Page 24 of Resistance Training
Next he has me doing dead bugs, planks and side planks, and something called Pallof Presses with a resistance band. I don’t hate it. He has me so focused on my form that I can feel the strength of my core. I am so aware of his fingers on my waist and his attention to my body and my breaths that I don’t want to drop to the ground screaming and crying and cursing my abdominal muscles for being such wimpy assholes. I am so mad at him for being so hot and obstinate that I want to be better than he expects me to be at every single thing.
By my third Pallof Press, I tell him, “I thinkyou’rea stronger motivation for me than seeing Jeremy at the wedding.”
“Three,” he says, counting. “Yeah? Keep facing forward. How so?”
“Because you’re such a stubborn, unforgiving asshole. But I’ve been mad at you too, you know.”
“Great. Everybody wins.”
“I’ll be the winner. I will win.”
“Okay. Give me five more. Keep your shoulders down.”
I keep my shoulders down and give him five more, and then he tells me to drink some water, which I was going to do anyway, and then he leads me through cooldown stretches. We don’t talk at all, I just follow along with him. Sassily. The truth is I feelgood. It feels like I did something good for my body, and I did better than I thought I would, and I have never had a personal trainer before but Brad seems to be good at this. I want to be proud of him for it, but I also want him to apologize for ghosting me. And I want him to feel really bad about making me feel bad about accidentally making him feel bad. And I want him to take his shirt off again, and that makes me really, really angry.
“Okay,” he says when we’re done cooling down.
“I’ll drink some water!” I announce before he gets the chance to tell me what to do.
“Good job,” he says in a tone that is not at all condescending. “How do you feel?”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Yup.”
“So, I’ll see you on Wednesday. Be sure to come in earlier so Gwen can set you up with your membership card.”
“Okie doke.” I put my jacket on and catch him glancing down at my boob area, and that pleases me to no end.
“Where did you park?” he asks, as if he’s expecting me to tell him I parked on top of his car or something.
“Down the street.”
He rolls his eyes and grumbles. “How far down?”
“I parked a few blocks away.”
“Of course you did.” He frowns and drags his fingers through his hair, the way he used to when I’d ask him to help me with my AP Calculus homework. He opens the door and looks around the gym. It’s a little busier than it was when I got here, with the after-work crowd, I guess. Not seeing the heads with gray hair like I did earlier. The vibe is a little more how I imagine things at other gyms. More bros and babes.
Brad is grimly scanning the bros who are casually eyeing me as we walk toward the entrance and says, “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Oh. Are you leaving now too?”
“No.”
“Oh. You need to grab a jacket?” When we hung out in high school, I always had to remind him to put on a jacket, and he’d mutter that he had an extra layer of fat to keep him warm.
“Nah. My muscles keep me warm now.”
“How sweet of them.”
“Nah. It’s badass of them.”
The glass doors slide open, and Brad gestures for me to exit first.
Checkin’ out my glutes, probably.
