Chapter 2
Chapter Two
COLT
The door closes behind Elena, and I’m left standing there feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time.
I rake a hand through my hair and let out a slow breath.
Damn.
I shouldn’t be thinking about a client this way.
I know better.
I’ve been in this job long enough to know the rules—hell, I’ve seen trainers get fired for less.
But there was just something about her.
Something in the way she walked out of here—determined, graceful, a little flustered, a little funny.
And fun. Something in the way she laughed at herself.
Something in the way she looked at me like she actually saw me, not the trainer, not the athlete I used to be, not the guy on a poster collecting dust in a basement somewhere.
Her energy hit me like a cold plunge. She was just being herself, too.
It’s been a minute since someone did that.
More than a minute, if I’m honest.
Months. At least.
I lock the weights, wipe down the bench. Try to busy myself. It doesn’t help. My mind keeps replaying every moment of the session:
Her making fun of her ex’s side-quest foreplay.
Her cheeks turning pink when she said “derrière.”
Her half-smile when I told her she looked good for her age—hell, she looked better than half the 25-year-olds in this gym. And has a hell of a head on her shoulders. I get the feeling her last relationship knocked down her self-esteem so she has no idea how awesome she is.
She definitely has no idea how hot she is. That’s for sure.
I shake my head.
Stop. She’s a client. Keep it professional.
Not that I’ve been flirting. I haven’t. If anything, she was the one.
“Evans.”
I stiffen at the sound of that voice.
Of course, my manager Damien.
He always says my name like it’s something stuck between his teeth. And he walks toward me with that stiff posture that screams: I have a complex about authority because I’ve never had any in my real life.
He glances toward the exit. “That your new training client?”
I keep my expression neutral. “Yeah.”
“I heard some of that ‘conversation’ earlier.” He makes air quotes like a jackass. “Sounded a little…personal.”
I grit my teeth.
“We were talking,” I say calmly. “People talk during warm-ups. It’s normal.”
He crosses his arms. “We’re a luxury gym, Colt. Not a community center. We can’t have trainers flirting with clients.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
He tilts his head. “She was.”
The heat rises in my chest.
“And you didn’t exactly shut it down,” he adds smugly.
I take a slow breath, the way my physical therapist taught me. I remind myself that Damien is five-foot-eight on a good day and gets winded climbing stairs. Not the enemy. Just a petty man with a clipboard and a Napoleon complex.
“Next time,” he continues, “keep the small talk strictly fitness-related. Abs, macros, form. Not her dating life.”
I bite back the instinctive: She brought it up.
Instead I say, “Got it.”
He doesn’t move or blink. He just inspects me like he’s looking for a weak spot.
“Don’t make me write you up, Cole.”
I nod once.
He walks away with the triumphant strut of someone who thinks they’ve won a battle I never signed up for.
When he’s gone, I sit on the edge of the training bench and exhale long and hard.
My knee throbs—just a faint pulse, barely noticeable now, but I know what it means. I shouldn’t have demonstrated lunges earlier. I should know better.
But Elena’s eyes lit up when she asked about abs, and suddenly I’m twenty-one again, showing off in a weight room, trying to impress someone I shouldn’t care about.
I rub the side of my knee.
That’s what ended it.
Not the fame or the pressure or the contract—my knee. One weird step, one bad angle, the pop I felt all the way up my spine.
Career over in a single sound.
I stand, stretch, ignore the ache.
My phone buzzes.
When I pull it out, my stomach sinks.
Mom: You coming by tonight? Feeling off again.
Shit.
I text back immediately:
Colt: Heading there now. Want anything?
She sends a heart emoji.
My throat tightens.
That’s why I haven’t hooked up with anyone in months.
It’s not that I don’t want to. I’m twenty-seven, not dead.
It’s just that real life is heavier than whatever’s happening in my romantic life.
Mom needs me.
The gym needs me.
My savings need a miracle.
And Elena…
Elena is a client.
Sure, a client who made my day brighter.
A client who laughed with me.
A client I noticed way more than I should have.
I drag my hand over my face.
No.
Nope.
Not going there.
I’ll clarify with her next time.
Tell her we’ve gotta keep things professional.
No more dating talk, and no more accidental flirting.
No more wondering what she looks like when she isn’t wearing a peach sweatshirt.
I pull up my calendar.
Thursday.
5:30 PM.
I stare at it longer than necessary.
My stomach does something weird.
Stupid.
I’m looking forward to it.
I snap the calendar closed.
And say out loud, to the empty gym:
“Professional. Keep it professional.”
But the problem is…
I’m not sure I want to.