Chapter 16
CARSON
Dan leads me to the back of the gym, where a row of contraptions that look like playground equipment lines the rear wall.
Giant weights hang on racks like enormous wheels of cheese, and damn, I wish I were at home eating cheese right now instead of standing here in spandex, wishing I had a moment to pick my thong out of my butt.
Dan made me eat scrambled eggs before we came, and they’re sitting in my stomach like sour lead.
Dan drops his gym bag beside the rack in the far corner.
He’s wearing a pair of gym shorts and a black hoodie.
I don’t know how’s he’s not burning up. I haven’t even done anything, and I’m already sweating in here.
The air conditioning in this place seems like a mere suggestion, the thick air circulating mostly thanks to a couple of those big orange fans you see on industrial construction sites.
They sound like jet engines and do nothing to change the temperature.
“Okay, we’ll start with some Romanian dead lifts.
They’re good for hamstrings and glutes, both of which you’ll want to be good and strong for skating.
” He grabs one of the thick, shiny barbells and steps back.
“You want your feet about shoulder width apart, and you’re going to push your butt back like you’re using it to close a door, lowering the barbell down your legs like you’re shaving your shins with it. ”
I stifle a laugh. “Wow, that’s very…descriptive.”
“Just trying to be as clear as possible,” he says as he prepares to demonstrates the movement. “Watch.”
And oh, I watch. I could watch him all day.
Because this man’s ass, which is pushed back and flexing, is a work of art.
He’s caked up like it’s my birthday. You could haul mountains with that dump truck.
You could bounce an entire roll of quarters off those cheeks.
When he stands up, his hips move forward in a way that makes a lot of very explicit images flit through my mind.
Good lord, ten minutes in a gym and I’ve become a Neanderthal. At least I was already pink-cheeked from the heat, so he can’t tell that I’m blushing while imagining him doing something very different with his hips.
He does a few reps while I try not to blush so hard my cheeks sizzle, then places the bar back on the rack.
“Okay, you try,” he says, his voice both gentle and authoritative.
“Are you going to put any weight on it?” I ask.
“The bar weighs forty-five pounds, and right now we’re just learning form. So no.”
My nose scrunches up as I step toward the bar. “Isn’t that embarrassing? To use just the bar?”
I can tell Dan’s working to hold back a smile.
Damn, I love infuriating him. He’s usually so stoic.
It makes me want to see what happens when he really lets loose.
“I only used the bar just now. Carson, nobody here is judging you. Most people are so busy staring at themselves in the mirror that they’ll never even notice you at all. ”
“Not even a little bit?” I ask with a wink as I reach down to grip the bar.
“Cute,” he says with an eye roll and a little smirk. “Now, show me what you got.”
Hot damn, I did not know the gym was quite so flirty.
The bar is rough beneath my palms. I adjust my feet, then adjust them again, then adjust them a third time.
I look forward into the mirror and see my red cheeks and wide eyes.
I look like I’ve been tasked with lifting weights while riding a roller coaster.
It’s really super cute. I’m remembering why I never come to places like this.
“Stop judging yourself and just go,” Dan chides. “Were you this freaked out at your first roller derby practice?”
I wasn’t. Which in hindsight is pretty insane.
But I loved it from the very first moment I put skates on—the movement, the way my heart pounded, how my breath came in gasps.
I’d never felt so inside my body before, never been so aware of every muscle and joint.
So in control of a body that, for my whole life, has felt very out of my control.
My mother spent every day telling me what foods were good and what foods were bad and in what quantities, and still I woke up each morning in a body that was fiercely determined to be what it was.
My body’s will has always been stronger than whatever fad diet my mother put us on.
But on skates, for the first time in my life, I felt like I was using my body in a way it was made to be used.
For the first time, I didn’t feel like it needed to be any different.
The difference, of course, was that I had a whole crowd of newbies to look stupid with me.
But I didn’t look stupid. Or if I did, I didn’t care.
I liked not caring.
I loved not caring.
So I give it a go now.
I set my jaw, stare into the mirror, and bend.
And I wobble.
I have no idea what this is supposed to feel like, but it doesn’t feel right. I simultaneously feel like I’m going to tip forward and rock backward. I jerk up, the bar going cattywampus in my grip.
