Page 10 of Resistance Training

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile.

He sits on the ground, back against the side of the bench, arms spread out to the side, then slides up so his upper back is flat against the top of the bench and says, “Starting with hip thrusts. We won’t add extra weight today, we will work on proper form.

Bottom of the scapulas against the edge of the bench.

Feet planted firmly on the floor, toes pointed out.

A little more than hip-width apart. Chin tucked, looking forward, drive through your heels to activate the glutes, squeeze your glutes hard at the top.

” He points to the sides of his butt as he squeezes and thrusts upward.

“Exhale on the way up. Control the descent. Drop all the way back down.”

He lowers his butt to the ground and then stands up without the use of his hands. Core strength only. Then he goes back to the rack to grab a pair of weights marked 12 . He demonstrates a Romanian deadlift, followed by Bulgarian split squats, and then a weighted sumo squat. “Any questions?”

“Did you delete the emails I sent you?”

He blinks. “No,” he says, as if that would be horrendous of him and he’s not a monster.

“So you saw them, you just didn’t read them?”

“Take a seat on the bench and then slide down until your back is flat against it with your feet flat on the floor.”

I put my water bottle down and sit on the floor in front of the bench, spreading my arms out wide so my headlights are pointing directly at him. He almost does a really good job of not glancing at them. “So you just haven’t read them yet .”

“You need to stay focused, Vivian. Mind to muscle. Think about your glutes.”

“I think you should read my emails before my next session with you.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my client and I need to stay focused too.”

“On my glutes?”

“In a minute, yes. I want your feet about two more inches apart. Flat on the ground.” He reaches around to feel my back. “Bottom of your scapulas against the edge. Do you know what your scapulas are?”

I lift myself up an inch. “Do you remember what manners are, sir?”

“Weight in the heels, drive your hips up and squeeze your glutes.”

I do that, locking my eyes with his as I thrust and lower, angrily but perfectly every time.

“Good,” he says. He holds his hand out to help me up off the floor after my tenth rep.

I take his hand, still locking eyes with him, trying to control my breaths. My heart is beating as hard as it does after a run but not as fast, and I like it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Can you put on some music in here?”

“Sure. All you had to do was ask.” He crosses over to a panel on the back wall.

“You still listen to Pearl Jam?”

His body tenses up a bit. As if he can’t believe I remember what kind of music he used to listen to when we were best friends.

I do my gruff Eddie Vedder imitation, muffling my voice into my fist like it’s a microphone. “ Even tempohhhh. Thoughts on muscles, drive through the heels! Ohhhhh, her form is perfect, though. But he frowns at her anywayyyyyy. ”

His face almost breaks into a smile. And then it doesn’t. “Sometimes. Pick up those twelve-pound weights for the deadlifts…please.”

Well, now. I believe that’s what we call progress. “I shall. Thank you.”

“I’m putting on an upbeat pop music playlist with one hundred thirty to one hundred fifty beats per minute. I’m sure you’ll find a number of your favorite terrible songs on there.”

“Ooooh, them’s fightin’ words.”

I wait for him to lovingly make fun of my taste in music.

Which is something he used to do, even as he let me listen to whatever I wanted to listen to when he was driving.

I didn’t even like Top 40 music as much as I liked Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks back then; I just liked to annoy him.

But he doesn’t make fun of me. He just tells me to hinge from my hips and keep my arms straight.

Finally we’re onto the core workouts, and I’m thinking about faking an illness like I used to for gym class occasionally. I do not think he’d be as sympathetic as Mrs. Brodzki was when I told her my ovaries felt vulnerable and were asking for some TLC. So my ovaries and I take one for the team.

“You know what,” he says, “I don’t normally recommend sit-ups as part of this type of workout, but let’s get you in touch with your core before we do the other exercises.”

“Awww, that’s fine. I’ve stayed in touch with my core. I’m very good at keeping in touch with people and cores.”

He gets a mat from the side of the room and places it on the floor in front of me. Then he gestures for me to get down on the mat. “Down you get.”

“Ya don’t usually make your clients do sit-ups, huh?”

“Not if the goal is an hourglass shape. But it sounds like you’ve mostly been doing cardio for a while, so I want to make sure you feel connected to your abs.”

