices, and rows of desks that make up the rest of the corporate team. I wave at the marketing and PR people as I walk past their row, unnerved by how quiet it is compared to the booming music and enthusiastic hollering of the studios downstairs.
When I pull open the glass door to Z’s office, I see Mike seated in one of the black leather chairs. He’s the picture of ease; clad in shorts and a Haven tank top, his long legs are stretched out in front of him, the late afternoon sunlight catching the rippling waves of those famous muscles beneath rich sepia skin. He simply nods in my direction when he looks up from his phone, Mike’s version of “what’s up.”
I’ve known him for ten years now, but I still find it funny how quiet he is in person. In his classes, he’s a chatterbox, telling stories nonstop between his coaching. He regularly makes his students laugh and charms the pants off anyone he meets. But it’s that same on-camera persona that fuels unfounded rumors of him literally charming the pants off clients. He’s mentioned in New York’s gossip rags on a consistent basis.
Somehow, it doesn’t bother him. Mike’s mental fortitude is stronger than mine.
Z’s phone is pressed to her ear, and she holds a finger up as a signal to be quiet. I plop into the chair next to Mike and toss my bag on a small side table while I wait for her to finish. Her black hair, normally cropped close in her signature pixie cut, is a little shaggier than usual. There are dark circles under her eyes that I’ve only seen once before, in the long weeks leading up to the launch of the Haven Home bike. I can tell that she’s stressed from the terse way she’s mumbling into the phone.
She hangs up without a goodbye and places her phone face down on the glass desk between us.
“Sorry,” she says, a little breathless. Her phone dings and she startles, but she doesn’t pick it up. Her eyes dart back and forth between Mike and me before she continues, “Thanks for coming by on such short notice. What’s up? How are you guys?”
“Good,” Mike says. I don’t miss the sidelong glance he gives me. Both of us know that Z didn’t bring us here just to catch up; she has an agenda for this meeting.
“Yeah, good,” I reply. “What’s up, Z? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, things are great,” she says with a smile, but I don’t miss the edge in her voice.
Apparently, neither does Mike. “What’s going on, Z? You seem…” He trails off.
“Stressed?” I offer.
When Mike nods, Z seems to relax a little. Her shoulders droop as she leans back into her chair. “I am stressed. I brought you both here because I have some news—big news, actually, that needs to remain confidential. Do you both promise not to say anything, or should I make you sign the NDA the lawyers drafted?”
Mike and I exchange another look before we nod in agreement.
“No NDA necessary,” I reply for both of us.
“Good,” she says on an exhale. She waits a beat, her hazel eyes sparkling, before she says, “Haven is being acquired.”
The floor feels like it’s been dropped out from underneath me as I struggle to comprehend her words. Mike grasps it first, his eyes widening as he leans forward to place his elbows on his knees. I shouldn’t be surprised; Mike was a D1 running back at Notre Dame before Z recruited him from a desk job at an investment bank.
“By who?” he asks.
“Limelight Studios,” Z replies.
“The streaming service?” I ask in disbelief. “With the movies and whatnot?”
“The very one,” she says. As if she can’t help herself, a grin spreads across her face. “This is going to be huge for us. Limelight has all the legal power to help us break into the European and Asian markets with their existing distribution channels in place. Do you know what it would mean to have our home equipment and streaming capabilities in even a fourth of those markets? We’re talking millions of new users. Billions in untapped revenue. This will put Haven Home miles out of our competitor’s reach.”
Mike huffs out a shocked laugh. “You mean our classes could be streaming in China?”
“If all goes as planned, we could be streaming in China and the European Union by the beginning of next year,” Z states as she folds her arms across her chest.
I brace myself for the excitement that’s bound to come. This is thrilling news—I should be jumping out of my chair at the possibilities unfolding in front of us. My face, my classes, my words, in homes a world away from North America. Haven’s reach—
my reach—could be endless.
But all I feel is hollow, quickly superseded by dismay. My stomach bottoms out as all my nerve endings spark painfully. The instinct to move my body nearly overwhelms me, but I force myself to remain seated, schooling my face into a calm mask.
When I said I wanted a change, I didn’t mean this. It’s been hard enough to keep myself together with Haven’s current growth, and that was only in North America. How can I maintain any semblance of control if I’m existing across multiple continents at the same time?
“Well, Jo, what do you think?” Z asks after a long stretch of silence.
