To my right, I spy one of the front-desk attendants walk into the weights and cardio area. A second one joins her, speculating. “No membership,” I hear.
One heads back to the desk, the open-plan concept making the reception area visible from my treadmill, and she picks up the phone and hangs up just as quickly. “They’re coming,” she says when the second attendant joins her behind the desk.
I keep walking, now focusing on the guy. He’s a badass. I’ve never seen someone hit a bag so hard, and he’s not bothering anyone. Nothing seems to exist to him except that bag he’s hitting.
I’m watching him when a pair of uniformed security guards appears inside the gym.
The lady by the entrance points to the young man. He seems to sense them, and he lifts his head, frowning. And then, he slowly starts walking forward. He stops a few feet away from them and stands there in the cockiest, most challenging way I’ve ever seen. Almost as if he’s waiting to be kicked out.
“We need you to come with us and confirm membership at the front desk,” one of the guys says threateningly.
I stop the treadmill and suddenly step down. “He’s with me.”
The guy and the security guards turn in my direction, and I nod quickly. “He came with me.” I pull out my gym card. The guards come over to look at it. One of them brings back a lady from the front desk.
“Have him sign in next time as a guest,” the lady tells me with a scowl.
I nod.
The guards ease out, and I realize the guy is looking at me. Like, really looking at me. He wears sweatpants and a hoodie and an attitude. He stands motionless, the drawstring sweatpants hanging low on narrow hips, revealing a bit of skin on his abs and the sides of his hips, the start of a muscular V. He’s got a head full of black hair and eyes the color of steel that could melt the same metal they seem to come from. He’s got the most quietly intense gaze I’ve ever seen.
And it’s latched to me.
I’m uncomfortable.
And self-aware.
I’m wearing a fuchsia workout top and tight workout pants, my honeyed hair tied in a ponytail. I’m nothing special, not among the girls in the gym, and not among the girls out in the world. As he looks at me, I feel the hairs at the tip of my ponytail brush my back and I shiver like I’ve never done before.
I find his stare really unnerving, so I shoo him away. “Go back to what you were doing,” I say.
He doesn’t move.
His face is young and tanned, all chiseled planes and angles, with eyebrows that are sleek and low, like two angry slashes, a nose too perfect to belong to a fighter, and a jaw that looks unbreakable.
Bewildered by his attention, I head back to my treadmill.
The guy’s eyebrows lower a little more in obvious puzzlement. I lift my own at him in challenge, my look saying, Are you going to keep staring?
He smiles a little, an unexpectedly gorgeous halfway-there smile.
“Go train,” I say.
He gives me this cocky nod in a way that makes it seem like he’s saying thank you, then heads back to the gym bags, lifting his gloves. He hesitates for a few seconds, frowning thoughtfully as he stares at the bag, as if puzzled about something. He shakes his head to clear it, glares at the bag, and in a flash—pow, pow, boom!—hits the bag three times and sends it rattling on its chain.
I notice people are glancing in my direction speculatively. Some appear concerned, others seem to be wondering if he’s really with me. They remind me of my mother a little bit. Reese, promise me you’ll take care of yourself.
Mother, I’ll be careful. Let me go. Give me wings! I’ve earned them, haven’t I?
I begged for time by myself.
Today is the first day of the new and improved me.
So I put in my remaining half hour, then I go gather my stuff and hurry off to the day care for my little package.
This whole time, never once has the guy looked away from his bags again.
♥ ♥ ♥
“HOW DID YOUR day go?” Brooke asks later that evening.
“Good.”
“Just good?”
I nod, smiling. I’m not very verbose, and I’m naturally shy and uncomfortable around others. I think this is genetic because, though my mother is chatty, my father is a hermit and mostly keeps to himself aside from the occasional fatherly question like “You okay on money?” or “Your mother told you about curfew?”
I like being with my dad most. He doesn’t make me talk, like my mother does.
We’re the kind of people who appreciate silence.
I feel that sort of bond with Brooke’s husband too.
I met him last night—gorgeous, blue-eyed, strong and quiet, he’s a gentle beast—and after our hellos and a brief smile, he’s comfortable enough with my presence that he ignored me this morning while I had my breakfast and he had his.
I spoke before we finished.
“Why don’t you train in the gym with some of the others?” I blurted out, thinking of the guy I met.
“I concentrate better on my own.” He lowered his iPad, where he’d been reading something. “You can come train with Brooke and me if you’d like.”
“No!” I quickly protested, for a reason I still can’t fathom, and when he looked at me in a rather fatherly, curious way, I added, “I love the gym. Thank you.”
Tuesday, I’m so sore I need to crawl into bed. Wednesday is no better. But I feel energized, am sleeping divine.
By Thursday, I’m perfectly comfortable living with the Tates, and super comfortable with my daily routine. Racer has breakfast early with Mom and Dad, while I shower and get ready for the morning. The Tates drop us off at day care, and I head to the gym a few blocks away. Later, I pick up Racer, play with him in the afternoon, swim, call my mom and a few friends, or spend the evening with Pete or Riley.
I’ve learned that Pete, the guy who drove us from the airport, is Remy’s personal assistant.
Then there’s lazy, friendly Riley, his coach’s second.
Remy’s coach is named Lupe; he’s bald and he’s got a thing for the last member of the Tates’ team, the motherly Diane, Remington’s nutritionist and chef.
All in all, I’m feeling a lot more settled in than I expected to be at this point. There’s this great family vibe with the Tates and their team. I feel like I fit in, they treat me like one of their own.
