“Last rep! Make it count!” Tori shouts. “Push it, Reese! Channel your inner warrior!”
I grit my teeth. It’s only our first day training together, but my new trainer’s enthusiasm is exactly what I need—a refreshing change from Nick’s gruff commands.
“How’s that for warrior energy?” I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my towel. I’m already feeling better.
“Absolutely fierce! Now let’s move to those weighted lunges. Want to know my favorite thing about training actresses?”
“Hit me. Actually, don’t—I’m pretty sure a strong breeze could take me down right now.”
“The raw intensity women bring to every session. It’s about discovering your own capacity for strength. Every rep, every drop of sweat is you claiming your space, owning your power. That’s what real transformation looks like.”
“I never liked weight training before, but I have to say, in the last four months, it’s grown on me.” I grab a thirty-pound dumbbell for lunges. “Like I’m finally doing this for me, not just for the role. Though the role definitely appreciates these newfound abs.” I lift up my shirt, glancing at the tiny bit of definition on my previously slim, line-free stomach.
Tori demonstrates the lunge with fluid precision. I mirror her movement, wobbling. My phone vibrates.More headlines?
“I saw you skimming articles over there.” Tori catches my eye. “By the look on your face, I’m assuming it’s bad?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Look, I don’t know what they’re saying, and I don’t care. You know who else was hung out to dry in the press? Portman when she gained twenty pounds of muscle forThor. Sweeney, who transformed completely for that biopic about the boxer ChristyMartin.” Tori adjusts my form with a gentle touch. “The strength you’re building? It’s not just physical.”
“But the press—”
“Will always have something to say,” she cuts in, glancing pointedly at where the male actors are training. “You know what’s funny? No one’s telling them they’retoo muchof anything. They’re just right, aren’t they? But every actress I’ve trained worried about getting too bulkyat first. We’re always told to be smaller, to fit in better, to slim down. But when women start taking up space unapologetically, whether in action films or weight rooms, we’re changing more than our bodies. Hell, maybe we deserve to take up too much space.”
I steady myself, finding my balance. “So what you’re saying is…”
“Ten more,” Tori encourages as the burn in my muscles intensifies.
She’s right. No one gets to define me.
As I take a rest after my final lunge, the gym door swings open. In walks Amara—or glides, really, because that’s what happens when you possess her kind of effortless cool. Her box braids are arranged in an intricate crown, and she’s rocking overalls with a blue shirt and Docs. Script in one hand, clipboard in the other, headset perched above her head.
“Happy first day of filming, everyone!” she sings before locking her gaze on me. Her mouth drops open. “Darling, I simply had to see if the rumors were true. Had to witness this transformation firsthand.”
“Amara!” I jump off the bench, my sweaty skin peeling from the leather. “Sorry, I meant to find you earlier but heard you were in meetings—”
But she’s already appraising me. “This is absolutely divine. Reminiscent of our dear Posh Spice.”
“You like it?”
“Um—I love it!”
A weight lifts off my chest. “It felt right for Robyn.”
“Though I must confess, I’m rather disappointed.” My heart falters. “You should’ve called me right away! We could’ve gotten the whole hair transformation on camera—it would’ve been such a killer scene. The footage would’ve been—!” She puts her fingers to her lips and makes a chef’s kiss.
“Actually, I was up half the night tweaking the script to make it work better,” I add, shifting my weight and wiping my sweaty hands on my leggings. “I emailed my notes this morning. They’re rough, but I think they could really work.”
“Tell me.” Amara taps her phone, bringing up my email.
“I was actually thinking that during that first sparring match, when my braid gets in the way, instead of it being this big dramatic thing, Robyn grabs a knife and cuts it off, because why keep something that’s a liability in a fight?”
“Reese, this isn’t gold—this is the kind of scene that will inspire thousands of re-creations and spawn at least three PhD dissertations on feminist cinema.” Amara claps her hands together. “We are in perfect sync.”
The energy between us crackles with creative possibilities. I haven’t felt this kind of instant connection since Cleo—that rare spark when someone gets your vision completely.
“You’re not simply stepping into the part,” Amara declares, pacing the floor with infectious energy. “I’ll have wigs here tomorrow. We’ll restructure the opening to showcase this moment and spend the day making sure all the choreo is nailed. It’s perfect.”
