Page 17 of Resistance Training

“I also had a grande caramel macchiato after lunch because I had back-to-back meetings and I deserved a caffeinated treat.”

“That’s, like, two hundred fifty calories and over thirty grams of sugar.”

She places her hands on her sexy hips, flares her nostrils, and says, “No. Regrets.”

“Okay. Sounds like you want to do some HIIT today.” I stroll over to the center of the room.

In the mirrors I can see her grab her water bottle and follow me. “I absolutely don’t want that. Bradley, I have something important to tell you.”

“Mitch. More important than the seven thousand calories you consumed at lunch?” When I turn to look at her, the expression on her face is so earnest I’m actually nervous. “What?”

She reaches out and places her hand on my shoulder. “I just want to tell you, assuming you still haven’t read the emails I sent you…”

I shake my head.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, well, if you had read the first email I sent you, you would have found this out eight years ago, but I want you to know that I didn’t have sex with Brad Turner.” She pauses, waiting for me to react.

I don’t have a reaction for her. My brain cells aren’t ready to hold this information yet. “Say more.”

“In case you assumed that I had sex with the other Brad, just because I went to prom with him, I want you to know that I didn’t. At all. I didn’t even make out with him. I didn’t even have fun with him at prom. At all.”

My throat makes a sound.

Her hand is still on my shoulder.

Some small part of my brain is accepting this as a relief.

My heart beats out a little fuck yeah! fist pump, and then it goes back to its regular rhythm.

Am I glad to hear this?

Yes.

I am glad. I did assume that, but I also didn’t allow myself to picture it. The fire is an all-consuming fire. This changes nothing.

She’s searching my face. I think she was expecting me to drop to my knees and forgive her for everything. Take her into my arms and thank her for not fucking Brad Turner even though she still went to prom with him. Suddenly morph back into her doughy BFF who’d do anything for her.

“That it?” I ask.

I watch the optimism drain from her pretty face as she realizes that I’m not going to squeal with delight and hug her. “Yes. That’s it.” She lets her hand drop from my shoulder.

“Okay. We’ll warm up first. Starting with general movement. Give me thirty seconds of arm circles.”

She laughs to herself, shaking her head. “Wow. Back to our regularly scheduled dickishness, huh?”

“That’s right.”

Vivian sighs and crouches down to place her water bottle on the floor, giving me an excellent view of her sensational cleavage, along with the desire to put my fist through the wall.

I do forward arm circles. “Come on, let’s go.”

She faces me, glaring, and immediately starts circling her arms forward.

After fifteen seconds I tell her to reverse the circles.

And then: “Give me thirty seconds of jumping jacks.”

She gives me thirty seconds of jumping jacks, locking eyes with me, and I have to work so hard at not staring at her boobs that I cross over to the equipment storage cubes and pull out a pair of boxing gloves and focus mitts, taking my sweet time because I don’t want to go back over there.

“Now jog lightly in place,” I call out, glancing at her reflection in the mirror.

She jogs over to me. “Like this?” she asks, very seriously, as I turn to watch her bounce with perfect posture, like a she-demon.

“Like that,” I grit out. I can’t decide if I like it better when she wears her hair up or down.

I liked seeing her bare neck when she had her hair in a ponytail and I liked thinking about grabbing that ponytail.

But today her thick, dark hair is being tossed around the way it would if she were riding me and I can smell that shampoo and she’s smirking at me because she knows exactly what I’m thinking right now, and I’m not going to let her win this session.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I blurt out as I carry the boxing equipment back to the center of the room.

I demonstrate some shadow-boxing warm-ups, get her practicing jabs and crosses without putting any power into it.

I can see by her breathing rate and slightly flushed skin that she’s ready for the HIIT.

Keeping the boxing mitts under my arm, I hold out the gloves to her.

“Put these on,” I tell her. “We’re going to do ten minutes of pad work. ”

“Is this my punishment for enjoying my lunch?” she asks in a sexy tone that makes me regret all my life choices.

“Or you could think of it as your reward for having a personal trainer who’ll keep you on track even though you broke our agreement in favor of immediate gratification.

” I step back, strap the training pads onto my hands, and hold them up.

These are designed to absorb the punch impact safely, but I’m going to keep them moving as a target.

“Oh, thanks!” she says, sarcastically. “I will!” She pulls on the boxing gloves, punches them together, and shifts from one foot to the other, sneering and posing like a boxer. “Bring it.”

