Page 6 of Resistance Training

“Hi. Thank you so much! This is my first time here. My sister got me a membership? And training sessions. As a gift. Surprise gift! I did not wake up this morning knowing I’d have a training session at a gym today is what I’m saying.

Hence the lime green.” I unzip my jacket, to give her a glimpse of my neon tank top.

She continues to not smile at me like a badass, and I really want her to like me.

“You have to fill out some forms and take a picture for your membership card, but Mitch doesn’t like it when people show up late for his sessions.

I’ll give you this guest pass for tonight, and we’ll do the rest of it next time. Show me your photo ID.”

I show her my driver’s license, even though she didn’t say please. “Funny story about what happened when I was at the DMV?—”

“Mitch is probably in his office waiting for you,” Badass Receptionist tells me without showing any interest at all in my funny DMV story.

“Toward the back of the main area.” She gestures to some unseen place beyond the partially frosted sliding glass doors.

“You’ll see a sign with his name on the door.

He really doesn’t like it when people are late. Have a great session.”

“Traffic was terrible and I couldn’t find parking!”

“He doesn’t like it when people say that.”

“Fantastic—thank you so much…!” I wait for her to tell me her name. She doesn’t, so I take the guest pass from her and hold it up to the scanner by the doors to the main part of the gym.

I only feel a little like I should be accompanied by Storm Troopers as I march toward Darth Vader’s office. This Mitch guy sounds like a peach! I am not going to rush just because he doesn’t like it when people are late. I’m the client. If I don’t like the vibe, I will get my sister that refund.

I stroll past a few elliptical machines and treadmills, a few recumbent stationary bicycles, a lot of weight machines, and various large exercise-equipment thingies that I do not know the names of.

I do like how it doesn’t smell weird in here.

I also like how the music that’s coming from the ceiling speakers isn’t ear-splittingly loud.

Off to the side, there are two more rooms with partially frosted glass doors.

In one room I see a yoga class in session and a lot of heads with gray hair; in the other it looks like they’re doing some kind of HIIT class that I want no part of.

When I turn my attention toward the back of the main room, spotting a door with a name plate that simply says Mitch , I catch sight of the most gorgeous shirtless male specimen I have ever seen in person.

A tall man who’s standing with his back to me.

He’s holding a T-shirt in one hand, his fists at his hips, feet planted firmly on the ground as he watches a fit, elderly man bench-press.

His brown hair is short in the back, messy on top.

He’s not swole by any means; he’s just in such good shape, it’s lovely.

Even the back of his neck is in good shape.

He looks so fit. As soon as I see him I want to touch him, even from ten feet away.

Not necessarily in a sexual way, but in the way that you instinctively want to reach out to touch a marble statue to fully appreciate it.

I feel so drawn to him.

My body is having what I believe they call a full-body yes in response to his body.

I want to high-five him for nailing the whole being-in-good-shape thing.

Also, my uterus seems to be doing a TikTok dance.

And yeah, if there’s a situation in the future where it would be totally appropriate for me to put my hands on his butt and squeeze those firm yet just-rounded-enough ass cheeks, I would rejoice in that opportunity.

Those cheeks have a kind of friendly, inviting, sturdy slope to them. Like they’re calmly saying Hey, girl. Pretty cool glutes, huh?

To which I would reply, Yes, I want to go to there.

I slow my pace even more so I can stare at his backside for a few seconds longer.

I don’t get to blatantly objectify men in my daily life, I’m sad to say.

He can probably feel the blazing-hot laser focus of my female gaze on the glistening smooth skin of his lower back, just above the waistband of his joggers.

I suddenly realize I should probably take off my jacket—and it has nothing at all to do with an unconscious womanly instinct to display my suddenly hard nipples in a silent mating ritual.

I just want that hot guy to turn around and see my boobs while I still have big boobs.

Because if that guy goes to this gym, then I will have to return to this gym on a regular basis, and if I work out a lot, I will lose at least one inch of boobage.

That’s just science. Science made me take my jacket off so he can see my boobs when he turns around.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been hiding in my house for so long all winter, but I have never wanted so badly for a guy to look at me.

To be seen by one person in particular.

Turn around turn around turn around.

He doesn’t turn around. But I realize he’s staring at my reflection in the mirror along the back wall.

Fantastic. He can see my boobs and I can still see his butt.

We have the perfect relationship in this moment.

Our eyes meet in the reflection. He isn’t doing the intense hot guy–stare thing—his eyes are widened.

I see what could be a flash of recognition or appreciation.

His face comes into focus and looks familiar in a way that confuses me.

Is he famous? Is he a model I’ve seen on Instagram?

Should I go up to him and give him my number or get back on the apps and just hope to find him on there?

I don’t like being this confused. I want to go home.

Suddenly, he frowns and looks away.

Which is probably a good thing.

I realize I am now five minutes late for my appointment with the drill sergeant. I’m going to have to leave it up to fate as to whether or not I get to see that beautiful shirtless man again. I knock on the open door to Mitch’s office, peer through the doorway, and find the small room empty.

“You’re late,” says a voice from behind me.

“Traffic was…” I turn to find the beautiful shirtless man staring at me. Now he has that hot guy–stare thing going on, and I nearly swallow my tongue.

“Vivian…” he says.

I know that voice.

That sexy, deep voice.

“You’re looking for me,” he tells me matter-of-factly.

