“She’s been here for years so I don’t think Michael dares fire her, but I don’t think she can stand any of us who work here.”
I stare at the door Mrs Platt just walked through, chewing on a piece of grilled white chicken I prepped the night previously. “I think the feeling’s going to be mutual, mate.”
The rest of my first day whizzes past.
In fact, my first week and a half at my new job passes by in a blink of an eye.
Each evening, I’m more than ready for my head to hit the pillow and for sleep to pull me under. I’m exhausted, but in the best way.
Over half of the available spots I have for personal training sessions, fill up in the first couple of days. I chalk it up to the fact it’s because we’re now in the tail end of January, and the month is almost running out for those who decided their New Year’s resolution would be to start going to the gym.
I might have extensive training plans, which I tailor to each individual client based on their gym goals, coming out of my ears, but you’re not going to hear me complaining. I’ve always loved training people, pushing them to be their best self, seeing results and knowing I’m making a difference to someone’s life.
It’s gratifying and rewarding in a way I’ve never been able to explain to anybody, not even my sports obsessed older brothers, Blake and Grey.
My second Thursday evening at work sees me in the staff room, looking over my chock-a-block schedule. I’ve got one more client to meet and then I can call it a day… maybe I’ll ask Chris, Rex and Leo if they fancy getting a pint or two down at the local pub – The Stag’s Head – because I could certainly do with something to help me wind down.
I slept in by an extra thirty minutes this morning, which isn’t a big deal, but it did mean I didn’t have enough time to fit in my own workout session. The lack of release means I’ve been on edge all day, a little snappish too if I’m honest, which is why I’m in the staff room rather than on the main floor. Sometimes my tongue gets away from me and I don’t want to accidentally say something snarky to a regular and get myself fired.
Tapping the pen against my lower lip, I mull over the messy scrawl of ink in the top left-hand corner. Apparently, past me has a note to relay to future me, but it’ll be a miracle if I can make out the loops and hard edges of my own handwriting. Fuckknows what it says. Hopefully it’s not something too important or I’m fucking myself over big time.
My mobile phone buzzes in the back pocket of my shorts – a welcome distraction. That is until I read the notification.
My 6 p.m. client is cancelling.
With a frown, I scratch out their name on my schedule, and thumb out a quick reply asking if they’d like to reschedule or if the personal training program is no longer something they’re interested in attending.
Tappingsend, I fold up my schedule and shove it into the depths of my locker. I could just finish up for the day, seeing as how I don’t have any other clients lined up tonight, but the tension inside me is already overspilling.
I guess I could hit up a few of the girls I vaguely know from around the club and bar scenes who might be free tonight for a few hours, just enough to blow off some steam…
But I can’t be bothered with the small talk. I just want to empty my balls and then sleep and I don’t care how selfish that sounds.
Locking my stuff up tight, I decide I’ll use the hour I should be training to do my own workout and then if that isn’t enough, I’ll have to resort to scrolling through my contacts list to see who wants to come over tonight.
Stalking to the line of rowing machines, I set my phone and water bottle down by the side, before swinging my leg over the seat rest. I’m about to jam my headphones into my ears, with the wish of finding a song with a heavy beat to block out the surrounding sounds, but a small tap on the shoulder stops me.
I turn to find a pretty auburn-haired girl smiling at me.
“Hey.” I grin back.
“Hey, yourself. I’m Tasha. I just wanted to give you my number.” She pushes a scrappy piece of paper, most likelyripped from a notebook, into my hand. “Maybe we could get together some time?”
I’m slightly taken aback by her upfront approach, usually I have to work a little harder to get a girl’s name and number, but I’m not complaining.
Catching her fingers in mine, I shove the piece of paper into my pocket with a nod. “I’ll call you.”
I probably won’t, but it’s the polite thing to say; my mother didn’t raise an ill-mannered son.
Grinning, I watch asTashaflounces away, leaving me to my business.
Headphones in, a heavy bass soundtrack vibrating through my ears, I buckle both of my feet into the pedals, and wrap my fingers around the electronic ‘oar’, which is really just a handle that is connected to the flywheel, causing enough resistance to mimic the pull and drag of real water.
Tightening my abs, I lengthen my hamstrings, powering through my legs to push myself backwards. Inhaling deeply, I bend my knees and flex my biceps, abdominal wall crunching as I drag myself forward.
One.
Two.
