CHAPTER SIX
By week six, Ironhaven had become Olivia's second home.
She knew which weight rack had the forty-pound dumbbells with the chipped paint.
She knew that the morning crowd included a retired firefighter who deadlifted in knee-high argyle socks, a college student who cried during every leg day, and a woman in her sixties who could out-burpee most of the twenty-somethings.
She knew the exact squeak in the third floorboard near the water fountain, and she knew that Lucas kept emergency chocolate in his locker for students who were about to pass out.
She'd earned the chocolate twice.
"You're here more than the staff," observed Dez, the evening front-desk guy, as Olivia swiped in one rainy Thursday. Dez was twenty-four, covered in tattoos of mythical creatures, and working on a fantasy novel he'd describe in excruciating detail if anyone made eye contact for too long.
"I'm basically staff," Olivia said. "I just don't get paid. Or respected."
"You get respected by the person who matters."
She followed his gaze to the combat area, where Lucas was demonstrating a throw on a new student—a nervous woman in her forties who'd apparently signed up after divorcing her husband. Lucas was gentle, patient, explaining the mechanics with his hands hovering protectively near her shoulders.
"He's good with beginners," Dez noted.
"He's good with everyone."
"He's different with you."
Olivia's stomach did a complicated gymnastics routine. "Different how?"
"More intense. More focused. More—" Dez made a vague hand gesture. "—whatever the opposite of professional is."
"Unprofessional?"
"I was going for 'human.' He acts like a robot with everyone else. With you, he laughs."
Olivia didn't know what to do with that information, so she shoved it into the same mental box where she kept her feelings about Lucas's shoulders and the way he said her name. The box was getting crowded.
She warmed up alone—Lucas was occupied with the new student—working through the mobility routine he'd designed for her.
It was brutal and beautiful: deep squats with her heels flat on the floor, shoulder dislocates with a resistance band, hip CARs that made her feel like a rusty hinge being oiled back to life.
"You're doing the pigeon stretch wrong."
Olivia looked up. A woman stood over her—tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and a ponytail so tight it probably gave her a natural facelift. Her tank top had IRONHAVEN ELITE printed across the chest.
"Excuse me?" Olivia said.
"Your hip alignment. You're dumping into your lower back instead of opening the hip flexor." The woman didn't introduce herself. "I'm Cass. I coach the advanced striking program here."
"Olivia. I train with Lucas."
Cass's expression flickered—something fast and unreadable. "I know who you are. The girl Lucas's 'project.'"
The quotation marks around "project" were audible.
"I'm his student," Olivia said evenly.
"Of course." Cass smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "He's always had a soft spot for strays. Tell me, how's your weight loss coming? We have an excellent nutrition program—"
"I'm not trying to lose weight."
"No?" Cass looked her up and down with clinical detachment. "Most women your size join gyms for that reason."
"Most women my size don't have my roundhouse kick."
Cass laughed—a sharp, brittle sound. "Cute. Really. But here's some advice from someone who's actually fought professionally: the ring doesn't care about your confidence. Physics wins. And physics says smaller is faster, smaller is better, smaller survives."
She walked away before Olivia could respond, her ponytail swinging like a metronome marking the passage of Olivia's temper.
"Don't listen to her," said a voice.
Olivia turned. The new student Lucas had been teaching—a woman named Gloria, Olivia had learned—stood nearby, adjusting her hand wraps with the careful movements of someone still learning.
"Cass has been trying to get Lucas's attention for two years," Gloria continued quietly. "She's not used to competition."
"I'm not competition. I'm a student."
Gloria smiled, wise and knowing in a way that made her look younger and older simultaneously. "Sure, honey. And I'm the Queen of England."