Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
ELENA
Wednesday.
My phone buzzes on my desk.
I’m mid-email, half-listening to someone in the hallway rant about Q4 metrics, when I glance down.
Colt: Thank you.
I blink.
Then another bubble appears.
Colt: You’re right, btw. Let’s just stay friends. Workouts only. Things could get way too complicated if not.
My stomach dips so fast it’s dizzying.
Oh.
Oh.
I set my phone face-down, very slowly, like it’s fragile.
Workouts only.
He wants to be…friends. Because this could get complicated.
Right. Fine. Perfect.
My chest tightens.
I swallow, stare blankly at the budget spreadsheet on my monitor, and realize I haven’t absorbed a single number in the last ten minutes.
A knock on my door jolts me.
My boss, Greg, leans in. “Just wanted to pop in and say hi.”
“Well…hi.”
“You good?” he asks. “You look… I don’t know. Like someone told you brunch was canceled.”
I force a smile.
“Yep. Just fine. Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
He nods slowly, like he’s mentally flagging me as a flight risk.
“Well,” he says carefully, “just wanted to say, you’re killing it this week. If you keep this rhythm, that promotion conversation is happening sooner rather than later.”
I perk up. “Really?”
“Really. You’re on fire.”
Then he squints. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Great,” I repeat tightly. “Amazing. Couldn’t be better.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright, killer. Carry on.”
He leaves, and something inside me snaps back into place with an audible click.
If Colt wants to be “workouts only,” then I can be something else—something I am good at.
A leader.
A boss.
A woman who does not melt just because a younger man sends a “friends only” text.
I stand up, stride into the hallway, and clap my hands once in the rows.
“Team meeting,” I announce.
Two analysts scramble to attention.
“Riley,” I say, “the Q4 deck is sloppy. Fix the charts, add three bullet points to slide fourteen, and eliminate the Comic Sans someone—” I glare at both of them “—thought was appropriate for a client-facing presentation.”
He gulps. “Yes, Elena.”
“Ava,” I continue, “the vendor report needs to go out today. Reformat the tables and send it to me by two. If I have to realign one more cell myself, I’m going to start flipping desks.”
She nods vigorously. “On it.”
“And please,” I add, glancing at the stack of half-empty coffee cups on the credenza, “everyone drink water. Hydration is not a myth.”
A couple people laugh nervously.
I return to my office, shut the door, and, once no one can see me, slump into my chair.
“Friends only,” I mutter.
Sure. I pick up my phone again.
No new messages.
My chest aches in a quiet, inconvenient way.
I inhale deeply, exhale slowly, and whisper:
“Okay. Workouts only it is.”
I don’t believe it. Not for a second. But still, I type nothing back.
I just sit there, a boss on the outside. And an absolute mess on the inside.
Thursday.
5:26 p.m.
I pause outside the gym doors, smoothing my hand over the front of my slate-gray long-sleeve top.
Along with black high-waisted leggings, white sneakers, and my hair in a sleek low ponytail.
It’s fitted but not flirty.
It’s reasonable, adult, and responsible.
In other words, it’s the opposite of burgundy chaos-siren oops-I-accidentally-turned-my-trainer-feral vibes.
I look like someone who reads Harvard Business Review for fun.
Good.
That’s the energy I need.
“Workouts only,” I remind myself as I head in.
My heart does a dramatic thud as soon as I see him.
Colt is standing by the weight rack, stretching out his shoulder, looking way too good for someone who has decided we’re “friends.”
He’s wearing a gray training shirt, and his hair is slightly mussed.
A calm, collected expression that betrays nothing…until he actually sees me.
And for a half second, his eyes flick down my body. Then up.
He schools his face back into neutrality so fast it’s almost funny.
“Hey there,” he says, voice steady. “Ready to work?”
I nod, equally steady.
“Super ready. Very ready. The readiest.”
Kill me.
He clears his throat. “So…we’re sticking to the workouts.”
“Yes,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
There’s a beat.
A long one. Yet the air feels charged like a subway track.
“Okay then,” he says. “Let’s get to it.”
I exhale as he gestures for me to follow him to our usual corner of the gym.
We start warming up—rows, light squats, nothing crazy yet.
Both of us are overly focused, like we’re in a competition to see who can look the most unbothered.
“How’s your week?” he asks, voice casual.
“Busy,” I say. “Corporate overlord work. Lots of spreadsheets and soul erosion.”
He huffs a laugh.
“How about you?”
He hesitates. “Fine. The usual.”
I look at him, but he’s avoiding eye contact.
Which means not fine.
But we said professional. And friends. And uncomplicated.
So I don’t push.
When our warmups finish, I turn to him, ready for the routine.
Instead, he crosses his arms, gives me a small, cocky half-grin I absolutely feel in my ribcage, and says:
“Before we start… anything you want to discuss? Scheduling? Boundaries?”
I swallow.
“Nope,” I say lightly. “All good…friend.”
He nods, but there’s a smug little spark in his eyes.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s start, then.”
“Lead the way, Coach Evans.”
Something flickers in his expression. Something dark, amused, and absolutely not professional.
“Oh, I’ll lead,” he murmurs.
My stomach flips.
“And I’m going to work you like you’ve never been worked.”
“That sounds—phrasing-wise—”
He raises a brow. “What? Motivational?”
“Yes.”
My voice cracks. “Very.”
He gives me a look that is somehow both innocent and not innocent at all.
“Great,” he says. “Let’s begin.”
And just like that, we step into our carefully-constructed emotional minefield, pretending it’s a gym.