One heads back to the desk, the open-plan concept making the reception area visible from my treadmill, and she picks up the phone and hangs up just as quickly. “They’re coming,” she says when the second attendant joins her behind the desk.
I keep walking, now focusing on the guy. He’s a badass. I’ve never seen someone hit a bag so hard, and he’s not bothering anyone. Nothing seems to exist to him except that bag he’s hitting.
I’m watching him when a pair of uniformed security guards appears inside the gym.
The lady by the entrance points to the young man. He seems to sense them, and he lifts his head, frowning. And then, he slowly starts walking forward. He stops a few feet away from them and stands there in the cockiest, most challenging way I’ve ever seen. Almost as if he’s waiting to be kicked out.
“We need you to come with us and confirm membership at the front desk,” one of the guys says threateningly.
I stop the treadmill and suddenly step down. “He’s with me.”
The guy and the security guards turn in my direction, and I nod quickly. “He came with me.” I pull out my gym card. The guards come over to look at it. One of them brings back a lady from the front desk.
“Have him sign in next time as a guest,” the lady tells me with a scowl.
I nod.
The guards ease out, and I realize the guy is looking at me. Like, really looking at me. He wears sweatpants and a hoodie and an attitude. He stands motionless, the drawstring sweatpants hanging low on narrow hips, revealing a bit of skin on his abs and the sides of his hips, the start of a muscular V. He’s got a head full of black hair and eyes the color of steel that could melt the same metal they seem to come from. He’s got the most quietly intense gaze I’ve ever seen.
And it’s latched to me.
I’m uncomfortable.
And self-aware.
I’m wearing a fuchsia workout top and tight workout pants, my honeyed hair tied in a ponytail. I’m nothing special, not among the girls in the gym, and not among the girls out in the world. As he looks at me, I feel the hairs at the tip of my ponytail brush my back and I shiver like I’ve never done before.
I find his stare really unnerving, so I shoo him away. “Go back to what you were doing,” I say.
He doesn’t move.
His face is young and tanned, all chiseled planes and angles, with eyebrows that are sleek and low, like two angry slashes, a nose too perfect to belong to a fighter, and a jaw that looks unbreakable.
Bewildered by his attention, I head back to my treadmill.
The guy’s eyebrows lower a little more in obvious puzzlement. I lift my own at him in challenge, my look saying, Are you going to keep staring?
He smiles a little, an unexpectedly gorgeous halfway-there smile.
“Go train,” I say.
He gives me this cocky nod in a way that makes it seem like he’s saying thank you, then heads back to the gym bags, lifting his gloves. He hesitates for a few seconds, frowning thoughtfully as he stares at the bag, as if puzzled about something. He shakes his head to clear it, glares at the bag, and in a flash—pow, pow, boom!—hits the bag three times and sends it rattling on its chain.
I notice people are glancing in my direction speculatively. Some appear concerned, others seem to be wondering if he’s really with me. They remind me of my mother a little bit. Reese, promise me you’ll take care of yourself.
Mother, I’ll be careful. Let me go. Give me wings! I’ve earned them, haven’t I?
I begged for time by myself.
Today is the first day of the new and improved me.
So I put in my remaining half hour, then I go gather my stuff and hurry off to the day care for my little package.
This whole time, never once has the guy looked away from his bags again.
♥ ♥ ♥
“HOW DID YOUR day go?” Brooke asks later that evening.
“Good.”
“Just good?”
I nod, smiling. I’m not very verbose, and I’m naturally shy and uncomfortable around others. I think this is genetic because, though my mother is chatty, my father is a hermit and mostly keeps to himself aside from the occasional fatherly question like “You okay on money?” or “Your mother told you about curfew?”
I like being with my dad most. He doesn’t make me talk, like my mother does.
We’re the kind of people who appreciate silence.
I feel that sort of bond with Brooke’s husband too.
I met him last night—gorgeous, blue-eyed, strong and quiet, he’s a gentle beast—and after our hellos and a brief smile, he’s comfortable enough with my presence that he ignored me this morning while I had my breakfast and he had his.
I spoke before we finished.
“Why don’t you train in the gym with some of the others?” I blurted out, thinking of the guy I met.
“I concentrate better on my own.” He lowered his iPad, where he’d been reading something. “You can come train with Brooke and me if you’d like.”
“No!” I quickly protested, for a reason I still can’t fathom, and when he looked at me in a rather fatherly, curious way, I added, “I love the gym. Thank you.”
Tuesday, I’m so sore I need to crawl into bed. Wednesday is no better. But I feel energized, am sleeping divine.
By Thursday, I’m perfectly comfortable living with the Tates, and super comfortable with my daily routine. Racer has breakfast early with Mom and Dad, while I shower and get ready for the morning. The Tates drop us off at day care, and I head to the gym a few blocks away. Later, I pick up Racer, play with him in the afternoon, swim, call my mom and a few friends, or spend the evening with Pete or Riley.
I’ve learned that Pete, the guy who drove us from the airport, is Remy’s personal assistant.
Then there’s lazy, friendly Riley, his coach’s second.
Remy’s coach is named Lupe; he’s bald and he’s got a thing for the last member of the Tates’ team, the motherly Diane, Remington’s nutritionist and chef.
All in all, I’m feeling a lot more settled in than I expected to be at this point. There’s this great family vibe with the Tates and their team. I feel like I fit in, they treat me like one of their own.
