Page 2

Chapter 2

Personal Best Training

Isaiah

I ’ve been in a downward spiral ever since I went to the sports medicine specialist two days ago.

“Do you see here?” the doctor said, pointing to my neck on my MRI. “This is your spinal canal, and it’s narrowed. It should be this wide,” he said, indicating an uninjured part of my spine. But my world felt narrower than my injured spine when he told me if I took any more hits, it could leave me paraplegic.

For every injury I’ve ever had, I’ve been able to heal well enough. But to be told full-contact rugby was totally off the table—that was not something I was ready to hear.

Rugby has consumed my life since I was a teenager. Once I found out I actually had a shot at going pro overseas, I dedicated even more of myself to the sport. Everything revolved around rugby, and it paid off. I went pro. But after three years with the London Hornets, I suffered a shoulder injury that didn’t quite heal all the way, and I wasn’t picked up again. I came back to the states with my tail between my legs, unable to see the amazing opportunity I had been given and appreciate the time I spent playing professionally. I was in a dark state for a while until my family nudged me to try playing for the club team back home.

And it did help. Playing club rugby, especially alongside my brothers, made me feel whole again, regardless of the broken bones along the way.

But now, I can’t even play at club level.

When I got home from the sports medicine specialist, all I could do was stare at the walls of my room looking for answers. But what is life without playing rugby?

I have to figure something out and that starts with the personal trainer I’m about to meet. He came recommended by the sports medicine specialist as someone who could help me transition from athlete to… well, a former athlete. The bottom line is I can’t operate how I used to and now I need to heal and learn about this new version of my body.

Am I willing to accept this fate? I don’t want to. But I see players come and go every year. Some retire. Some get caught up in their own lives and don’t have time to play. Some have injuries so bad they can never play again. But more often than not, those same people make their way back to the team as spectators, or fans, or donors to the club. They’re never truly gone for good. Rugby has a way of pulling you back into its orbit.

The retirement pill, as awful as it tastes, isn’t as big and scary as it once was. Retiring from club rugby isn’t as bitter as retiring from professional rugby. But it still isn’t easy to swallow.

Whether I accept my fate or not, I have to keep moving. So here I am, killing time before my first session at Personal Best Training. My appointment is at 1:00 p.m., which gives me enough time afterward to get home, shower, and make it to work on time.

With shaky legs and a heavy heart, I gingerly step out of my car, walk past the reflective windows, and pull open the door. When I find the suite I’m looking for and walk in, I’m greeted by an orange and white cat dancing around my legs and country music 1 playing in the background. I remember the website for this place having more cat pictures than would be expected of a personal training studio. In every picture of the gym, there were cats laying on the equipment and a full bio of the studio kitties including their likes and dislikes. Seemed excessive but...I like cats.

“You must be Isaiah,” a tall, ridiculously buff and tattooed man in a white polo says. He stands taller than me by about an inch. His tan skin is a stark contrast to his shirt and smile. He’s not body-builder-competition tan, but there’s no way his white skin is naturally that pigmented. Even his tattoos are colorful. His blonde hair is pulled back in a bun, and his face has thick stubble and a proud chin.

“Yeah.”

“Welcome. That’s my son, Chester, at your feet. Hope you like cats. And that one scowling over there is BooBoo Kitty,” he says, pointing to a black cat sitting on a perch suctioned to the window. Its tail flicks as it watches me like I’m its next meal if I’m not careful enough. “I’m Dell, and I’ll be your personal trainer. I know you’ve already emailed your information and filled out all your intake forms, so thanks for that.”

I nod.

“So for your first appointment today, I’d like to go over the layout of the gym, talk about expectations, and do a strength and mobility assessment.”

“Okay.”

Why is this cat obsessed with my legs?

“Do you have any questions before we start?” I shake my head, and he chuckles. “You don’t talk a lot, do you?” I shake my head again. “Well, I do, so buckle up, buttercup.”

Dell shows me around the gym, and it’s a decent size. It’s definitely designed for one-on-one interactions, but a small group could meet here. The equipment, rubber flooring, walls, and ceiling are all black, except for pops of yellow scattered throughout.

When we reach the end of the quick tour, orange and white cat in tow, he instructs me to sit down on a chair across from him in his office and pulls out what must be my file. That’s when I notice the walls are covered in either body diagrams or paintings of his cats.

“You must really like your cats.”

“Oh, my sons?”

“Are they always here?”

“They are,” he beams. “And they can’t be separated. Their bond is too strong.”

Chester hops into my lap without my consent and nuzzles his head into my stomach. The painting above Dell’s head shows each cat wearing some kind of historical gentleman’s clothing in a regal pose.

“And before you ask, they’re not brothers. They’re boyfriends.”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

“So, this is a rugby injury, right? Says here someone picked you up and tossed you upside down? Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“I know a few rugby players myself. What team do you play for?”

“Philadelphia Men’s D1.”

