Page 3 of M.M. Scrooge
And not sometime later. Now.
Starting today.
In this terrifying room that smells of old gym socks.
With Max, whose muscles have muscles.
If anyone is going to be a good teacher, it’s a guy like him, right? That body wasn’t built at a desk. He looks like he could bench-press my Prius. Totally hot in that gym-bro Chad sort of way. And maybe a bit scary.
He’s locked me into Realm Physical’s top-tier membership level, which I doubt I’ll need, but saying no isn’t at the top of my skill set. Whatever. So what if I don’t make use of their tanning beds and massage chairs? I’ve got Max. As long as I don’t spring a boner mid-burpee, I’m good.
I set my bag on one of the benches. There’s not much in it. A towel, some deodorant, a bottle of water. Other than that, I don’t know what people put in gym bags. Guess I’ll find out.
Max returns, his walk a full-on swagger to accommodate those thick thighs I’m definitely not staring at. “Let’s get you warmed up.”
I can think of a few ways to do that, all of which would be more fun than whatever Max is about to suggest. He hands me back my credit card, fingers trailing over mine, and I tuck it into my bag. “Now or never.”
To my surprise, there are no dumbbells or kettlebells involved. Instead, we “hit the turf,” which means sitting on the rubberized grass and thrusting our hips at the ceiling. Apparently, this is called a glute bridge and will activate my ass for the workout. Of all the ways I’ve ever activated my ass, this is the least enjoyable.
At least I’m not dwelling on Dad. Impossible to wallow when my ass is burning worse than this morning’s toast.
Watching Max demonstrate each movement is an exercise in itself. An exercise in restraint. His body is like a Greek statue on steroids come to life. His face isn’t half bad either, all chiseled cheeks and angled jawlines. And the corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs at my uncoordinated attempts at a Brettzel stretch. Pretzel stretch would be a more appropriate name, but what do I know?
When all my muscles are “activated,” the real workout starts.
“Don’t look so scared,” Max says. “I’ll take it easy on you for your first time.” Then he winks.Winks.At me. Like he’s flirting.
Is he flirting?
His hand lands on my shoulder. That’s definitely flirting. But a guy who looks like Max couldn’t be interested in a guy who looks like me. Could he? If his type is gangly uncoordinated bookish academics, I’m that guy.
“Let’s see your squat pattern before we decide on whether or not to add weight.”
My what pattern? I’m not sure what my face is doing, but Max lets out a delighted chuckle and demonstrates.
“Feet about shoulder width apart, toes pointed forward or slightly out. Back neutral. Initiate the movement by pushing back with your hips. Weight in your heels, knees tracking over your toes, never past them. Think of gripping the floor with your feet. Control the movement. No one’s in a hurry.”
It looks simple enough, but that’s a lot to think about while trying to move at the same time.
“Now you.”
I give it a go. Down and up. Easy enough. “That okay?”
“Good. Neutral back, okay? Don’t hunch. Again.”
Squatting is more complicated than I thought.
“Very good. That’s it. Relax your neck, just look forward, and you’ve got it.”
My cheeks heat at his praise. Embarrassing. This is a basic human movement and shouldn’t be so hard.
“We’ll stick to bodyweight until the motion feels more natural. Try this.” Max squats again but in slow motion this time. “Count one, two, three, on the way down, one on the way up. Really control that descent.”
Oh. Okay. That’s harder. I’ve done approximately seven squats, and already my glutes are protesting. This doesn’t bode well for the rest of the workout.
We move on. A core exercise, Max says with the excitement of a man ordering dessert rather than slogging through a beginner’s workout.
I’m on the ground again, half kneeling, a resistance band clutched in tense fingers.
