Page 80 of For a Goode Time Call…
“I don’t need a personal trainer, Mom. I’ve been keeping myself in peak professional athlete physical condition, on my own, for years.”
She smiled. “I know that, dear. But that’s different than getting your body back where it should be after a serious injury. He’s not a therapist—well, I actually think heis, technically, but he promotes himself largely as an athletic conditioning and recovery coach. He can help you.”
I sighed. “Mom…I don’t know.”
She patted my shoulder. “I do. He’s a Badd, which means, as my daughter, you’re automatically part of the clan, which means he’ll help you for free, because you’re family. And he’s very, very tough on top of being knowledgeable, so he’ll push you past where you think you can go.”
“I’ve never met the man. Why would he considermefamily?”
She just smiled again. “The men and women of the Badd clan take the concept of family and loyalty very,veryseriously. I’m all but engaged to Lucas, Baxter’s uncle. You’re my daughter. Therefore, you’re family. He would take a bullet for you, whether he’s met you or not.”
I blinked. “Oh, come on, Mom. You make him sound like a superhero.”
She shrugged. “Wait till you meet him. If he wasn’t the sweetest, funniest, warmest person I’ve ever met, I’d be absolutely terrified of him.”
I shook my head. “You must really like him.”
Her grin was contagious. “I consider all of the Badd boys the sons I never had. Or wanted. But that’s beside the point. They’re all wonderful.” She tugged at my hand. “Come on. Just trust me.”
Trust me.
Mom’s magic words. She didn’t often ask you to trust her, but when she did you ignored her at your peril. She was seldom wrong, especially when she felt strongly enough to insist.
“Okay, okay,” I sighed. “Set up an appointment. I’ll go see him.”
She just laughed. “That’s not how it works with these boys, sweetheart. We go over there now.”
“Now?” I gestured at myself—booty-hugging dance shorts, loose tank top, sports bra, cross-trainers…and a sheen of sweat and aura of body odor. “Like this?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Yes, Cass. Like that. It’s a gym, he’s a married man, and a former professional athlete. A little sweat won’t bother him in the slightest.” She sniffed. “Some deodorant wouldn’t go amiss, however.”
I cackled. “Nice, Mom.”
She just popped me on the butt. “Go. De-stink yourself, grab your purse, and let’s go.”
Within ten minutes we were in her car and heading across town to what passed as an industrial area of Ketchikan. The gym was in a warehouse, and the sliding doors opened all the way to admit the brilliant sunlight and relative warmth. Rock music thudded from surround speakers, and the sounds of a gym floated out to me as I exited Mom’s car: the clink and bang and rattle of barbells and metal plates, grunts of exertion, raucous male laughter, the high rhythmic thud of a speed bag, the deeper thwacks and thumps of heavy bags, and the creaks and squeaks and thuds of boxers in the ring.
Clean, well lit. New and well stocked, but not glitzy. Utilitarian—thick mats on the floor, a stretch of AstroTurf against one wall with a power sled on one end and a thick rope running across the space. There were massive multiperson powerlifting cages on three walls, and racks of bumper plates, metal plates, dumbbells, and kettlebells in between the cages. The boxing ring took up the center of the warehouse with plenty of space around it. A glassed-in office space occupied a far back corner along with the bathrooms, and the locker rooms were beyond that.
It wasn’t bustling or overflowing, but it was busy. Most of the power cages were occupied, and a trio of burly, shirtless men took turns using the thick rope to pull the weighted sled toward them and then push it back across the AstroTurf. Several other men, and a couple of women, moved around the open space doing bodyweight exercises, or working with dumbbells or kettlebells, and a pair of men danced around the boxing ring.
One of the boxers was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, black, thin and wiry, quick, lithe, and shredded; the other was…I had no words. About six feet, but muscled like something out of a superhero graphic novel. Absurdly proportioned. Shoulders so broad and wide and thick I could probably stand with both feet on one side. He had arms that must have been eighteen or twenty inches around, defined as if carved out of marble, chest muscles you could break a hammer on, an eight pack, a narrow waist, and legs to rival a sprint cyclist’s. He had blond hair cut in a wide almost-Mohawk style, the top shaggy, the sides buzzed, with heavy stubble on his jaw. He had the flat practice pads meant for training punches on his hands, and was dancing around the ring avoiding punches and kicks. He was coaching footwork, it looked like, calling out instructions now and then.
Mom pointed at the giant blond god in the ring. “That’s Baxter.”
I gaped at him. “Well that’s just ridiculous. No one looks like that in real life.”
Mom laughed. “That was my thought the first time I saw him.”
“He looks like he could bench press a Buick.”
“Watch how light on his feet he is, though. He’s not just muscles.”
I watched. He was…well, a dancer, by all rights. No wasted energy, each movement precise, lithe, graceful, and powerful. “No kidding.”
“Don’t let his looks fool you, either. He’s very smart.”
I’d seen and met a few other members of the extended Badd family by now, and they were all as ridiculous in their own ways as Baxter. But Baxter was by far the most mind-bogglingly perfect physical specimen of humanity I’d ever seen in my life.