“Okay, we need to adjust your form a little—you’re using your back too much,” Dan says. I appreciate that he’s pretending I got the movement even close to correct or have any idea to fix what I did. He steps behind me. “Is it okay to touch you?”
I nearly drop the bar on my feet.
“Uh, yup,” is what I mange to reply. “Sure, definitely. That’s fine. Touch away.”
Very cool, Carson.
His hands are warm when they land softly on my hips, heat licking at my skin. His fingers press into my hip bones, pulling back slightly. My body bows, my hips hinging as I let his firm grip lead me.
“You’re going to bend here, pushing your hips back.
Go,” he says gently, and I do, trying so hard not to think about the fact that I’m pressing my hips directly back into his lap that it’s actually all I can think about.
As I bend, one of his hands coasts up the column of my spine, leaving a trail of fire across my skin.
“You want to keep your back neutral. Don’t round your shoulders or arch your back here. ”
One of his palms stops at the small of my back, right at the waistband of my leggings. I freeze, every muscle flexing, and lean into his hand. I blow out a breath that I hope sounds like exertion and not pure lust.
Do not sexually harass your roommate. Do not assign sexual intent to his coaching.
This man is helping you out of the kindness of his heart.
He’s let you into his sacred gym space. He’s talking, which is a thing he never does.
Respect that, and respect him, and get your freaking mind out of the gutter.
Maybe it’s his touch or the distraction provided by my hormones, but I suddenly stop panicking about being at the gym and doing things wrong and getting made fun of.
I’m simultaneously focusing on my body and not focusing at all, my mind drifting into a meditative state where all I feel are my muscles stretching and flexing, the weight of the bar in my hands, and the pounding of my heart as I lower and rise.
“Good, that’s it,” Dan says. “That’s perfect.”
My heart stutters. This is all too much—the weight in my palms and the sound of his voice and the feel of his hands on my body. I need to calm the fuck down.
But then I glance up into the mirror.
I find his eyes, which are trained on my body. As if he can feel my gaze, his eyes come up to meet mine in the mirror. The sound of Def Leppard on the crackly sound system fades away. The air in the gym seems to still.
And for a moment, Dan McBride looks at me with fire in his eyes.
“You guys at the beginning of your workout or the end?”
The tether between our gazes snaps as Archer bounds up behind us like a human Saint Bernard. I think I might hear Dan let out a small groan, but I’m probably imagining that. Wishful thinking.
“We’re just starting,” Dan says after dragging his eyes away from mine. “It’s Carson’s first time.”
Archer’s grin widens. “That’s awesome! Is Dan going easy on you?”
No, I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been.
“Yup. Definitely. He’s great,” I say, plastering what I hope isn’t a manic grin on my face. I want to rerack the empty bar, but I worry I won’t know what to do with my hands without it, so I just stand there holding it like an idiot.
“You guys doing just legs today or you hitting a full body?” Archer steps up to the rack beside us and starts doing a few squats and lunges.
He’s approaching his mid-thirties, still lean and muscular, evidence of his former life as a professional athlete.
There’s a long scar on his knee from the injury that ended his career.
“Legs,” Dan grunts.
“Cool, same. Mind if I join you guys?”
Dan’s jaw flexes, but I just smile wider. Archer’s good looking, but his oppressive big brother energy is the cold shower I need right now.
“Yeah, absolutely. The more the merrier,” I say with a wild grin.
Dan’s face shutters.
The rest of the workout is filled with Archer’s loud, happy chatter, which I work to keep up with as Dan quietly explains and demonstrates different movements and machines.
He doesn’t touch me again.
For the next forty-five minutes, we visit different stations around the gym.
I learn about leg extensions and calf raises and glute bridges, Dan and Archer and I taking turns on each machine just like I teach my kindergarteners to do on the playground.
We end up in an area filled with rows padded benches and several racks of dumbbells lining the wall in front of a bank of mirrors.
“Let’s finish with a single leg movement,” Dan says. “Curtsy lunges.”
“Do Bulgarians,” Archer says with a devious grin.
“Curtsy lunges, because I’m not trying to kill her on her first day,” Dan replies with just a hint of venom.