Chapter 25
I’M SITTING ON THE FLOOR, my back against the door, when there’s a knock. “Ellie?”
It’s Ian.
The dizziness has subsided, and the shaking has reduced to the occasional shudder, but it still takes enormous effort to force out a faux-casual “Oh, hey.”
“What happened?” he asks though the door.
I sigh. I have no idea what I’m going to say to him, but what else is new?
I get to my feet, taking some comfort in the fact that the movement is only accompanied by run-of-the-mill head rush, and pull open the door.
I have to step back to keep from bumping straight into Ian.
His gray eyes stare down at me intently, a concerned tug between his brows.
I have to take another step back. It’s overwhelming, being looked at like that.
I shake my head, still muddled by his expression. “I’m fine.”
“Fine doesn’t send someone to the storage room near tears,” he says, voice hard.
I scowl. “You’re inconveniently perceptive at times, did you know that?”
“Being able to accurately read someone’s body language is a critical part of coaching.”
That is a very Ian answer. A very competent Ian answer.
So, while I’m still wading through my lingering panic, I can’t ignore that I’m feeling a touch more appreciation for his knowledgeability than is appropriate, given the scenario.
But it carries me above the fear, so I lean into my competence boner like a kickstand.
Which is a really gross visual.
I grit my teeth. I could fess up. Should fess up.
Tell him about my eye and the possible MS and what this episode probably means for me, but I’m not ready to let go of the version of me I get to be here.
I don’t think I’ll ever be. But I don’t want to lie, either, so I go with the simplest version of the truth. “I got dizzy.”
“Dizzy,” he says, flatly.
“I thought I was going to black out. I haven’t experienced anything like that before, and I didn’t want to keel over in front of everyone, so I bailed. It scared me,” I say, garnishing with specificity.
Ian nods slowly, seeming to take this in. “That was a high weight for you, right? You were close to hitting your PR?”
“Yeah.” I shrug; might as well be truthful where I can. “Or maybe I’d already hit it? I wasn’t paying attention to how much was on there.”
“First, never do that. You have to stay aware of how much is on the bar every lift, or you’re gonna get hurt.
As for the dizziness…” He sighs, like my faux pas with the weight has made me unworthy of whatever he plans to say.
“It’s not uncommon. Especially when you’ve only been lifting for a short while. ”
“What?” I gawk at him, my fear suspended by a thread. “The dizziness? That happens?”
“If you don’t breathe properly before attempting a lift like that, it can.”
I continue to stare at him, unwilling to give in to the temptation of relief.
“The dizziness you described was probably because you didn’t prep for your lift the right way.
You gotta—” He pauses, sucks in an exaggerated breath, and braces, contracting his abdominals enough that he curls forward slightly.
So, so much shifting among the muscles. “When you initiate a lift that heavy, you have to set yourself up. Which I did make a point of saying when I modeled it.”
I frown, thinking back; nope. Nothing but on-nom-noms. “I guess you did?” The larger meaning behind what he’s telling me sinks in, and my fear is replaced by a flicker of hope. “So, you think that was it? Just my breathing?”
“As an actual expert, that is my expert opinion.” He tips his head toward the gym. “Let’s find out.”
I frown. “What—now?”
“Your bar is still out there. C’mon.” He reaches out a hand, the pink calluses stark against the lines of chalk still dusting his palm.
I stare at his offered hand. I’m afraid of trying and having the dizziness overtake me again. Of having it happen in front of Ian, when I can’t deny the severity of the situation, and inevitably break down and tell him what’s actually going on.
But… what if it doesn’t happen?
“Humor me,” he says.
I roll my eyes, but the out is a kindness. I take his hand, letting him pull me into the hallway, and he surprises me by releasing my hand to place his on my shoulder as we walk to the gym floor.
My bar sits alone in the corner of the room, near the plyo boxes. Everyone else has cleared out. I wonder if he shooed away any stragglers for my benefit.
“You switched the plates,” I say, registering that the nubbly rubber plates with the weight in pounds have been replaced with the smooth kilogram plates I only ever see the more hardcore athletes use.
I don’t even know how many kilos are on the bar, not that I’d able to convert it anyway.
It’s what, 2.3 pounds to a kilo? Or… something?
“I don’t want you thinking about the weight right now. It’ll get you too in your head.” He brushes his thumb over my shoulder, which does more to wave away my thoughts about metric conversions than logic ever could.
“You said I’m supposed to stay aware of the weight at all times.”
