Page 45 of Bittersweet

It’s notencouraging.

It’sscary.

My legs start to slip. “Marc,I—”

“Ah!”

I snap my head toward the long wail. Two machines over, a man in a bright pink tank—maybe he’s a Trevor? We’ve been training together for weeks, but names never seem important—is sprawled next to his machine, clutching at his ankle. In front of him, the machine whirs, the long board racing without anypassenger.

“Shit,” Marc mutters under his breath before jogging to the older man’sside.

I use the opportunity to turn down the speed on my machine, slowing to awalk.

My body loves me for it. It’s as if all my muscles throw a party in celebration. They relax, kick off their shoes, and practically have a glass of wine as my lungs draw breath in slower, the height of my knees comes lower and lower as the machine whirs to an eventual stop. I grab my hand towel and swipe at my forehead, then the back of my neck, my chest. I’m a sweaty, heavingmess.

Marc helps the injured man over to the front desk, where a woman ducks out from behind reception and somehow lowers the giant patient onto a stretcher bed behind her chair.Does this happen so often they have a recovery mattress onstandby?

“Okay, nice work, team.” Marc claps his hands, walking back to his students. “Gather ’round, gather ’round.” He waves us in, and like good little exercising sheep, we follow. “I know we’ve just seen one of our men go down, but that’s no reason to stop now. If we do that, we’re letting them win. The haters. The people who think you can’t dothis.”

His dark eyes needle every member of the group as if this really is a war zone and we’re fighting for our lives. “You are here because you are determined. You are fierce. And you have . . .” He spins in a circle, his arms wide as he casts his gaze over his group of seven students. “And you haaaaaaaave . . .” He waves his hands, waiting for us to fill in the blanks of the motto he’s recited to us since dayone.

“Hardcore strength,” we utter as one. A guy across the way from me fist pumps the air. A woman on her way to the locker room, yoga mat coiled under her arm,snickers.

“That’s right.” Marc nods, pleased. “We’re going to end the session tonight with some sparring work. I want you to team up and practice the combinations we ran through last week. Gloves and pads are over here.” He jumps once, twice, then heads over to the pile of blue foam and rubber in the corner. “Romy, since we now have uneven numbers, you can train withme.”

I nod, pick up a pair of gloves, and join him in one corner of the room. “How’sTrevor?”

“He’s fine,” Marc answers quietly, and I see a flicker of something in his gaze—uncertainty? Self-doubt, perhaps? “Hope he’sokay.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a shock.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Are you allright?”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking vulnerable for a moment. Poor Marc. Maybe we don’t have that spark that I had when I was with Elio—that lying, rat bastard—but he’s a good person. He genuinely cares about his clients. I rest one gloved hand on hisforearm.

He shrugs me off. “Romy, that thing’s not even close to clean.” He eyes the glove with disgust.And my hand is inside it? Gross!“And I’m sure it’ll be okay. I just can’t remember if I updated my insurance details when I moved to the bigger premises. So help me God, if I’m out of pocket because he was too imbecilic to operate atreadmill. . .”

I raise my eyebrows. That’s a little cold. “You’ll what? Push him until he collapses from exhaustionagain?”

“That mouth . . .” He shakes his head, stepping closer. His voice lowers to a dirty husk. “I don’t want you giving me lip service unless you’re wrapping those babies around my big, hardcock.”

Holy hotcakes.I may not have butterflies, but I have a working and sex-deprived vagina, and she is so pleased to hear those words. He gazes at me, his muscles tense. So domine.

“Let’s train,” I say, more eager than usual to get this session done. Maybe we could spend some time working out entirely different muscles of our bodyafterward.

“Okay.” He slips the pads around his hands and stepsback.

Around us, thethud, thud, thudof gloves making impact reaches me, and I lean in and strike my firstpunch.

“Weak.” Marc shakes his head. “Harder.”

“Okay.” I bounce from foot to foot, my tired muscles protesting as I sway. I draw back my fist, skip a little closer,and—

“Harder!”

“’Kay.” I step back, tensing my muscles and preparing to strike again. He can be a real jerk when wetrain.

“Harder, Romy!” he yells at my next attempt. “Hit me like you meanit!”

“I’m trying!” I yell back. Anger builds in me as I tense for my nextstrike.

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