Dell’s mouth hangs open before he smiles. “Oh, The Daddies? Nice.”

My cheeks heat at the mention of our tournament team’s nickname. “Sort of. The team turns into the Philly Fathers for summer sevens. I don’t really play sevens often.”

“Why not?” he asks genuinely.

I try to shrug, but there’s a pinch in my neck. “Big guys like me aren’t meant to run that much. It’s a… faster-paced game. I’m meant for short bursts. Tackling. Rucking. The slow grind.”

“Look at all those words you strung together. All for me? I’m flattered.”

Just to be obstinate, I stay silent, and he chuckles. “ Alright, fine. What are you looking to achieve with personal training?”

“I want to be able to play again, but I know that’s off the table.”

He nods solemnly but with a small smile that tells me he agrees, and he knows that’s a hard pill for me to swallow.

“So,” I sigh. “I need to know what I’m capable of going forward, and where my limits are.”

He writes that down. “Okay. What does that mean for your body?”

“I don’t follow.”

“I mean, how do you want your body to feel?”

“I guess… not in pain?”

“Good start. And were you in any level of pain before this last injury?”

“Just the normal amount.”

“Which was? On a scale of one to ten—and don’t lie. That’s a huge turn-off.” The way he bores into my soul with only a stare is both intimidating and weirdly comforting.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Like a three if I wasn’t playing or recovering from a game.”

“Dude,” he drawls, brows pinching together. “You shouldn't be playing if a three is your baseline pain level.”

“I’m used to it.”

Dell sighs. “Okay. One of my goals will be to teach you to listen to your body and not ignore pain.”

I didn’t exactly think my Greek god-like personal trainer would be asking such probing questions.

After our unexpectedly deep dive into my life, he takes notes while I tell him about my medical history. I follow him out of his office to the gym, and Dell drops Chester with his… boyfriend… on the window perch. Dell has me take off my sling and neck brace and go through a list of stretches and positions to demonstrate my range of motion, which are either incredibly easy or total agony. He doesn’t let me stay in those poses as soon as he sees me wince.

“You can either tell me your limit, or I can watch you like a hawk and assume you’re in pain. I’d rather you tell me, dude.”

Nosy bastard.

When my body heats up, I zip off my hoodie and toss it to the side. Before I have the chance to try the next position, he guffaws. “Is that a Twisted Sisters true crime podcast T-shirt?”

I glance down at the logo across my chest, and pain shoots down my neck and spine. Fuck. “Yeah,” I say, slowly repositioning my head.

“That’s my favorite show,” he cheers. “I have the same shirt. Did you listen to the one that dropped last week?”

I nod.

“Dude, I think Frank did it.”

That has me riled up. “No way. They said he was coerced by the police into admitting he killed Shannon.”

“Yeah, but Shannon’s sister Wendy was sleeping with that detective,” Dell muses, crossing his large tattooed arms over his chest. “I think Wendy was trying to get Frank back for breaking up with her all those years ago.”

“You think?”

“Oh my god. I can’t believe I found another Twisted Sisters fan! Who’s your favorite host? Kate or Tiffany?”

“Tiffany, obviously.”

Dell chuckles. “Obviously. Kate is only there to create mayhem.”

“Yeah, but her mayhem is always what takes Tiffany down new avenues of thinking, which, more often than not, leads to fresh evidence.”

My burly trainer looks taken aback, like he hadn’t put that together until now, and I wonder if that’s what he looks like when he listens to the podcast. I wonder how he listens. In the car? Working out? In bed? I wonder what he wears to bed…

“I never thought about it like that,” Dell chuffs, “but you’re right! Okay, stop distracting me from my job you, Big Rugby Daddy.” His smile is so big and genuine that my gut drops like a lead balloon.

There’s something else though—something I don’t often feel. A quiet fluttering in my stomach. Like a single butterfly flitting about. That’s unexpected. I usually only feel flutters once I really know a person and can trust them. There have only been three people I’ve been attracted to my whole life.

The first: my best friend in junior high, Conner, who quickly became my bully once I finally mustered the courage to tell him my feelings.

The second: my college girlfriend, Jessica, a religious girl who took me to church with her every Sunday and held my hand. She never pressured me for sex because she was saving herself for marriage. It allowed me time to develop my sexual attraction to her as our romantic attraction grew. It’s fucking laughable looking back on that relationship now.

And then there was Robyn, the third. The woman who unknowingly consumes me whole. The wild freshman I met all those years ago, who snuck her way into my heart, and I’ve never let her go.

No one has ever given me butterflies since. Not until this big blonde beefcake caught me in his smile like a live trap and called me Big Rugby Daddy.

One butterfly.

I’m going to ignore it.

He holds out a rubber resistance band for me to pull apart, and I have to shake myself back into reality when he says, “Next week we can talk about the newest episode. Twenty bucks says Detective Wilson gets murdered.”

1. TEXAS HOLD 'EM by Beyoncé