“Unless I’ve set up the bar. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I snark, but my heart’s not in it. His hand’s still on me.
“Just follow the motions.”
I hesitate, and Ian gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“I’ll talk you through it. We’ve got this.
” He slides his hand to the center of my back, encouraging me toward the bar, and I step forward.
“Get in close, bar over your shoelaces,” he says, using the same instruction as he had in class, and I follow along.
“Bend your knees, butt back like you’re trying to find a chair.
Good—down more,” he amends, and I adjust. “Look about eighteen inches ahead of your toes. Now, brace, but only lift enough to take the slack out of the bar. You’ll hear it. ”
I do, and the barbell clings against the metal ring at the center of each weight plate.
“Nice. Relax,” he says, and I stand. “Shake it out a little.” When I don’t move, he eyes me. “Shake it out,” he repeats, with the lilting reprimand of someone telling a dog to “drop it.”
I screw up my face and shimmy, letting my arms flop.
“Brat. Back to the bar.”
Smirking, I resume my earlier stance, feet shoulder-distance apart, and peer over to make sure the bows of my shoelaces aren’t visible. “All right, I’m good.”
“Now, really brace. Engage your lats. There should be more tension here.” He places a hand at my side, just below the band of my sports bra.
I tense at the contact. “Good.” He removes his hand from me, then there’s a touch on my spine.
“Try to pinch my finger with your shoulder blades,” he directs.
I pull my shoulders back as far as I can, and I feel them graze his finger before he withdraws it.
“Now roll them down—imagine you’re tucking your shoulder blades into your pockets.”
“Weird,” I say, just to feel like I’ve contributed, but I make the adjustment, feeling more muscles engage.
“Breathe”—I do—“brace”—I do—“take out the slack”—that, too—“and go!”
I feel every muscle engage, pressing the ground away as much as lifting myself to stand. I’m at the top of the lift before I even realize it.
“Good. Bring the bar back to the floor.”
I reverse the steps, and the plates hit the floor with a dull thud.
“Let’s add weight.” He nods to the ten-pound plates on the floor by my bar.
“That’s a twenty pound jump on top of whatever you already had on there,” I point out.
“You’ve got it.”
“If I fall over, it’s your fault.”
“Hayes, I can bench two of you. If you fall over, I can deal. Put. Them. On.”
Every word is a command. And damn it all, I want to do it. Whether to please him or in spite of him, or, perhaps, in response to the jolt my libido had given at his direct tone, but he’s thrown down the gauntlet, dammit; I’m going to pick it up.
Also… he can bench two of me? Can we test that?
Once the bar is loaded, Ian nods, then clears his throat. “Approach. Brace. Slack. Lift.”
I follow the steps one by one. It’s tougher going this time—I’m feeling every one of those additional twenty pounds—but then, I’m at the top of the lift.
“Bring it back down,” he says, with all the enthusiasm of someone reading off stereo instructions.
The weights clatter to the floor.
“Dizzy?” Ian asks, voice quiet.
It takes me a moment to make sense of the question. Then—
“No?”
“You just PR’d by thirty pounds, Ellie.”
I gasp. “It was that heavy?”
“You probably could have done more, based on your form—”
“I didn’t get dizzy! I’m fine.” Relief ricochets around my torso, bouncing off the walls of my rib cage.
“You were right!” I jump at him for a hug, and he catches me easily.
He holds me as I crush my arms around him, my anxiety and terror fleeing my system, replaced by giddy relief.
He squeezes me to his chest, pressing a shuddering breath out of me. “Oh, my God. I’m okay.”
“You’re okay.”
I nod into his shoulder. Tears sting my eyes. I hadn’t realized how scared I was until I didn’t have to be anymore. I sigh. I’m okay.
“I’m okay,” I repeat aloud. The words replay in my mind on a loop. I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay!
“And you PR’d,” he adds, like it’s anywhere in my awareness.
I barely have the breath to let out my laugh. “You tricked me with the metric system.”
“And it worked. Do—” He clears his throat. “Do you need a second?”
I nod again.
“Should I leave you alone?” His hold on me loosens almost imperceptibly, and I tighten my grip on him on instinct.
I shake my head side to side, still pressed to his chest. “Stay? Please.”
“Okay.”
No hesitation. He’s here. Staying.
He cares.
“Thank you,” I say.
His head lowers to rest against mine. “Happy to.” His cinnamon-spice breath brushes the side of my neck like his lips did on Saturday night, the movement sparking across my skin.