Gonna hurt like hell tomorrow.
“I’m dying.” I want to starfish on the floor, but at this point I’m not sure I could get back up.
“You're not dying, you just can't think of anything good to do.”
“Uh…?” I can think of at least thirteen thousand better things to do than be right here at the gym with sweat trickling down my sternum and into my sports bra.
Phil raises an eyebrow at the confusion on my face. He’s got a look on his face that says, “Why did I take this woman on as a client?” I have no idea why.
“Ferris Bueller?” Phil’s eyes rise up his forehead, but I don’t know why.
Still nothing. I mean, I know of the movie. Pretty sure I watched it once, but from the way his eyes go wide it’s like I just kicked his puppy, or his favorite pair of Asics.
Shaking his head, he sighs with a laugh. “You're not dying, you just can't think of anything good to do is a quote from Ferris Bueller.”
He shakes his head again, clearly despairing at my lack of Ferris Bueller knowledge. I mean, I enjoy movies as much as the next person, but I’m not a diehard movie lover. Perhaps Phil will give me a couple of good recommendations to watch with Mom.
Could talking about his love of movies save me from this torture chamber?
By the time I leave, my limbs are shaking. I’ve finished two bottles of water, need to pee, and my shirt is sticking to my back.
It’s my first session, and while the OBGYN said to trust her, right now, I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a gym rat. The idea of doing that all over again, even just one more time, never mind for months on end… Ugh.
Can’t pizza just make me skinny?
No. This time’s different.
This time isn’t about being skinnier or prettier. It’s not about fitting into pre-pregnancy clothes I’ve held onto for years in the hopes I’ll finally get back into them. It’s not about what I’msupposedto look like by the unrealistic standards of social media influencers.
It’s about getting my PCOS under control, not bleeding through my fucking clothes and sheets every month when I get my period, living a longer and healthier life for both my son and myself.
This time is different. It has to be.
And if doing all the right things means I end up losing weight, and fitting into old clothes, those are bonuses I’ll happily take, but it’s not the goal. And I need to keep reminding myself of that.
Dragging myself through the front door of the house ishard. My legs feel like I crammed my feet into the holes of those stupid kettlebells, and they’re weighing me down as I move.
Why the fuck do people do this to themselves?
That’s when it hits me. During my time at the gym, I never once thought about Raffi fucking Shaw or the fact that he’s a lying, ghosting, scumbag hockey player who tried to hit on me in the bar like he’s never had his dick inside me.
Bringing my thoughts back to the lopsided smile and twinkling eyes makes my blood go from gym-hot to ready-to-boil-over.
I already agreed to go to another game with Eloise, and she suspected something was very wrong from how I stormed out of the bar the other night. To her credit, she hasn’t pressed me for information, but that’s not going to last forever, especially if I flake on her this weekend.
I’m definitely not ready to see Raffi again. I might slice his throat with the heel of my shoe if I do. Or, I dunno, something more effective at the murder thing.
It’s hard enough to look into Wyatt’s eyes every day without looking into the eyes that started it all. I’ll have to pretend I’m sick. Mom won’t cover for me if I don’t tell her why, and I’m not ready to talk about him yet either.
Ugh.
Why does he have to randomly appear back in my life again and fuck things up?
CHAPTER 13
Raffi
Being from the Midwest there are some culinary delights we take for granted that other states don’t have the pleasure of experiencing. I know this because guys I’ve played with over the years have made some weird faces at our Midwestern delicacies.
