CHAPTER 15
Victoria
“Ican’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“What the fuck do you know?” I’ve only been to see Phil for a couple sessions, and already we’ve exited the honeymoon phase. Truthfully, I’m not sure we had a honeymoon phase.
This man is Satan and makes every part of my body hurt, every time I climb the stupid stairs.
“If you’d’ve stopped running your mouth for thirty seconds you could have been done by now. Instead, you’re telling me you can’t, when we both know you can. So woman up, channel the womb fury, and lift the damn kettlebells.” Satan gives back as good as he gets. It’s one of the things I like about him.
He’s fluent in sarcasm and banter and all out of fucks. Plus, when he says things like “womb fury,” my pelvic floor muscles threaten to up and quit on me. He doesn’t like Abba or Megan Trainor though, so I’m not sure I can ever fully trust him, but he’s funny as fuck, and from what I can tell, he knows his shit about this gym thing.
“If I lift it, can I swing it at your head?”
He grins at me, but takes a step back. “If you can catch me.”
We both know that’s never going to happen.
“I watched that movie you mentioned.” Sweat’s already trickling down my forehead. Why am I at the gym again? Whose bright idea was this?
I’ve only had a few sessions with Phil, but each time, movies come up. He’s a big movie buff. He told me his girlfriend found this one on a streaming site and suggested I watch it.
“Which one?”
“Love at First Sight.”
“You like it?”
“Made me cry.” If my arms worked right now I’d smack him, but considering I’ve just done a bazillion step-ups onto a bench with three million pound kettlebells in my hands, I’m not sure I even have arms.
Also, that may be a slight exaggeration. They were twenty pounds each, but they most definitely felt like three million. My burning shoulders and forearms can attest to the fact.
“I haven’t seen it.” He’s already lost count of how many step-ups I’ve done. I might not know him well yet, but I know he can’t fucking count, and I need to pay particular attention to my number of reps.
“You should watch it, grab the tissues though.”
Phil strikes me as a sensitive soul. I tend not to cry at much of anything, so I’m a terrible judge of whether something’s emotional or not.
“WatchedNo Hard Feelings,too. Love Jennifer Lawrence so much.”
“Wasn’t it great?” Phil’s clearly lost count of the reps. Not that I blame him, the movie in question has a full frontal nudity scene when Jennifer Lawrence runs out of theocean onto the beach to chase some kids who stole her clothes.
Damnit, now I’ve lost count, too.
When I finally finish my last set of step ups, I’ve gone over my time by a few minutes. There’s something about this gym that doesn’t feel like a gym. It’s a wide open loft, there is equipment lining the perimeter and a wide open space in the middle the instructors use for spin classes, circuits, and various other activities.
Loud music and bright purple and blue lights make it feel less like a clinical, same-old gym, and more like somewhere fun. My muscles don’t currently agree, but I always leave in a better mood than when I arrive.
“You have someone else coming in?”
Phil slaps his palms together and rubs them. “Conveyor belt of pain.” The glee in his eyes cracks me up. The guy’s a sadist. For sure.
When I turn to cross the space to get my jacket and bag from the front desk area, my eyes land on familiar bright blue eyes and my stomach plummets. Raffi Shaw stands staring back at me.
Can’t even pretend I didn’t see him, he’s lookingrightat me. He’s standing next to someone who could also be a hockey player, but without his name emblazoned across his shoulders, I don’t know who he is.