I blink hard under the weight of her stare. Z’s intensity can be a lot, but it’s one of the things I’ve always admired about her. She’s brazen and bold and relentless in pursuing her goals, whatever they may be. I’ve always known this about her; it’s how she was when we first met all those years ago.
Right now, though, Z’s presence feels like too much. It all feels like too much.
“I need some time to process,” I reply. Slumping back against the cool leather of the chair, I pick at the seam of my leggings. “This is a huge change. What will happen to you, Z? Will you stay on as CEO?”
“Yes, I’ll stay on and run the company. The plan is for Haven to remain largely independent. I’ll just have a boss.” I smirk at the way she says boss , as if it’s a bad word.
“There’s still a lot to figure out, obviously. The executive team has a long road ahead of us. There are hundreds and hundreds of hours of due diligence calls that still have to take place, but… I can feel it, you guys. This is our next big step. You were with me in the beginning. Do you remember how it felt when our tiny little NoHo studio first launched?”
“It was magic,” Mike says, in a somewhat uncharacteristic move. He’s not one to talk much, let alone get all nostalgic.
But he’s right: it was magic. Back then it was just us and a handful of staff figuring out how to run a spin studio. How to position ourselves in a crowded fitness market. But then people started coming and never really stopped. They came for us —for the way it felt when all of us were together in that dark, tiny room filled with bikes going nowhere. That feeling of excitement, the pure adrenaline rush I would get… There’s no other word for it.
We were magic.
“If this deal goes through, you’re both likely to come out handsomely rewarded,” Z says. “We’re negotiating staff compensation for the deal, calculated by tenure. Plus you both have your equity. That can convert to cash once the deal closes, if you want.”
The biggest gamble of my life so far has been accepting a hefty equity package from Z when I first joined her. She couldn’t afford to pay us much—not that I was making much before she found me—but she’s made up for it since with our salaries and benefits.
I can’t believe that my faith in her might pay off.
Immediately I feel guilty. The money is what makes my heart beat faster? I remind myself that I may make a good amount doing what I do now, but living in New York City is expensive, and the lifestyle creep has been steady.
One large lump sum of money, though… that could mean the freedom to figure out what I want to do. To find my next step.
Z’s tone changes from wistful to all business. “What I need is for you two to carry on as if nothing is changing. For the next couple of months, the executive team is going to be so bogged down in meetings that I won’t be around much. I need you both to be the sort of de facto leadership in my absence. Don’t let anyone—not the other instructors, the staff, the clients, anyone —think that anything is going on. And for the love of god, do not talk about the business to the press.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. “Is this a bad time to tell you that a writer wants to interview me and that I invited him to ride in my class as a VIP this weekend?”
“Not necessarily.” Z’s eyes narrow. This is the calculating CEO I see from time to time. “Who’s the writer? What’s the angle?”
“His name is Silas Anders. He writes for Metropolitan ,” I reply. I found his last name after a cursory Google search; there aren’t many Silases in New York who write for major magazines. “Not sure on the angle yet. He thinks there’s potential for a story about Haven instructors. Who we are off-screen.”
“Does he want to talk to other instructors?” Mike asks.
“Already angling for my spotlight?” I tease. Mike and I have a longstanding, completely superficial competition about who is the most popular instructor. Mainly I engage in this debate to get a rise out of him; I really don’t care who has more social media followers, but Mike takes it seriously. He’s even got a personal social media manager and regularly does paid collaborations, separate from Haven’s.
That was never of interest to me, especially not after the launch of Haven Home; I barely manage my exposure levels as they are. That is—until now.
“This could be good. Metropolitan has a solid reputation,” Z interjects. “We need to keep hyping you guys up and building your brand within the company. It adds to the credibility of the business. But if this Silas starts asking questions about profits, growth, our strategy, anything like that—send him straight to PR. They’ll give him a canned answer and shut his ass down.”
“Done and done.”
Z’s face softens as she rests her forearms against the glass top of her desk. “You two have been with me since the beginning. You think you can help me get this deal across the finish line?”
The competitive Mike I know emerges when he beats a fist against his chest. “Let’s fucking go, boss!”
I resist the urge to chant à la big-game-at-halftime-pep-speech. Instead I rise, stretching out my stiff legs as I do. “We got this, Z.”
After we’re dismissed, Mike and I beeline for the elevator, our long strides eating up the carpeted ground. My mind is racing at a million miles per minute. Words like acquisition and money and world domination keep pinging around so fast that I can’t latch onto any of them. I know I’m not the only one lost in thought, because neither of us interact with any of the other corporate employees as we pass.
