Page 79 of For a Goode Time Call…
Maybe.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I won’t see him till I can dance again. Run, perhaps. Or at least walk without limping. I used to run three or four miles every day—after my first practice of the day—not fast, not super hard, just a decent jog, because it cleared my head and loosened up my tight muscles.
I missed running, truth be told. It was meditative, for me. Time for solitude. I’d put in my earbuds, crank up a bouncy hip-hop playlist, and let my body move without worrying about a single damn thing except the next step, the next turn, the next breath.
I knew that was my next immediate, short-term goal: run a mile.
Just one.
Should be easy.
Right?
Wrong.
I’d very clearly misunderstood the necessity of working on my basic mobility, of keeping my muscles on a regular schedule. That one mile was brutal. And it hurt like hell. My chest hurt, and my leg was killing me.
I’ve danced through bleeding blisters and twisted ankles and pulled muscles, but that was nothing compared to this.
Mom came home for lunch and found me lying on the floor, sweating like a pig, crying.
“Cass? What’s…what’s going on?”
I shook my head. “I can’t even touch my toes, Mom! I’m flexible enough, but it just…hurts.One single squat and I’m shaking.”
She sighed, and left the room without a word.
“Okay?” I said, to the empty room.
She came back moments later with a towel and a bottle of water. “Here.”
“Oh.” I sat up, slowly, and took them from her. “Thanks,” I mumbled.
She watched me towel off and sip the water, and then her expression shifted to the thoughtfulaha!expression she got when she had an idea.
“What?” I asked.
“I have an idea.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’mnotseeing a therapist—psychological or physical.”
“Cass—”
“No, Mom. Just…no.”
She sat on the floor beside me and took my hands. “Cass, just listen.”
“Mom—”
She gave me her hardest glare, used her Mom-est voice. “Cassandra Danielle. I am your mother and youwillhear me out.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”
She skewered me with another glare. “Try that again, and this time endeavor to sound something like a mature adult instead of a petulant child.”
“Yes, Mother,” I droned. “Speak on, oh wise one.”
She cackled. “Smart aleck.” She gave a prim, motherly smile. “Now. My idea is that Lucas has a nephew named Baxter who owns a recreational gym. It’s mostly a club for boxers, MMA fighters, and heavy-duty bodybuilders, but I’ve met Baxter on several occasions and he’s a great guy. He’s trained me several times, and he’s an absolute darling. More to the point, he’s an incredibly talented personal trainer. Many of his clients come to him for help rehabbing sports injuries. I know I’ve seen several people in his gym who were professional athletes. He’s one of the best.”
