‘I’ve entered regionals this weekend,’ he said, slowly.‘Will you come and watch?I haven’t told anyone else, just in case it’s a blow-out.It would be so embarrassing—’
‘Of course.Text me the details.’
‘Ah, I’m chuffed.’ He clocked me a strange look as I turned to bolt down the hallway.‘See you, Lydia.’
I hurtled down the hallway, stopping at a door with a STAFF ONLY sign.I paused, nervously, then knocked.
‘Come in.’
Craig had his legs up on the desk, a phone in the crook of his ear and a stress ball in his hand.He was throwing it up in the air and catching it.
His dyed-black hair was slicked back, as if it was a nuisance, sharpening his already angular features – a statement jaw, pointed nose, and a mouth that was perpetually angled down like he’d been born disappointed.He gestured for me to sit down, and relief poured into my system.
‘Okay, yep,’ Craig crooned.‘Well, you know, I wanted to run it past you.Yep, yep, Boss.Yep.Have a drink for me.Yep, ciao, ciao.’
Craig put the phone back on the receiver.His smile vanished.
‘Twenty-five minutes today,’ he said, looking at the clock.‘That’s a record.’
‘I’m sorry.I swear it won’t happen again.You know how it is – people need things, you can’t just walk away.’
Craig stared as if I was a maths equation he didn’t understand.
Craig had never liked me.When I joined the gym at 18, his eyes had always narrowed when I opened my mouth.Since day one, he’d called me out in front of clients, offered ‘suggestions’ for their form.I let it slide, thinking maybe he just wanted me to be my best.
But when clients began requesting me instead of him, things shifted.The nitpicking started.
And when he became the general manager six months ago, it got much, much worse.
Suddenly, it was all about numbers.
KPIs.Timesheets.Door codes changed weekly now for ‘safety’.The rota switched to 24-hour clocks, and I had to double-, triple-check I’d got the time right for my shifts.I think he knew I struggled – but he never said anything.Just smirked when I counted on my fingers.Or paused too long reading the schedule.
I was diagnosed with dyscalculia at school and had hidden it since I scraped a ‘pass’ in my GCSE maths and moved on.
But, even now, anything involving numbers filled me with dread.I learnt to mask it, pretending to understand like everyone else.And some days I managed, others not so much.
But I’d kept my head down and tried to keep up with Craig’s demands.My disastrous timekeeping – made worse by the fact that I couldn’t read the old school clocks in the gym – was the most obvious thing to pull me up on.
Craig leaned forward like a villain in a low-budget mob film.‘We’ve reached an impasse.Your KPIs are all over the place.’
‘I know.I’ll improve.I’ll set alarms—’
‘We’re ending your contract.’
Air whooshed from my lungs and my ears rang.Blood desperately tried to pump around my body.
‘As in, cutting back my hours—’
Personal trainers were freelance at the gym, meaning I could take on as many clients as I wanted.
‘No,’ Craig said, shaking his head.‘We’re giving you two weeks’ notice, as your contract requires.’
He slid over a document.TWO WEEKS, highlighted in yellow.
‘Wait… you’re letting me go?’ I whispered.
‘No.We’re not renewing your contract.Do you understand the difference?’ Craig said slowly.As if he was talking to a child.