She’s fucking adorable, and it has zero effect on me.

I take a step closer to her, about three feet away from her.

“We’re going to do thirty seconds of punching with ten seconds of rest. This is a full-body workout.

I want your feet shoulder-width apart. Left foot slightly forward.

Good.” I keep my voice calm and authoritative, and I see her thighs tensing up, she wants to clench her legs together.

She likes it. “Bend your knees slightly—you’re too stiff. ”

“That’s what she said,” she quips, bending her knees a little too much.

“Don’t bend them that much. Put your weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels.”

“I am.”

“I can literally see that you’re not.”

She rolls her eyes and makes an adjustment. “There’s no music.”

“I’ll turn on the music if you make it through the HIIT. I need you to focus.” Positioning my mitts at shoulder height, I say, “Remember the jab, cross, and hooks we did during the warm-ups?”

“Yessss,” she hisses. So annoyed with me already.

“I’m going to call out combinations, and you’re going to do them. You’re going to punch these focus mitts. I will determine the pace and the combinations. You keep your eyes on these mitts, not me, not your gloves. Are you ready?”

“Beyond ready,” she says, glaring at the mitts.

I call out combinations, starting out simple, and she punches the mitts like she’s afraid to break a nail. “I said punch the mitts, not delicately tap them. It’s not going to hurt your hands—come on. Jab.”

She sighs an exasperated sigh but puts more force behind the next jab.

“Good. Jab, jab, right hook. Come on, harder. Okay, active recovery for ten.”

She jogs in place.

“Don’t jog—shake out the arms and shoulders. Keep it loose.”

She huffs as she shakes out her shoulders and I accidentally stare at her cleavage, and I will not make that mistake again.

“Keep breathing,” I say, as I realize I was holding my breath. “We go again for thirty. I want to see a jab, jab, cross. Hands up to protect your face.” She starts jabbing at the mitts. “Elbows in—don’t flare them out like that.”

She frowns as she makes the adjustment, putting more power behind the next punch.

“Good. Again. Jab, jab, cross. Keep your core tight.” She glares at me. “Eyes on the mitts.”

She growls. Actually growls at me. “Oh my God, so bossy—why couldn’t you channel your fire rage into becoming a massage therapist or a hair stylist?!”

“Drop your elbow,” I tell her during the active recovery. I lean in to gently touch her left elbow, guiding it into position. “Keep it tight to your ribs. That’s your defense.”

Once she’s got the hang of it, I start stepping to the side, forcing her to pivot and follow me.

I move around her, making her turn to keep facing me, calling out combinations.

Like a choreographed dance, I step back so she has to step forward; I angle the mitts higher, lower, to the sides.

Her focus is incredible. She reads my movement intuitively, following me, and fuck, it’s so hot.

Her coordination is fantastic. I can control the tempo and direction, create a flowing, rhythmic sequence for thirty seconds, and then for ten seconds, we’re both breathing heavily, just staring at each other.

It’s like a physical chess match—I test her, she rises to meet me.

She’s glowing with perspiration. By the end of the tenth round, it feels primal and intense.

After ten seconds of heavy breathing, I lower the mitts and say, “Okay, let’s?—”

And she punches my right pec. Hard. “Shit! Sorry!”

I cough, from the surprise of it more than the impact. “Nope. No problem.”

“You didn’t tell me to stop!”

“Yup. We’re stopping.”

“Oh, are you okay?” She pulls her right glove off, such concern in her voice. “I’m so sorry.” She places her hand flat on my pec. “I didn’t hit you that hard, did I?”

Not physically, no.

I stare right into her eyes and say, “I didn’t feel a thing. Grab a mat. I’ll put on some music.”

She removes her hand from my pec and says, “Can you remove this glove for me?”

I remove the mitts, hold them under one arm again, and pull off her glove.

“Thank you. I’ll take those if you want.” She reaches for the mitts.

“Thanks. Good work.”

“Thank you. It was fun. Let’s do it again sometime.”

I put on a playlist, and the first song is “Keep Driving” by Harry Styles.

“Aww, my boy!”

“Can’t believe you still like his stuff.” We used to argue about this all the time.

She grins. “I mean, you have to admit his songs are incredibly catchy.”

“They’re literally just lists of things that he likes. Or lists of feelings. Or lists of things he does.”

“Yeah. And?” she says, like what’s the problem?