Page 9 of Resistance Training

VIVIAN

“ I ’m going to whip you into shape .”

The words feel like a quick slap to my ass, or maybe seven of them, in a way that makes all of my nerve endings come alive.

Brad Mitchell always had an attitude that was sexy.

To me anyway. Although I didn’t really think in terms of sexiness when I was in high school.

I thought he was cute. He didn’t have swagger by any means.

He was sharp-witted. So smart. Total nerd, but confident in a way that was off-putting to some, because he didn’t have the looks to pull it off back then.

But I always loved his snark. Didn’t love how stubborn he was. But the guy could talk.

This, though. This is different. This is hot.

This is something he’s cultivated, along with his body.

I am so jealous of every woman he’s had sex with and also so proud of him for everything he’s accomplished and also absolutely furious with him for being such a stubborn asshole but also sad that he’s changed so much.

But also I’m really mad that my knees almost buckled just from the nearness of him.

I hold my breath until he moves away from me.

He gestures for me to follow him across the back of the gym. “In addition to our private sessions,” he says, “I encourage you to take brisk walks for twenty minutes, two or three times a week only, and attend our classes twice a week on rest days. Have you ever taken a yoga class?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Fear of public queefing. “I don’t like carrying around a yoga mat, and I don’t want to use one that other people have used” is what I say out loud. “So I do yoga at home. To YouTube videos.”

“But you do work on your flexibility?” he asks, without looking at me.

He’s narrowing his eyes at a guy who’s checking me out from the lat pull-down thingy.

His jaw is so tense! The other guy notices Brad glaring at him and gives him a barely perceptible Got it, dude nod and turns his attention elsewhere.

I enjoyed that tiny interaction very much.

Jeremy never projected that kind of possession or protection of me when we went out.

He was too caught up in how we looked together.

Brad and I spent most of our time alone together, but when we ventured out in Seattle he always walked on the street side of me and opened doors for me.

We never talked about it, but I found it really sweet.

Not one guy that I’ve dated has ever done the street-side alpha-male walk with me, I always noticed.

“Yes,” I reply. “I should have added flexibility as one of my strengths. So I’ve been told.”

Brad stops in his tracks and then gives me the side-eye before alpha-male-walking me to a private workout room.

It’s very satisfying.

The private room has the same kind of glass door as the others, but more of the door is frosted glass, for more privacy.

Once again, I enjoy how not-weird it smells in here.

And it doesn’t smell like Febreze either, which is a big plus.

He adjusts the lighting to make it brighter, but again, I like that it’s not the cool white LED lighting you’d expect.

I feel alert, but not like I’m at the dentist. There’s no music playing, and that is a little awkward.

“You can hang your jacket and shoulder bag up on those hooks,” he says, nodding in the direction of the coat rack next to the door.

“This will be a slightly shorter session, since you were late, so we’ll warm up for five minutes and then I’ll have you do three blocks of four sets with ten reps per set so I can assess your form, finish off with stretching.

We’ll be doing upper, lower body, and core at each session.

This will keep your muscle growth balanced and progressing consistently. ”

“By lower body, you mean my butt?”

“I mean your glutes, yes. We’ll be hitting your gluteus medius, minimus, and maximus.”

“That sounds fun.”

“Not if you do it right.”

“What exercises do you do for your butt?”

He ignores that very serious question and stares down at my shoes. “Are those the only shoes you have for working out in?”

“No. I didn’t have time to go home today, and this was all they had at the downtown Target.” I sweep my hand down my torso and then up again, to accentuate my chest area. “Thanks for keeping it so cold in here, by the way.”

“Time to warm up,” he says. “Arm circles.” He does forward arm circles, facing me, five feet away. “You have cross-trainers at home?”

“I have running shoes.”

“You’ll want shoes with a stiff, sturdy base and a snug fit for strength training. That will help with alignment.”

“Wanna go shoe shopping with me?”

“Backward,” he says, circling his arms backward and not answering.

I know I don’t have to ask him if he remembers all the times I dragged him to the mall to go shoe shopping with me in high school. He was a good sport in the grumpiest way possible.

