What I need is coffee. A plan.
And a hell of a lot of distance between me and the girl who’s starting to feel like home.
I’ve decided to start leading morning strength classes for the kitchen crew. Not because I have extra time or enjoy group workouts, I don’t, but because the idea won’t leave me alone.
Physical strength builds mental resilience. I believe that down to my bones. The kitchen’s a battlefield. You can’t lead with shaky hands and a tired mind.
It took a little convincing. I pitched it as "team conditioning," kept the pitch short, and promised coffee after. Bribed Wes with protein shakes, dared Toni to out-plank me, told Nova it would give her the arms she’s always wanted.
I also think some of them like the idea of being trained by an ex-NFL player.
I don’t mind. Whatever it takes, I think it’s a good idea.
Plus, it keeps me focused on anything other thanher.
So here we are. 6 a.m. on the dot. The gym space above The Marrow smells like rubber mats, stale sweat, and determination. Most of the regulars have shown up: Wes, my sous chef who secretly likes kettlebells more than baking, and Toni, who works pantry but trains like she’s prepping for a Spartan Race.
Then there’s Gracie, red-faced but quietly fierce in the corner, lifting with the kind of silent intensity that makes me respect the hell out of her.
We’re halfway through warm-ups when the door swings open.
And in walks Josie.
Late. Which isn’t like her.
On time for work, but not for this.Interesting.
She’s wearing a slouchy hoodie with a cartoon ghost on the front and leggings patterned with tiny donuts. Her hair’s in a messy ponytail, and she’s got that look on her face, eyebrows lifted like,What the hell is this, and how did I end up here?
I swear, my pulse spikes like I’ve been hit with a defibrillator.
“Nice of you to join us,” I say, careful to keep my voice dry. Calm. Not at all affected.
She shrugs, strolling in like it’s a brunch date and not a 6 a.m. grind. “Relax, Coach. I’m only here to observe. You know, document the chaos. Maybe take notes on how much pain Wes is in.”
Wes flips her off. She grins.
And I’m already in trouble.
Because my body reacts before I can stop it. Heat flares low in my gut, intense and fast, like it always does around her. Doesn’t matter that I’ve just crushed two hundred pounds on the bar.Shewalks in and suddenly I’m off balance, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse.
I try to ignore it. Run them through the warm-up. Keep my eyes on the clock, the form, the rhythm.
But she steps onto the mat anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, Josie’s down in a plank, hair sticking to her neck, cheeks flushed, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like: “I swear, if he makes us do another burpee, I’m launching a full-scale kitchen mutiny.”
“Talking burns extra calories,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
She flips me off without lifting her head.
And damn if I’m not lighter these days.
Because she’s keeping up.
No, she’sthriving. Her form’s rough, sure, but she doesn’t quit. She glares through push-ups like they’ve personally insulted her. Groans through jump squats like she’s summoning a demon.
But she doesn’t stop.
