Page 7 of Giovanni
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GIOVANNI
The bass thumps through the air, echoes off the gym walls, and goes straight into my head as I hum the song. Frank, one of our regular bodybuilding clients, discusses his limitations of obtaining a perfect deadlift in mid-conversation.
“It’s all about the hips, the pull, and timing,” I explain, my body moving instinctively to demonstrate the fluid motion required. I watch him while he does them, seeing the resistance in his hip hinge. “We need to work on your hip mobility. It’s preventing you from going as low as you need to.”
I point out my hinge compared to his, adjusting his posture as it wobbles against the resistance he encounters from that joint. All things he knows but slips into bad form to compensate for. I throw in a little dance, nothing much, just a bit of flair to lighten the mood. Frank chuckles, shaking his head.
“Gio, if I had half your moves, my wife would be a happy woman.”
Happy is this place. It’s my second home—a comfort amongst the free weights and treadmills. I chuckle, giving him a playfulshove when my name is announced over the gym’s intercom system.
“Continue that set, then move on to good mornings.”
I immediately straighten, morphing into something more professional and more restrained as I stride to the front, where the management offices are.
Mr. Daniels is sitting at his desk, a guy twice my age yet absolutely shredded. Across from him is a woman, clutching her purse, looking uneasy with her shoulders raised to her ears. He stands upon my entry, leaving her to scramble to her feet when I face them.
“You need me?”
The question is directed at him, but my eyes linger on her. Her skin is a smooth canvas of caramel, unadorned by makeup, and honestly, it’s refreshing. There are a lot of women in here who cake on the makeup to sweat it off when they work out. I never understand it.
And those eyes—the lightest green I’ve ever seen. They’re trained on me with unnerving intensity as if demanding my best without uttering a word.
Her hair is black and luxuriant. The curls are free and wild around her face, with no attempt to straighten or tame them. I’m curious about what products she uses as I could use some advice for mine.
She’s older and curvy, and her head tilts when my gaze lingers for too long. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, there’s an understated beauty that doesn’t scream for the attention of every man like those Instagram girls dragging their film equipment in here and monopolizing the machines.
“Gio, this is Kacie. She’s new to the club.”
Mr. Daniels extends a hand toward her while making introductions, drawing her eyes to him. I step forward,extending a hand, trying to channel my usual confidence under those watchful eyes.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Giovanni Marconi.”
Her hand is soft and smooth when it slips into mine. Her eyebrows lift slightly when she looks up at me, the height difference between us mighty given her short stature.
“Kacie Yacob.” I’m struck by the contrast between her light voice and her hard gaze. “It’s my pleasure.”
Mr. Daniels is all smiles.
“Kacie’s looking to make some lifestyle changes, and I immediately thought of you. The best personal trainer we’ve got,” he boasts, rounding the desk to clap a hand on my shoulder.
I can’t help but glance at her again, hoping to catch a flicker of amusement, something to break the ice. But she’s all business, her eyes still fixed on me with an unreadable expression.
“Personal training. I’m not sure I’m the gym type,” she says, more a statement than a question. I smile, trying to ease her worries.
“Everyone’s a gym type. You just don’t know it yet. It’s all about finding the right approach to working out. And I’m here to help with that.”
Her expression remains unreadable, and after an awkward silence with her finally nodding, she looks at Mr. Daniels again.
“If you need anything else, Kacie, you know where to find me. Otherwise, you’re in good hands.”
Mr. Daniels is oblivious to his word choice, but I don’t miss the rise of her dark eyebrows. Suddenly, it’s just Kacie and me, her seriousness, my embarrassment for Mr. Daniels’s comment, and the echo of the music still playing as I usher her out of his office.
I lead her to a quieter part of the gym, where the row of trainer’s desks is situated along the glass front of the building.Offering her another seat, she sinks into it slowly, gazing around the crowded gym with a doubtful look.
“So, what are your goals?” I ask, pulling out a clipboard and attaching our questionnaire for all new personal training clients.
