Seeing him give the puny weight that level of preparation waswaysexier than it should’ve been. I swallowed hard, trying to focus on his face and not the forearms flexing just a few feet away from me.
“Ready?” he asked, locking on to me to make sure I was paying attention. “Watch me.”
I nodded stupidly. As if there were any optionsotherthan watching him.
“Just like this, see? It’s good for the flexors and extensors in the forearms.”
He rolled the stick with each hand in a smooth, rhythmic motion so that the rope coiled around it and the weight rose. Andrew was so focused that if I didn’t see the tiny two-pound weight myself I would’ve sworn that he was lifting something gigantic. There was no tough-guy posturing or laughing off the simple exercise that he probably could’ve performed with his pinkie. He demonstrated the move with what I was sure was perfect form, giving it the same care and attention he probably used when heaving up what amounted to his own body weight.
“Okay, your turn.”
Andrew offered the stick to me and I realized that not only was the Gibson Glare about to take me in, it was also going toprofessionallyjudge me. Correct me. Point out all the things I was doing wrong. I’d always known that was what he was doing in his head anyway, but now I was going to be subjected to it out loud.
I took the stick and did my best to mimic Andrew’s pose, flicking my eyes at my reflection then back to him with a questioning look.
“Perfect,” he said with a nod.
I tried not to grin at the compliment.
“Let’s see what you got,” he encouraged.
I rolled the stick up, approximating what he’d shown me, and was surprised to feel the slightest twinge in my wrist. It didn’t hurt, it was more a reminder of the fall. Maybe a little attention to it was a good thing after all?
We went through the exercise twice, taking one-minute breaks in between each set. I was a little embarrassed to admit that the tiny weight made my shoulders burn too. Andrew was in his element, explaining all the ways the simple exercise could improve everything from my grip strength to my flexibility.
I finished the final set and handed the stick back to him, shocked that he hadn’t found anything in my performance to criticize.
“What did you think about that exercise?” he asked, a smile playing at his lips. “Too easy? Are you ready for a little more?”
“I mean...” I flexed my arms, which were hidden under an XL long-sleeve T-shirt I’d gotten from a dog food manufacturer. “Strong like ox, remember?”
He chuckled at me. “How could I forget. Higs to the rescue. Okay, let’s go.”
I followed him to a contraption that took up much of the center of the room and had various pulleys, bars, and handles suspended from it. Andrew leaned over a low seat on one side of it to adjust the weights, then turned to me so quickly that I had to look at the ground to avoid being caught staring at his ass again.
“This is a simple pull-down that works the back. The goal here is to keep tension out of your neck, so make sure that your shoulders are down as you flow through the movement. You should feel this in your lats.” Andrew said this as if I would know what a “lat” was. He grasped the handles suspended over his head then lowered himself on the seat. The weird air shift happened again as he paused to orient himself on the chair and to the handles he was gripping over his head. “Pull down nice and smooth and turn your hands in at the end of the movement.”
Andrew took a deep breath then flowed through the exercise with the grace of a dancer. There was no huffing and puffing even though I could tell by the way his back shifted under his T-shirt that the weight was heavy for him. Every segment of the exercise was deliberate, elegant, and without a single wasted movement.
“You’re up,” he said, rising from the seat after six repetitions. He adjusted the weight to a quarter of what he’d been hoisting. “You got this.”
I knew that his encouragement was probably rote, the exact same things he said to all his clients as they got ready to throw heavy things around their bodies. But damn it if it didn’t do something to me. The more he urged me on, the more I wanted to prove that, yeah, Icoulddo it.
I wanted Andrew to be proud of me.
I looked at the machine and realized that we’d leveled up from the baby-stick stuff. My palms went clammy, nerves for what I was about to attempt. I fanned myself. “Do you keep it warm in here on purpose? Like hot yoga or something?”
“You’rehot?” He tipped his head at me, wearing a dubious expression. “I was going to grab a hoodie.”
“I am working out...”
He let out a joyful, rumbly laugh. “Oh, Higs, you’re just getting started. Wait till we get to squats.”
I could feel sweat beading along my hairline before I even started. Either I was coming down with the flu or I was way more out of shape than I realized.
Or I was melting under the unflinching Gibson Glare.
I remembered that I was wearing an old black tank top under the T-shirt so I whipped it over my head and tied it around my waist quickly, before Andrew had a chance to look at my butt. I grabbed the handles and lowered myself to the seat.