“ You’re Mitch?”

He grins and puts that T-shirt on. Slowly. Like a reverse striptease.

I hold my breath. My face feels hot. My mouth is dry. My heart thinks I’ve started working out already. My uterus is now doing the choreography from the climax of Flashdance . What a feeling! Let’s make this happen!

He looks me straight in the eyes as he lets go of the bottom of his T-shirt, shrugs, and drags his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I am. But you might remember me as Fat Brad…”

It’s the strangest thing.

He says those words, almost in slow motion, and as I stare into those green eyes, his toned, angular face morphs into the face of a chubby teenage boy. The face of a boy I used to know so well. And I forget where I am. I forget when I am.

Brad.

My Brad.

Bradley.

My best friend from high school.

The boy I have missed for so long.

The friendship I’ve been missing for so, so long.

Here.

Him.

Brad Mitchell.

“It’s you?”

He blinks and barely nods as he brushes past me to enter his office. “Come in,” he mutters.

What is happening? My brain is caving in. Aubrey, what have you done? My sister’s words from last night about how I’ve been trying to fill a void that has nothing to do with Jeremy echoes around my head, and now I know what she meant. I turn on my heel and follow him inside.

“Close the door behind you.”

I do. I don’t love being told what to do and I guess saying please is not a part of this workplace culture, but I close the door.

“Bradley?” I drop my jacket and shoulder bag, take one big step toward him, throw my arms around him, and give him a hug so warm it could melt an ice sculpture in five seconds. “It’s so good to see you.”

I do not feel his arms around me.

He in fact remains very still, his very strong arms at his side.

This is very, very awkward.

Does he not recognize me?

“Um. It’s me. Vivian. Sparky. From high school.”

“Uh-huh.”

Apparently he is a marble statue now.

I slowly pull away, clearing my throat, and pick up my jacket and bag from the floor.

“I go by Mitch here,” he says. “The name Brad had…negative connotations for me.”

He takes a seat in the desk chair, leans back, his bent legs spread apart, feet flat on the floor.

Not at all languid. Open, and yet somehow those wide legs are wordlessly telling me that I could have had what’s between them eight years ago, but I blew it.

I mean. I didn’t blow what’s between his legs, I blew the situation .

In my opinion, he’s the one who blew it.

Regardless—he has assumed a power pose. An aggressively hot one. He gestures toward a bench.

I’m being benched. No hugs for you. Fine. I will earn the hug.

“I never called you Fat Brad,” I remind him warmly. “You know that. But wow. It’s so good to see you. You look so…”

“I know. As I was saying. You’re late.”

“Brad—Mitch. I sent you, like, a hundred emails for a year after we graduated. Did you not read any of them?”

“I did not.”

Ah.

Okay.

So he’s still mad.

Got it.

Well, two can play at that game. I was mad at him for a long time too. I’m just not as big of a stubborn asshole as he is.

“What’s it been,” he asks, “seven, eight years?”

“Eight. Since we graduated and you disappeared.”

He casually reaches for a clipboard on his desk. “When’d you move to Portland?”

“Two years ago. When did you move to Portland?”

He doesn’t answer. He hands me the clipboard with some forms and a pen.

I happen to notice there aren’t any rings on his fingers.

And that his hands are larger than I remember.

“I’m assuming you didn’t fill out the general intake forms when you got here because Gwen knew to send you straight back to me. Since you were late.”

“I got here at exactly seven.”

He doesn’t acknowledge my comment at all.

“Please fill out this brief questionnaire. No need to go into detail today, since you were supposed to get here before seven. Usually I’d have you fill it out in PDF before you arrived, but I forgot to get your email address from your sister when I talked to her. ”

“So you talked to Aubrey? Does she know you’re you? I’m so confused. Also, I do have the same email address I had in high school. The account I sent you the aforementioned emails from for a year.”

And it’s as though he didn’t even hear me!

“Questionnaires will be filled out every week while you have private sessions here. We’ll use them to track your progress along with the progress you track in this complimentary Good Form journal.

” He reaches for a soft cover journal from his desk and presents it to me.

There’s a Good Form logo on the cover, and under that it says The 4 F’s of Good Form.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

“So you didn’t read my emails wherein I apologized for hurting you and said a lot of really great things about you and got really vulnerable about my feelings? And therefore you’re still mad at me? Is that what’s going on here?”

“I’m not mad at you, Vivian. It was eight years ago. Why would I be mad at you?”

“Right. So my sister somehow knew this badass personal trainer named Mitch is my long-lost former best friend—who ghosted me—and she thought she’d surprise me by reuniting us, but it turns out you still bear a grudge. Is that an accurate description of what’s happening?”

“I am the badass personal trainer who owns this gym, correct.”

“Got it. Cool. Let’s proceed, then.”

“Fill that out quickly, and then we’ll get to the workout. You good?”

“Oh, yes,” I say, giving him my most charming smile while also ensuring I have excellent posture, for confidence and boob reasons. “It might take you a while to remember, but I’m kind of amazing.”

“We’ll see,” he says. “We’ll see.” He crosses his arms—his beautiful, muscular forearms—leans back further in his chair, gripping the armrests, causing a couple of veins to protrude slightly, and waits for me to fill out the forms.

We’ll see.

I narrow my eyes at him.

I’m going to make you feel so terrible for missing out on me for eight years, Brad Mitchell.

Good luck trying to resist me now.