Page 22 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
My eyes flick to the treat he’s—abandoned? rejected? put aside to be savored later, perhaps while recalling the precious moments he spent worshipping my décolletage—and I move to join him on the opposite side of the desk. “Sure.”
The system Firehouse uses for checking in members is similar to what I used for attendance the year I taught, so most of the time at the computer is devoted to Ian creating a new admin login for me while I mentally inventory a host of Friday night memories evoked by his proximity. Therehadbeen cinnamon.
It takes only a few minutes to go over the specific responsibilities of the front desk position: minor cleaning, laundering the towels on hand for wiping up sweat and disinfecting equipment,stocking the little shop of Firehouse Fitness–branded gear, and familiarizing myself with the list of members who most often run afoul of the “no dogs on the gym floor” policy. I also get a tour of the locker rooms, which are utilitarian but clean, and the storage area, home to the cleaning supplies and the gym’s washer and dryer, and I spy a peek of a stairwell behind a door.
“That leads to my apartment,” Ian explains.
“Ah! Friday night’s insurmountable ascent.”
“I swear to God, I’m not back to one hundred percent yet,” he grumbles, and steers us back down the hallway to the gym floor, where members have started to gather near a large flatscreen monitor and a whiteboard. “Neveragain.”
Ian raises a hand in greeting to a member and asks me, “What’s your experience with cross-training?”
“Is that what you do here?”
“Whatwedo here? Yes. So, I’m assuming zero experience?” At my nod, he asks, “How about Olympic lifting?”
“I don’t even know what that is.” I offer it up like a boast.
“Have you done weight training of any kind?”
I shake my head. “I swam growing up, rec leagues and then in high school, but none of the teams I was on ever had us lifting. I’ve used free weights in workout classes, but I wouldn’t know what to do on my own.”
“You probably put on muscle pretty easily.”
“How can you tell?”
Ian’s smile is wry. “The musculature of your back.”
“What do you—never mind,” I say, recalling the open-back styling of Friday’s dress, the side zip of which remained imprinted on my skin as late as yesterday afternoon.
Ian’s smile lingers, and I wonder if he’s dwelling on the memory or trying to jog his further. Or if he’d even want to. He’d been happy enough to see me Saturday, but that could have been out of concern for my survival, given the condition I’d been in when he’d seen me last.
“You’re a compact lady version of me,” he continues, and I file that away to obsess over later. “With the right approach, you’d be a beast in no time.”
“I don’t know that beastly is what I’m going for, but I’d like to see what I can do.”
“Now’s your chance. If you’d like to start your shift with the WOD, I can check in the stragglers.” He points to the members by the whiteboard. “The eight thirty class starts in five.”
“WOD?”
“Workout of the day. Today’s will be a good first one for you. It doesn’t include any advanced movements, and we’ll go over modifications, anyway.”
“The WOD it is,” I say, and Ian accompanies me over. The screen displays the same attendance software as the front desk but is set up to show little photos beside the names of the class’s participants. The workout itself is written out on the whiteboard. It looks… unpleasant.
I’m frowning at the prospect of five four-hundred-meter runs when movement in the periphery of my bad side has me turning. It’s the woman with the pink lipstick from Saturday; Babs, according to the name accompanying her picture. She smiles, her lips as brilliant a shade today as they were this weekend and in her photo. There’s pink woven into her hair, too, breaking up the gray bob. Babs is asignature colorgal.
“Hi, there!” she says. “Ellie, right? How are things going with the boys?”
“I’ve already resorted to bribery, but my feet are no longer sticking to the bathroom floor, so we’re making progress!”
She rolls her eyes good-naturedly, hands going to her hips. “Those boys are such sweethearts,” she says. “But I do worry about them sometimes. Allfourof them.”
“Four?” I ask, and she winces, pressing in her lips, as though she’s said too much.
“We include Ian with them,” she admits, casting a furtive glance toward the gym owner, who chats with another member a few yards away. “Though, I would hope that his bathroom floors aren’t sticky. There’s atouchof the same…” She frowns, shifting side to side as if to jostle loose the right descriptor. “Immaturityabout him.”
“Oh?” It seems Babs is a gossip. Outstanding.