“High knees,” he says. Then he leads me through leg swings, butt kicks, walking lunges. He explains that we aren’t getting the heart rate up, we’re activating the right muscles to prepare them for movement patterns and to prevent injury.

“Great! Thanks, Brad.”

“Mitch.”

“I don’t want to call you Mitch. You’re Brad.”

“Mitch is my nickname here. It’s who I am here.”

“Well, my nickname for you was Bradley. It still is. Your nickname for me was Sparky. I would be fine with you calling me that here.”

“I won’t.”

“Well, I’m not calling you Mitch.”

“Then go ahead and call me sir.” He strides over to the dumbbell rack. “You ever lift weights at all?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s try eight pounds to start,” he says, handing me two eight-pound dumbbells. “How’s that feel?”

It feels kind of heavy, but I say, “Easy-peasy.”

“Yeah? You want to try ten pounds? You’ll be lifting out to the side, shoulder height. You should use lighter weights for that.”

“Bring it. I want the tens.”

“You got it.” He hands me another pair of weights, which are surely twenty pounds each, but I do a couple of bicep curls with ease.

“Not a problem.”

“Great. You can always go lighter.”

“Won’t have to.”

He grabs the dumbbells marked 30 and demonstrates the lateral raises and shows me the proper stance.

“You’ll do ten of these at this pace.” Then he demonstrates lat pull-downs, rear delt flies, and overhead press.

“Ten of each. I want to see perfect form. If it’s too easy, you’ll get heavier weights.

If it’s too hard to finish the sets, there’s no shame in lowering the weight. ”

“I always finish things off when they’re hard.” I did not mean for that to sound dirty. “I mean difficult. Even if it’s emotionally difficult.”

Stone-Faced McGee remains stone-faced as he says, “Okay, let’s build shoulder width for that V-taper. Ten reps. Tilt forward a bit more. Less. Good. One… Two…”

I should not have chosen the ten-pound weights for my first session.

However.

I don’t give up.

Because when I commit to something, I fully commit.

Even when my arms are on fire.

Even when he’s being a stubborn ass.

“Higher,” he says, with an annoyingly calm voice. “In line with your shoulders.”

I grunt that that is what I’m doing, only I don’t say it with words.

“Don’t forget to breathe. Your muscles need oxygen.”

I suck in an angry breath.

“Inhale on the way down, exhale on the way up.”

I growl out an exhale. Not on purpose. Well, maybe a little bit.

“Keep an even pace,” he says, watching my movements so closely. “Don’t fling your arms to the side.”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re creating momentum by flinging your arms instead of using your muscles to lift them up.

” He walks around behind me and places his hands so gently around my wrists I barely feel his touch.

But I feel the heat and mass of his body behind me even though he isn’t touching me with it.

“Slow it down. Inhale now. Keep your elbows a little bit bent as you use your exhale and your shoulder muscles to lift up and out. Stop when your arms are parallel to the floor.”

I do that.

It’s harder and I don’t like it, but I do it.

“Good,” he says, letting go and coming back around to the side of me to watch my form.

“Good. This move primarily targets your middle delts. Also the front delts and rotator cuff muscles. We’re building out that shoulder line to make your waist appear smaller.

” He reaches out to touch the side of my shoulder. “You feel this working?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Good. If you feel it here in your traps”—he drags his fingers down the back of my neck and upper back—“you’re lifting too high. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Your form is good now. Two more reps.”

I do not want to love how good it feels to earn his praise, but it does feel good, so I give him two more reps at a balanced pace, without flinging my arms out.

“Great,” he says. “Now give me ten lat pull-downs. You want to stick with this weight?”

“Yes.”

I stick with the ten-pound weights through the next thirty reps.

When I’m done, he says, “Good. Did you bring water?”

“My water bottle’s empty.”

“Go get it and fill it up at that water cooler,” he says as he puts my weights away and then carries a bench over to the center of the room.

Once again, I do not love that he’s telling me what to do and not saying please, but I also don’t hate it.

I fill my water bottle with plain water from the cooler near the door. I am already parched. “So, tell me about the four F’s.”

“We can talk about them after you’ve started using the journal.”

“Is one of them for frank discussions?”

“No. Let’s move on to the lower body.”

“Buy a girl dinner first, will you?” I joke.