“Ah. Well, it has been a while since I’ve done sit-ups. Why don’t you demonstrate proper form for me?” I arch an eyebrow at him.

“Sure, no problem.” He gets down on the mat.

“Lower back flat against the mat,” he says.

“Feet flat on the floor. Legs bent at ninety degrees. Hands behind the head, elbows bent. Engage your core first, then slowly curl up.” While he’s at the top of his sit-up, he removes one hand from behind his head, to pull up his shirt. “See that? My core is engaged.”

I do see that.

I see his abs. His beautiful, toned, engaged six-pack. And I can’t look away.

“And then you’ll control the descent, because that’s where the real work happens,” he says, his abs still exposed, still engaged.

“Can I see that nine more times?”

The corners of his lips tip up and he doesn’t even flinch. He gives me nine more perfect sit-ups. I am mesmerized by his abs. But I also can’t help but notice the area just south of them.

Yup. Brad Mitchell grew up good.

And he’s watching me stare at his sweatpants bulge.

“Ten. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Again he stands up without the use of his hands. Sadly, his shirt goes back down as he goes up. “Your turn. Let’s start with ten.”

I lower myself to the mat and assume the same position. I don’t mean to groan, but I do. I bend my legs to ninety degrees, frowning up at him.

Maintaining eye contact, he lowers himself to a kneeling position and places his hands firmly on top of my feet.

I don’t mean to gasp, but I do.

I have no idea why the weight of his hands on my feet is sexy, but it is. “To ensure your feet stay anchored to the ground,” he explains. “This will make it easier for you to lift yourself all the way up.”

“Thanks,” I squeak.

“Sure thing.” He moves my feet a couple of inches farther apart, still locking eyes with me.

I gulp. My mouth is dry. I should have had more water.

“Keep your lower back flat against the mat,” he says. “Hands behind your ears. Engage your core. Inhale, exhale on the way up.”

I suck in a breath and fling my torso at him.

“Slow and controlled!”

I roll my eyes at him.

“Vertebra by vertebra.”

“Right.” I lower myself down, with control.

“Engage your core,” he snaps.

“It’s engaged!”

“I can literally see that it isn’t.”

I scrunch up my face and my core, growling as I glare at the ceiling.

“Keep your chin slightly tucked. You don’t want to strain your neck.”

No, I want to strangle your annoyingly sexy, handsome, somehow muscly-but-not-too-thick neck.

“Vertebra by vertebra,” he says. “Controlled movement. Keep your eyes up. Eyes on me.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

He’s enjoying this.

“Give me six more,” he says.

I give him six more, and then I collapse. “I hated that!”

“I don’t think you’ve activated your core, Vivian.”

“Oh, it’s activated. It’s on fire.”

“I want you to give me ten more, perfect form.”

“No.”

He arches an eyebrow at me.

He always did have great eyebrows. I used to be jealous of his eyebrows. Now I want to shave them off while he sleeps, I am so mad at him.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “You want your ex’s fiancée to scream in horror when she sees you, don’t you?”

She’ll scream in horror because I’ll arrive with your severed head on a stick.

“I mean, if you can’t do it,” he continues, “you can’t do it.”

“I can do it!” I give him ten more sit-ups. Perfect, furious form.

He grins at me, anchoring my feet.

He is basically kneeling between my legs and my face is melting and I am so mad at myself for eating that pie last night and that makes me even madder at him.

“Ten!” he says. “You did it.” He stands up and holds his hand out to me again.

I take it, and he pulls me up and he’s so strong and my knees go weak and I don’t stop moving toward him.

If I didn’t have such big boobs, my mouth would be on his neck right now.

That stupid, muscly, sexy, handsome neck.

His Adam’s apple is gorgeous. Does he do Adam’s apple exercises or something?

How is the bony lump in his throat in such good shape?

Anyway my boobs are smooshed up against his hard chest.

“Oops,” I mutter. He doesn’t let go of my hand. He stares down at me, still grinning. It’s an evil grin. An I just might make you do twenty more sit-ups for that, young lady kind of grin. I continue to press my lovable boobs up against his hard, stubborn, unforgiving chest.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yup. You?”

“I’m really good. You ready for the real core workout?”

“Yup.”

“You in touch with your core now?”

“Deeply.”

He takes a step back and slowly releases my hand.

I do not fall over.

Yay me.