Chapter 4 #2
“That was honesty. There’s a difference.”
I shake my head. “Focus on your breathing.”
“Alright.” After a few moments, she says, between breaths, “So where are you from, anyway?”
“From a small town in Montana, actually.”
“Seriously?”
I nod. “For real. ”
“Well you do have cowboy vibes.”
“What about you? Where are you from?”
“From Poughkeepsie. Went to college in Boston, but other than that, I’ve always lived in New York City.”
I nod, and accidentally hit the top-speed button and nearly launch myself into next week.
She notices, and starts laughing.
“Wow,” she says sympathetically. “This is going so well for you.”
I mutter under my breath, “I hate this treadmill.”
She laughs again. The sound of her voice is bright, warm, and way too cute. I lose half my professionalism right there.
After five minutes, I stop both machines and say, “You’re warm. Time for strength training. Let’s go.”
She hops off easily. I pretend I didn’t almost fall.
Done with the warmup, we move to the dumbbells.
“Okay, lunges first,” I say.
“Perfect,” she says sweetly. “Critique my form as much as you want.”
“That sounded flirty.”
“It wasn’t,” she says innocently. “I just really want…good form. And a nice you-know-what.”
“Je ne parle pa Francais.”
“Oh. So you did understand me the other day.”
“I have done a little research between then and now.”
“Oh. So I inspired you to learn French, did I?”
“Always wanted to go to the south of France.”
“Oh? Not Paris?”
I swallow. “Alright. Step forward. Keep your chest up.”
She lunges.
Her balance is good.
Her core engages.
Her leggings—Jesus Christ—were engineered in a lab to end me.
“Is this good?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “Also, I noticed you ignored my France comment. Don’t think I didn’t.”
My voice breaks.
“I—uh—yes. That’s good.”
“You hesitated.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Okay, do it again.”
She does.
Slow and controlled.
Too slow. Like she’s enjoying me watching her.
“Better?” she asks.
I clear my throat three times. “You’re…very strong.”
“Is that code for ‘you’re staring at my butt’?”
I choke. “Absolutely not.”
“That was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny. Professional. Remember?”
“It was very funny.”
“No it wasn’t,” I insist.
She smiles in a way that could rebuild the entire U.S. power grid.
“Okay,” I say, trying desperately to steer this into safe, boring territory, “time for deadlifts.” Definitely no more talk about France or anything romantic.
She picks up a pair of medium weights and positions herself.
Feet hip-width apart.
Back flat.
Form…honestly pretty good.
But she looks over her shoulder again. “Is this right? Or do I need…adjusting?”
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
“No adjusting,” I lie. “Your form is solid.”
“Are you sure? Because I really like when people—”
“Elena.”
“Yes, Lamp Man?”
I close my eyes. “Please stop calling me that.”
She laughs—full, unfiltered, delighted—then bends into the first rep.
And I, complete idiot that I am, watch.
Not in a creepy way.
In an I want her to succeed way.
Mostly.
Her form is excellent.
Her strength is impressive.
And her confidence is lethal.
She finishes a set, stands tall, cheeks flushed, and asks, “So? Am I improving?”
My voice barely works.
“It’s a great start. Will be fun to see how much you improve over ten sessions.”
She beams.
And I know that professionally, ethically, and emotionally, I should shut this down.
But I also know…
I don’t want to.
We end the session with less words today. Maybe because Damien is literally staring at us from ten feet away. As she disappears through the doors, I think about the extremely cold shower I’m going to be taking very soon.
I’m gathering equipment when something catches my eye near the end of the bench.
A small, rigid rectangle, laminated with a lanyard.
I crouch and pick it up.
Her corporate ID badge.
It’s got her company name, her photo, and a security chip.
The whole nine yards.
“Oh, damn.”
This is not a scrunchie.
This isn’t replaceable.
She probably can’t even get into her office tomorrow without it.
My thumb runs over the worn edges.
It smells faintly like her perfume. Or maybe I’m imagining it.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
I walk it to the front desk.
“Lost and found,” Damien starts.
“No,” I interrupt. “It’s her work badge. She needs it ASAP.”
He smirks. “You gonna courier it to her? Very professional.”
I ignore the jab and pull out my phone. I open her profile, and tap her number.
My heart beats harder than it should.
I tell myself it’s just responsibility.
This is duty.
I’m only doing the customer service my job requires of me.
Sure.
I type:
Colt: Hey. You left something important behind.
She responds instantly:
Elena: OMG please tell me it’s not my badge.
I send a picture.
Colt: Afraid so.
A long pause.
Elena: COLT EVANS I AM IN A CAB IN THE MIDDLE OF SOHO RIGHT NOW I CANNOT COME BACK
I try not to smile.
Colt: It’s okay. I can bring it to you.
There’s a beat of pure panic-energy typing.
Elena: NO that’s such a big favor. omg I am mortified.
Colt: Don’t be. You need it for work. It’s not optional.
More typing bubbles.
They appear, vanish, appear again.
Elena: But the cab is already almost at my place and I have to get ready for my date and I can’t ask you to bring it
I cut her off.
Colt: Elena. I’m doing this favor for you. What time is your date?
Small pause. I see the three dots moving.
Elena: 8.
Colt: Where? I’ll meet you there at 7:30.
She sends about eight dots in a row.
Elena: …are you serious?
Colt: Very.
Another long pause.
Elena: It’s at Vestry Bar on Greenwich.
Fancy. Trendy. High-end crowd.
I look down at my worn Fortitude Gym shirt.
Sweat stains.
Black athletic joggers.
Yeah. No.
Absolutely not showing up there like this.
Colt: Got it. See you at 7:30.
Elena: Ok. thank you. seriously. This is a life saver. I can’t get into my building without it. And it’s embarrassing to have to ask my boss to let me in.
I pocket her badge.
Damien watches me walk toward the back like I’m violating ten different commandments.
“You’re not seriously—”
“I’ll lock up on Saturday morning,” I say flatly. “Switch shifts with me if you need something to feel powerful.”
He scowls.
I don’t care.
I head to the locker room, peel off my shirt, splash water on my face.
My reflection looks back at me: hair messy, jaw tight, eyes energized in a way I haven’t seen in years.
I grab my backpack. What does a guy even wear to a date these days?
I check the clothes I have with me. I have one good button-down.
One pair of dark jeans.
The real coat that I bought with the last of my player salary.
Decent boots.
I’m not going to her date.
I tell myself that over and over.
Just dropping off her badge.
Doing a solid.
It’s professional courtesy.
Sure, buddy.
Whatever helps me sleep.
But the truth is buzzing in my chest like a flashing neon sign:
I want to see her again.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to hand her the badge and hear her say my name.
I zip up my bag.
Vestry Bar at 7:30.
Professional? Well. I’m off the clock now, aren’t I? And not that I give a damn what Damien has to say, but I do need my job.
I shouldn’t be this excited to see her in a bar.
But God help me?
I am.