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I grab a towel and wipe the sweat off my forehead. ACDC blasts from the speakers. It’s six-thirty in the morning, but my gym is in an industrial area, so I don’t have to worry about bothering the neighbors. I’m not always in at this hour, but today I have a client at seven, and I’m booked up until the afternoon. I needed to get my workout in early.
My legs burn from doing heavy squats. I walk around to loosen them up before my next set. I’m too hot, so I pull off my shirt and toss it on the floor. It feels good to get some of my aggression out. Working out has always been a must for me. It doesn’t matter what else is going on—unless I’m injured or sick, I hit the gym. Hell, sometimes even when I am injured or sick.
Sweat runs down my chest and back, but my head clears as I do another set. It’s like getting an extra hit of oxygen. I finish my workout, grab some water, and jump in the shower before my first client is due to show up. And Derek Marshall wants to stop by and take a look at the facilities again. If this guy keeps being such a prima donna, I’m going to tell him to fuck off. He won’t be the last football player I have a chance to take on. But that’s the thing with training pro athletes: they sign these big contracts for huge money, and everyone treats them like their dick is made of fucking gold.
Everybody except me. They pay me for results, and that’s what I give them—but they have to be willing to put in the work. Most of them are. They don’t get where they are by being lazy asses. But I also don’t put up with bullshit excuses—whining, showing up late, or canceling appointments. If they want me to take them to the next level in their career, I’ll fucking do it. But I don’t put up with divas who aren’t willing to work their ass off in my gym.
Does it mean I lose clients? Yeah, all the time. But I’m in high enough demand that they come to me, not the other way around. I have no problem filling my schedule. So if Derek Marshall wants to be a pussy and find a trainer who’s going to coddle him, he’s welcome to.
The first part of my day goes fast. I go from one client to the next, take a quick break for lunch, and see two more in the afternoon. Derek Marshall does stop by—sans manager, which is a nice change. When he’s not with his entourage, he’s a decent guy. He signs the training agreement, and I get him on the schedule for next week.
With that wrapped up, I head home and take another shower. I’m sweaty from training all day. Afterward, I get dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark gray shirt. It’s March fifteenth, which means I have somewhere to be.
I pull up in front of the assisted living facility. It’s a nice place—not the kind that smells like bleach and death when you walk in. Kylie’s dad has lived here for the past year. He’s only in his sixties, but a debilitating combination of rheumatoid arthritis and gout have ravaged his body. He’s wheelchair-bound and has a hard time using his hands, which made it impossible for him to live alone. Kylie’s parents have been divorced for years, so assisted living was the only good option. I made sure we found him a place where he’d be well taken care of, and not feel like he’s doomed to spend the rest of his life in a hospital. This place was a good choice.
Chelsea at the front desk says hi when I sign in. Most of the staff knows me. I try to come visit Mr. Winters once a week, although it doesn’t always work if I get busy. But today is his birthday, so there’s no way I’d miss it.
I take the elevator upstairs to the top floor. He can’t get out much, so I made sure his apartment had a great view. I knock and he buzzes me in.
“Hey, Mr. Winters,” I say. He’s told me numerous times to call him Henry, but I never do. It doesn’t feel right.
“Braxton,” he says with a smile. He’s sitting in his wheelchair, near the living room window. With obvious struggle, he lifts a finger to press the button on the remote that’s attached to his chair. The TV turns off.
I pull a bottle of Jameson from beneath my jacket and hold it up so he can see. It’s not fancy, but it’s what I get him every year. “Should I pour?” I ask.
“Only if you’re having one with me,” he says.
“I will not say no to that,” I say.
I head into his small kitchen, find two highball glasses, and pour us each a drink. I stick a plastic straw in his. It looks sort of odd, like suddenly it’s apple juice instead of whiskey, but he has an easier time drinking if he doesn’t have to hold the glass.
He moves his chair over to the small table on the other side of the room. His hands are curled, like awkward claws, and I can see the pain in his face as he works his motorized chair. It kills me to see him like this.
I take a seat and put the drink on his tray once he’s settled in place. “Happy birthday,” I say, lifting my glass.
He nods to me and sips through the straw. “Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to have this.”
I take a sip, too. “Strictly speaking, I kept it under my coat on the way in. So if you don’t say anything, I won’t either.”
“Good man.”
Mr. Winters isn’t my father, and he never tried to replace my dad. But in his own way he filled that role for me more than once when I was growing up. Most boys need a man to stand up to them when their balls drop and they think they’re the shit. Henry Winters did that for me.
Of course, I kind of still think I’m the shit, but at least now I can back it up.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask.
“About the same,” he says. “That’s good news, at this point. How’s work?”
“Busy,” I say. “I signed Derek Marshall today.”
“Good,” he says, nodding slowly. “He made the right choice.”
“We’ll see if he still thinks so when I start kicking his ass next week.”
“Don’t kick his ass too hard,” he says. “We need him healthy next season.”
I chuckle. I know he’s pitching me shit. “He’s going to dominate next season. Just wait.”