If someone had told me ten weeks ago I’d willingly work out three days a week, I would’ve laughed, choked on my latte, and filed an HR complaint for emotional harassment.
But here we are.
Tuesday. Thursday. The occasional Saturday.
Colt, Colt, Colt.
Each session its own little universe.
Each week its own slow shift.
In weeks one and two, We keep things painfully, aggressively professional.
He shows me how to squat without my knees collapsing inward.
I show up in normal, non-chaos-inducing leggings.
We talk about the weather, protein intake, and whether NY bagels count as carbs or religion.
He keeps his distance, and I keep mine.
Mostly.
During weeks three and four, he starts nudging my weights up.
“You can handle more,” he says during one of our sessions. “You’re stronger than you think.”
At first, I think he means physically. Then I realize…he doesn’t. There’s more to working out than just the weights.
He starts checking in on my meals.
“Eat more,” he insists. “You need fuel. Please, Elena. Don’t starve yourself for some random date.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “But I refuse to eat chicken and rice like a gym bro.”
He laughs every time.
Week five, my dates start changing.
At first, the swipes feel the same—guys in Patagonia vests or men whose entire personality is their photo with a fish.
But something is different now.
I am different now.
I show up to dinners or drinks not trying to be perfect.
I’m not rehearsing stories in the cab.
I’m not performing.
And somehow?
The guys are hotter.
The conversations easier.
I feel…desirable.
Not because they think so.
Because I do. Maybe it’s just because I’m following through on something a little challenging, that I said I’d do.
Once we reach weeks six and seven, My body starts changing.
Slowly, subtly, and I have to admit—deliciously.
My legs feel stronger when I walk up subway stairs. My coat fits in the shoulders differently. And my waist starts hinting at curves I thought were gone after turning thirty.
But it’s my face that shocks me.
One morning I catch my reflection in the elevator mirror and freeze.
My eyes look brighter, my cheeks are flushed, and my posture is straighter.
I look great.
God, I look alive.
In week eight, Colt notices.
He doesn’t say it outright. He’s too careful.
But during a hip hinge rep, he pauses a second too long, and tilts his head.
“You’re moving really well,” he murmurs.
I swear he’s talking about more than my hinge.
He starts telling me to go on more dates.
“We’re keeping this professional,” he reminds me. “You should date around.”
“Why?” I ask, half teasing, half wounded.
He shrugs. “You deserve good experiences.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll go out.”
He nods. “Good. Just remember you deserve someone amazing. Don’t lower your standards.”
Still, something in his jaw ticks every time I mention a date.
Week ten hits, and It’s snowing now.
New York winter settles in like a melodramatic roommate. Slushy streets, icy wind tunnels between buildings, Starbucks cups everywhere.
I walk into the gym one late afternoon with snowflakes still caught in my hair. Colt looks up, sees me, and something about his smile makes the cold evaporate.
“Want to try the sixty-pound dumbbells today for deadlifts?” he asks.
“Who are you?” I laugh. “And what kind of superhero do you think I am?”
“The kind who keeps surprising herself,” he says softly.
My stomach flips, and I avoid eye contact.
Meanwhile, I buy another ten-pack on the app before I can talk myself out of it.
Then the next day, I buy another, for thirty sessions total.
When the confirmation email hits my inbox, I stare at it for a long time.
Ten weeks ago, I walked into his gym feeling older.
A little invisible, just a touch unsexy, and definitely uncertain.
But now?
Now I feel like someone who can walk into a room and choose—not chase.
I catch myself in the window as I get ready to leave my office.
I’m not perfect. I’m not twenty-five.
I’m not effortlessly carefree, but I’m…powerful.
I like what I see. My old confidence is definitely coming back to me.
I’m packing up my things, still warm from the workout, still buzzing from the ten-week glow I can’t fully deny.
I reach for my coat.
Colt clears his throat behind me.
“Hey—Elena?”
I look up.
He’s closer than I realized.
Arms crossed, hair a little mussed, that soft winter light from the high windows catching on his jaw.
“Yeah?” I say.
He hesitates. “Can I say something without you taking it the wrong way?”
“Of course.”
And then, quietly, I hear his voice. “You look really good. I’m extremely impressed by how much work you’ve been putting in.”
My breath stutters.
He freezes instantly, like his own words shocked him. “I mean—professionally.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I mean…not professionally. Or—yes professionally but also not—shit.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I just mean your progress. Physically. Strength-wise. In your lifts. God.”
I should tease him. I should laugh.
Instead, I stare at him, because something about the way he said really good didn’t feel like a trainer assessing reps.
It felt like a man noticing a woman, and he knows it. His ears go slightly pink.
“Anyway,” he mutters, stepping back, “great session. Have a good weekend.”
He turns before I can reply, walking off to re-rack weights with unnecessary enthusiasm, like he’s trying to burn off electricity.
I exhale, grab my bag, and head out.
Stop overthinking, I tell myself.
But then, when I get home, I empty my purse onto the counter.
Keys, lip balm, receipts, and a protein bar tumble out.
But along with those familiar items, I see something folded.
It’s not mine, and it’s not familiar.
It’s a slip of paper, creased like it was once in someone’s pocket.
So I unfold it, and my heart stops when I realize it’s Colt’s handwriting.
Bold. Slanted slightly right, and a little messy.
There are just two words written down:
“Don’t settle.”
I sit down slowly, the note trembling in my hand.
I don’t know when he wrote it.
I don’t know when he put it in my bag.
I don’t know if he meant for me to find it now…or ever.
But I know one thing:
“Workouts only” was a lie.
And now?
Now I don’t know what we’re doing at all.
And then, he sends me one more text that I have a feeling might change everything.