Once the elevator door dings closed, leaving us alone, Mike lets out a heavy breath. “Damn. That was not what I was expecting.”
“Me either.”
I want nothing more than to hear Mike’s take on this, but the elevator is descending quickly, and none of the employees and clients below can hear a whisper of what we just learned. Aside from whatever C-suite members and lawyer types are involved, Mike and I are now the only two people on the planet with this information.
I’m sweating from nerves already despite the central air conditioning blasting through the vents.
“How much time do you have before your next class?” I ask.
Mike glances at the fancy fitness tracker watch thing on his wrist just as the elevator opens to the ground floor. “Forty-five minutes.”
“Want to go for a walk?”
He nods, and we both set off toward the exit.
We maintain our silence until we’re two blocks away from HQ, acutely aware that some of the people we pass on the sidewalk could be our clients. Mike gestures toward a community garden on Houston—a place that we used to eat lunch sometimes in the early days—and I follow him through the gate.
Once we’ve tucked ourselves onto a small wooden bench, hidden under a canopy of green foliage, I turn toward him. “What the hell? An acquisition?”
“I don’t know, Jo,” he replies, his voice as low as mine to prevent curious eavesdroppers. “This is pretty wild.”
“I thought Haven’s financials were solid,” I say, just as the thought occurs to me. “Is the company struggling? Is this why we’re being bought out?”
Mike runs both hands over his face before slapping his bare knees. “Haven’s money is fine, but you know how it is. Z’s got to keep growing the company. It’s her fiduciary duty.”
“I guess,” I mumble.
I know it’s a big deal that Z—and by extension, me and Mike—have made it this far. The fact that the company we built together is now valuable enough for us all to get a big payday should be celebrated, along with the potential new reach of a global client base. But I can’t shake the dread curdling in my stomach, nor can I stop my heart from beating too fast.
Mike’s eyes are warm as he looks at me. There’s endless patience to be found in those dark depths. “It’s hard to break into markets outside of North America. You remember what a shit show it was when Z was trying to get us into Canada? And they’re just over there.” He points up, which I take as the general direction of north. “I’d bet it was either this acquisition or IPO. Z had to pick whichever was going to make her and the board more money.”
Sometimes I forget that Mike has two years on me, and that those two professional working years were spent on Wall Street. An ACL injury in one knee and an MCL tear in the other ended his professional football career before it could even begin, but Mike’s plan B had been brains sharp enough to land him a job at one of those white-shoe firms. If it hadn’t been for Z’s eagle eye for fitness talent, he’d probably be one of the people working the deal for acquisitions just like this.
“So you don’t think it’s a bad thing?” I ask.
“Nah,” he replies. “But if there’s one thing I learned working with all those suits, it’s that the deal isn’t done until the ink is dry and the money’s been transferred.”
For a moment, I contemplate Mike’s wisdom while listening to the cacophony of traffic. I tell myself that this is so much bigger than me—that there’s no reason for me to get worked up. Not yet. There’s nothing I can do to change the course that Z is charting now.
With his eyes fixed on the patch of milkweed in front of us, Mike sighs. “How wild would it be for us to be the first fitness instructors streaming worldwide? You know it’d be you and me they’d hype up.”
I smirk as I snort in agreement—we are Z’s star players, after all, the ones with the biggest following across the company. More to his point, we’ve had some iteration of this conversation over the years. It means something for Mike and me to be prominent faces in commercial fitness, an industry that hasn’t always been welcoming to people who look like us. It’s opened both of us up to levels of scrutiny that I never expected, but Mike had been on TV during his college days. He’s been more resilient to the influx of commentary after years running the ball for Notre Dame.
Would other markets accept us, celebrate us the way Haven’s current client base does? Or would we be met with a flood of criticism and cruelty like we’ve never seen before?
I take a deep breath to remind myself that this is out of my hands.
“I think Z will do it,” I say, mostly to myself. “I think she’ll get this across the finish line.”
“I do too.”
But as the leaves above us flutter on a gentle breeze, I accept the thought tugging at the back of my mind—I don’t want to be a part of Haven’s next chapter. I can feel the certainty settling deep in my bones, calming the remnants of my anxiety as I pick mindlessly at my cuticles.
Moving on might just be the change I was looking for.